Hissing quietly as a nettle stung his foot, he wondered whether he could have continued to wear his boots and moved slower with more stealth. But it would only have taken one of the lamp-bearing folk on the tower with good hearing to pay attention to the sound of running footsteps and his secret approach would have been for naught. The imagined consequences of such an event made him acutely aware of the belt around his middle that bore no sword, given that he had been a guest at a noble party. The blade’s absence felt like a missing limb at times like this.
Gingerly, he moved to the inner side of the ramp, his arm brushing the tufa of the retaining wall that formed the platform of the gardens above. His very first gentle footfall saw the surface beneath him give slightly and his heart lurched as he looked up the seventy feet or so of steep slope that would bring him up to the tower’s foundations.
Another step and the floor felt solid. Gripping the stonework to his left, he continued to climb, each footstep tentative and fear-laden, almost half-seeing some level of sag in the ground beneath him. Around halfway up the ramp, he felt enough gravel shifting beneath him that he could see a fragment of light as a tiny hole opened up through to the vault below. A small piece of tufa stone fell silently through the air and clicked off its companions in the small pile below. Rufinus held his breath for a moment, though the sound seemed to have gone unnoticed by the figures above.
Another quick glance and he noted there were four figures gathered around the two lamps, muttering quietly. As he watched, he saw one of them beckoning to someone out in the gardens. Lucilla had arrived.
Clenching his teeth and worrying at the volume of his heartbeat, Rufinus climbed the last steps of the ramp, ignoring the unsteadiness of the shifting dirt beneath his feet, finally arriving at a point where his head was a mere foot below the parapet. A slight movement to the left gave him an adequate view of the gathering through the delicate latticework of the parapet.
Lucilla arrived, out of breath and livid. Fury lent a colour to her face that was visible even through the plastered white lead that coated her skin. She gestured angrily at the figures of Annianus, Stina, Plautia, and Annia, their serious faces dancing orange in the glow of the lamps.
‘What in the name of divine Pluto are you doing?’ she demanded in a hushed snarl.
‘We have concerns’ the quiet voice of Annia said placatingly.
Lucilla rounded on her, cold fire in her eyes. ‘Then you wait for the appropriate place and time to voice them. Have you any idea how dangerous this is?’
Annianus, his sad grey eyes heavy with some unspoken burden, held out his hands.
‘When we meet in your rooms, we are all present. We felt it time to hold a discussion between us alone, while we had the opportunity.’
Lucilla turned her furious gaze on the older man. ‘You know what is at stake. We cannot do this now. If you wish to discuss matters without Quintianus, you should speak to me at a more appropriate time and I will arrange a meeting at which he is not present.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Concerns?’
‘We don’t believe the boy is up to the task.’
Lucilla shook her head. ‘I will not have this conversation in open ground. You are foolhardy idiots.’ She turned to Annia. ‘I would have expected more of you, sister.’
‘Lucilla…’
The older man had stepped forward, his hands outstretched, but Lucilla took a step forth to meet him and delivered him a ringing slap on his cheek. ‘Idiots. All of you. Get back to the Canopus and join the others as though you were a welcome party guest and not some back-alley conspirator. You are all hereby forbidden from exchanging a single word with one another for the rest of the night!’
The looks of shock at the command drew a snarl from her. ‘Go and try to act normal. And avoid drinking yourselves into talkative insensibility tonight. Any of you whose tongue slips tonight will wake tomorrow without it. Now get out of my sight!’
There were mutterings too quiet for Rufinus to catch and the four tramped off into the garden, the lights bobbing in the darkness.
‘And for the love of Venus extinguish those lamps. You’ll attract every eye in Latium if you’re not careful.’
The orange glows faded and died quickly and the sound of footsteps faded into the distance. Rufinus’ heart leapt once more and began to pound as Lucilla stepped over to the parapet, leaning on her elbows and looking out across the villa, bathed in silvery moonlight. Her hands gripped the stonework a foot above his head and he felt dust brush down into his hair. Her willowy garments, so gauzy they showed every contour of her shapely legs, billowed a handwidth from his nose.
