Niger’s brow folded and he steepled his hands. ‘That is a very serious accusation against any man, young Rufinus, let alone a powerful provincial governor who has been close to the emperor at times. Talk like that gets men into a great deal of trouble.’
Rufinus paused. The legate looked troubled, and well he might. Bringing him in on the matter would put him in every bit as much danger as Rufinus.
‘Albinus is not a good man,’ Niger said quietly. ‘In fact, he is a scheming felon who I would trust no further than I could spit a cow. I had assumed he was up to no good, and probably that his intrigues involved the gold mines, but even then this is something of a grand and dangerous accusation. Is there any way you could be mistaken about this? If you are to accuse a man of such a thing you need to be sure and certain, and aware of the danger in which it will put you. So I ask again, are you sure, or could you be mistaken?’
Once again there was an odd edge to his voice. Discussing treason seemingly did not sit well with Pescennius Niger.
‘No, Legate. I am certain. Moreover, I have evidence. The only evidence left to be found in Dacia, since Albinus has been across the land like a forest fire, destroying all record of his affairs.’
He fished out the box from under his arm and placed it on the table.
‘There.’
Niger, a frown of concern etched in the lines of his face, leaned forward. He examined Albinus’ seal on the cut leather straps, the scratched letters on the lid. He lifted the top and peered inside at the gold, opened the scroll case and read the vellum contents.
‘A really good lawyer could probably destroy you in court over this. It’s very strong evidence, though not fully conclusive. And having opened it, you’ve removed half its veracity anyway.’
‘It’s strong enough,’ Rufinus said firmly.
Niger sighed. ‘Yes, I suspect it is. No lawyer, no matter how good, is going to be able to deny it for long in the face of Cleander and the court. And once the Palatine torturers get their hands on Publius Seius Fuscianus, he will inevitably reveal all, including the whole web of conspirators. A neat package.’
The legate straightened. ‘I presume you heard enough?’ he asked loudly.
Rufinus felt a great chasm yawn suddenly beneath him as the door opened with a click and a familiar voice replied ‘More than enough.’ The young praetorian turned to see Tribune Celer standing in the doorway, a sneer of disgust on his face. Behind him, Rufinus could see the awful shape of optio – now apparently Centurion – Daizus, and a number of dismounted legionary cavalrymen from the Thirteenth.
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
He’d not anticipated this. How could a man so careful as Vibius Cestius have been so wrong about Niger?
Celer walked around the edge of the office and picked up the evidence, tucking it beneath his arm. He eyed Rufinus, whose fingers were snaking down his side slowly. ‘If you touch that sword I will see you broken in the most dreadful manner. Hands up where we can see them.’
Blood chilling, stomach churning, Rufinus raised his hands. The soldiers were in the room now, blades out, surrounding him in an arc. ‘Was he alone?’ Celer asked, in a tone implying that he rather doubted it.
‘He came with a woman, a boy and a dog.’
‘Have your men round them up and bring them to me,’ Celer said officiously, as though Niger did not, in fact, outrank him.
‘I will do no such thing. You wanted the praetorian and any evidence he carried. I complied, against my better judgement, but I will not deliver women and children to your twisted ministrations, Tribune Celer. I’ve heard of your love for the lash.’
The senior man of the Thirteenth turned a snarl on Niger. ‘You will do as you are told. Rufinus is dangerous. He needs to be disposed of before he can do further harm. His woman is of no consequence and the boy is just a slave. The dog? The dog should be skinned and burned. In fact, all of them should.’
Niger rose behind his desk and thrust a finger at the tribune.
‘Watch your tongue around me, Celer. Your master might think of himself as emperor already, but I am in command here. This is my fort and my legion and my land. While you were busy leaving everything to go wrong down south so you could hide your mischief, we have put everything right in the north and done our duty as Romans and as officers and men of the legions. Do not think to command me in my own fort. Even Albinus would think twice about that, and you are not half the wolf he is.’
‘I warn you, Niger,’ hissed the tribune, ‘kill them all. Dispose of the evidence. You’ll regret it if you don’t, I promise you.’
The legate’s lip twitched. ‘Take your box and your men and go back to your quarters. If I hear of you causing any trouble in my fort I might be tempted to send you back to Albinus minus a head.’
The two men glared at each other, the rest of the soldiers watching in tense silence, and Rufinus, for one mad moment, wondered whether he might actually be able to slip from the room while they were busy. The silence ended suddenly, as Pescennius Niger turned to Rufinus and the men behind him and beckoned through the door.
‘Take our young friend here to appropriate accommodation and make sure that he is very secure. Remove all weapons and items of import and value from him, leaving him with just his clothes and boots and cloak. Then find his woman, the boy and the dog and bring them to me.’
‘Kill them,’ snapped Celer.
‘No. I am not so short-sighted and foolish as to kill a praetorian sent here personally by the chamberlain. A man who works for Cleander and who was personally decorated by the emperor? He is no threat to you or Albinus now, with no evidence. And I do not kill innocent women, children or dogs.’
Celer continued to glare at him. Two more legionaries entered the room, though these were men of the Fifth, accompanied by the centurion who had first admitted them to the fort. The men swiftly disarmed Rufinus and then took the place of the dismounted cavalry, swords drawn. Tribune Celer gestured for his men to leave. For a moment Rufinus thought Daizus was going to spit on him, and then they left, Celer exiting last. The tribune paused in the doorway. ‘You have no idea how big a mistake it is letting this man live. I will not be going back to Albinus just yet. I want to watch Rufinus cause you trouble.’
‘Get out of my office,’ roared Pescennius Niger.
The men of the Thirteenth departed, and Rufinus sagged. ‘I trusted you. Vibius Cestius trusted you. And you are in league with them?’
‘Gods, Rufinus, but the world is so much more a tangled web than you perceive. I had no wish to do this, and had there been any other way I would have avoided it. I tried to turn you aside. Even with Celer listening at the door, I tried. Now I am bound and there is little I can do. But what little I can, I will. Celer will not have his executions. You will be imprisoned for now, and I promise you I will see your companions safely accommodated and well-looked after. It is all I can do.’
He nodded to the centurion, and Rufinus was urged from the office at sword point. As he was marched out into the basilica, he realised what the legate had meant by trying to ‘turn him aside’. Niger had been trying to stop him presenting his evidence. Subtly. Carefully.
I trust you. Would that you could so easily do that with me.
Sometimes obscurity is to be treasured, and even sought.
Talk like that gets men into a great deal of trouble.
You need to be certain and aware of the danger. So are you sure, or could you be mistaken?
Damnit, he’d known from the outset that Niger was sharp. Why had he not been listening more carefully? The man had repeatedly thrown him clues that something was not right and had even offered him a way out with the option of retracting his accusation. But no. He had blundered on in his usual good-natured, honest way. How long must he play the great game before he started to think like Pompeianus, or even Niger?
Why, though? Why had Niger done this to him? Everything Rufinus had heard during the exchange had suggested that
Niger was not part of the plot, or at best peripherally so. He had tried to save Rufinus, had even managed to save him from execution, and had promised to look after the others. Something deep inside Rufinus insisted that Niger was the good man of whom Cestius had spoken. But somehow he was subservient to Albinus. He owed the governor perhaps? Was frightened of him? Did Albinus hold something over his fellow legate? His mind furnished him with an image of his brother Publius back in the court with Cleander. Wasn’t Rufinus exactly the same? Here he was doing the dirty work of a man he hated because Cleander had his brother.
Yes. That was it. The way Tribune Celer