‘Venus divine, give me the strength to make it safely through another year of cretins and I will dedicate you a great new temple over their foolish bones.’
With a deep sigh, she turned and strode away from the edge, more dust fluttering down over Rufinus in her wake. He paused for a while before daring to descend the ramp. He no longer panicked as he walked, hearing the pitter-patter of falling mortar beneath. He no longer noticed the discomfort and pain in his feet. He no longer paid heed to anything.
The theories were true.
He’d had confirmation that the worries of Paternus and Perennis were more than mere imaginings. While nothing had been said that was directly damning, largely due to the careful control of Lucilla, the meaning behind the words was as clear as the new water of the Canopus pool: there was a plot. It was still in its formative stages, clearly, but those regulars who visited the lady were her co-conspirators, as was the young Quintianus, about whom the others had concerns.
He was ‘not up to the task’. It was not too hard to reach a conclusion as to the nature of the task to which they referred. That sycophantic, immature young man? The very idea seemed laughable, but then, who would suspect such a man?
The following days were tough for Rufinus. He finally knew, beyond doubt, that his sending to this place had been justified. He knew that, despite the deaths of innocent men and the lying and subterfuge that turned his stomach, at least his goal was still a true and noble one and not misguided or manipulated.
He’d hardly been able to wait, but the next visit by Constans to replenish the stocks depleted after the festival had seen him desperately scribble a list of the conspirators, a note that the plot’s culmination did not appear to be imminent as yet, and that the young senator Quintianus was at the knife-end of the attempt, a fact that did not sit well with the others. He was, sadly, also forced to add that although this was a conclusion he had drawn from overhearing them, and that the purpose was clear, he had no material evidence of the plot. He requested further instructions.
A week passed in nervous tension. He’d become as taut as a ballista rope and had begun to snap at people in irritation, a thing that surprised him, as he had never considered himself such a man. Finally, as his nerves reached breaking point, the reply arrived with Constans. Just as he had sent a tablet sealed with wax, the reply came in the same manner, despite the apparent trustworthiness of the merchant.
Good work. I am prepared to bring the matter to the emperor’s attention, following which warrants will be issued for all those involved. However, since there appears to be no urgency and you yet have no proof, you will need somehow to confirm the matter of Quintianus’ role as the principal of the plot. We need to be sure we have the entire group and that no one slips through the net. It would ill-suit us to prevent this plot only to discover that there was more than one strike planned with different attackers who have escaped our round-up. Achieve confirmation of these things and pass on details and then we will move.
Rufinus had nodded slowly to himself. It felt nerve-wracking to be sent back into the viper’s nest and told to lift her up and check her eggs, but he could not fault the reasoning. The very life of the emperor was at stake and they had to be certain.
And yet, as the weeks rolled on through high summer and the first echoes of autumn began to fall across the villa with the red-brown leaves, it becam
e apparent to Rufinus that his one chance to learn anything useful had been due to a slip-up by the conspirators and now that they were careful and secluded in the lady’s dining room on their visits, his chances of learning what he needed to know had shrunk again.
It was two weeks after the festival and its revelations that Rufinus found the courage to visit Pompeianus. His early euphoria at discovering the plotters had been clouded by the realisation that the Syrian nobleman’s blood family had now been irrevocably implicated in the plot, and at its very heart. The general’s nephew was on a path that led to arrest, brutal torture and very public execution.
He had marshalled every thought and given himself an afternoon off, collecting a jar of wine from the cellars and approaching the dominus’ garden with a deep, unhappy breath.
The former general was exactly where Rufinus had expected to find him: pottering around the stadium-garden, trimming shrubs, tending flowers and edging lawns. It never ceased to amaze Rufinus how the man, who had been a friend to Marcus Aurelius, commanded legions in Germania, sat in the senate, governed provinces and guided the hands that ruled the empire, never seemed quite so happy and at home as when allowed to potter around his garden, keeping things neat and beautiful.
‘Ah… guard officer Rustius. It seems to have been an age.’
Rufinus smiled uneasily. Behind him there was a ferocious barking noise and then a yelp of excited joy and a huge black blur bounded past his shoulder toward Pompeianus. The general, used to such behaviour after the month of the dog’s residence in this very garden, stepped carefully behind the conifer so that Acheron had to slow and round the corner to reach him. Too many times he had been knocked flat.
‘Good boy. Stay down. You’re filthy.’
Rufinus’ smile widened to a natural shape. ‘I only have to mention your name and he’s out of the praetorium and running to come see you. I fear he’s as much your dog as he is mine.’
Acheron had recovered fully from his wound and the brutal events that had led to the demise of his brother and master seemed to be receding, though not a night passed without the beast experiencing dreams that caused it to wail with the most hopeless and dreadful sound imaginable, a habit that had led to his accommodation being moved to the most obscure corner of the huge Praetorian barrack building, where Acheron could not keep Phaestor awake.
As the Sarmatian hunting hound fawned around Pompeianus, jumping and nuzzling, Rufinus cleared his throat.
‘I presume we are safe to talk here?’
Pompeianus shrugged. ‘Unless you saw anyone loitering outside the wall.’
The young guardsman nodded to himself. ‘I finally have confirmation. My being here is justified.’
The general paused in his trimming, left hand still ruffling Acheron’s head. ‘I feared the time was coming. My wife is at its heart, I assume? As such it is almost inevitable that my own name will be drawn into the matter. Is this the reason for your drawn features and apparent unhappiness?’
Rufinus drew a deep breath. ‘I have already made a report, mentioning those involved. Your name did not appear on my list and I will make every effort to keep you out of the entire affair. I suspect that the known rift between you and the domina will not make that too hard. But other connections might be more damning.’
The former general frowned and Rufinus took another breath. ‘Your nephew, Quintianus.’
‘I have seen him keeping bad company in his visits’ agreed Pompeianus sadly.
‘He is doing more than keeping bad company’ Rufinus added quietly. ‘From what I have heard, I very much fear it is your nephew who is destined to wield the knife.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Why would he agree to such a thing? Why would Lucilla even ask him to do such a thing?’
Pompeianus wandered across to a stone bench and sank down onto it, Acheron still slavering and fawning at his side. ‘The young man’s motives are not too difficult to guess, my friend. He has finally achieved senatorial position and had a tiny taste of power in the capital. With links to myself and Lucilla, though, he is hardly likely to see any further power. I would think that he sees the death of the emperor and the rise of Lucilla and our family to the purple his only hope of advancement. After all, if Lucilla succeeds in placing our son on the throne, Quintianus will be a cousin of the emperor, rather than an obscure Syrian nobleman.’
He leaned back and patted Acheron. ‘As to why Lucilla would involve him? I would think that was obvious. Deniability. Quintianus is useful to her. He is a relation and so, when he is successful, she can claim it as a blow against the tyranny of her brother on behalf of her son. Should things go wrong and the attempt fail, however, Quintianus is obscure enough to her that she can distance herself from him and denounce the attempt as the act of an individual madman.
Rufinus nodded his agreement and took the seat next to the general. ‘You know what that means, sir?’
Pompeianus nodded unhappily. ‘To win the game, sometimes you have to sacrifice lesser pieces to preserve more important ones.’ He smiled sadly and pushed Acheron away playfully. The dog barked excitedly and pushed back at him. ‘I must sever all ties between Quintianus and myself if I am to survive this.’
Rufinus stared at the gravel path between his feet. ‘I am sorry. Rarely does a day pass now when I don’t wish I was still an excused-duty legionary on the Danubius. I loathe the game you introduced me to. I yearn for my days in the army, when everything was simple and only criminals lied and murdered. I am not cut from the right material for this sort of work.’
Pompeianus let go of Acheron and turned to Rufinus, clapping a hand on the young man’s shoulder and shaking him gently. ‘And that is the very reason that you must persevere in the role. Rome is a seething pit of vice, decay and death and, left to his own devices, our young emperor must soon fall into those ways unless those few who wish for a better Rome can save him. You, Gnaeus Marcius Rustius Rufinus, may very well be the last honest man in Rome. Whatever happens to my nephew or myself, it would be a shame for the Empire to lose your talents.’
Rufinus reflected on those words in the following days. He was not sure how far he agreed with the general’s assessment, but he did know it gave him no comfort.
Summer gave its glorious sun over to autumn in an almost magical afternoon, when the leaf-fall became an impediment to the narrow paths of the villa and a thunderhead cloud rolled ponderously out from the mountains to the east, bringing with it the bolts of Jupiter and the ringing of the hammer on Vulcan’s anvil.
For more than a week, the weather followed the same pattern: a muggy and unpleasant morning, leaving everyone drenched with sweat even if they had done nothing, and then the thunderhead would roll out and bring the crash, boom and flash, drenching the land. The afternoon would experience a three-hour torrential downpour that would flood the roads and dips before drying out and moving on. Slowly the air would clear to a breathable coolness and then night would fall and the air would begin to warm, beginning the process all over again.
And then, in the second week of the jarring weather, the heat left the cycle and the thunder dissipated, leaving a shivering cold and regular damp. Rufinus returned to his daily duties, once again desperately testing the surroundings of the enclosed triclinium for any way to overhear the conversations held therein, and pacing around the guest accommodation, rearranging guard duties so that he would have almost exclusive access to the dining area on those occasions when it was used for plotting.
It was a dismal time for the young guardsman, aware of the futility of further investigation, but equally conscious of the sand running through the hourglass toward an unspecified time when the emperor would face a bloody and violent end. The weather did nothing to improve his mood, and things would have been thoroughly unbearable, were it not for Senova.
The pale-skinned and dark-haired slave girl seemed to have endless duties around the palace that kept her busy throughout the day and night. Rufinus honestly couldn’t see when she found tim
e to sleep. He would bump into her while on night-shift as she scurried through the gilded marble corridors with armfuls of clothing or bedding or snacks, or empty-handed in a desperate rush to collect something. Then he would find her in the early afternoon, delivering the lady’s instructions to the other servants and slaves. Sometimes she was out at dusk, lighting lamps in rooms her mistress intended to use. Sometimes she rushed at dawn to make sure the baths were warmed, stocked and prepared for Lucilla’s morning relaxation.
While he couldn’t believe a person could survive under such circumstances, and struggled with a staggering admiration for her stamina and ability, he was grateful to the fates for the repeated encounters they shared.
In a way, it was bliss.
Though his mission here had once more drifted to an uncomfortable halt, the regular chance meetings he managed with Senova became increasingly lengthy and were a balm. He considered them close, though hesitated over the word ‘intimate’ as he thought about them, partially because it was not quite accurate, but mostly because of the deep stirrings of desire it raised within him.
In another way, it was torture.
After each such meeting, as Senova laughed at his feeble jokes with a throaty, intoxicating chuckle and told him humorous anecdotes from the servants’ area that would otherwise never surface, Rufinus would return to his solitary patrol or to his room, acutely aware of the vast gulf that would always separate Senova and himself. It mattered not that the slave girl was the bound woman of his secret enemy, or that guard and slave could hardly consort even if the domina allowed it; there was a deeper, blood and bone rift:
He was scion of a patrician family. His ancestors had been governors and senators. She had been a poor farm girl from a conquered nation who had failed to pay her taxes and been sold to the nearest slave trader. Or perhaps she had been arrested and sold following some revolt? He had heard that the people of Britannia were unable to mark a decade without launching themselves into violent rebellion. Whatever the case, he and Senova were destined to remain apart, if parallel, for their span in this world.
Praetorian: The Great Game Page 35
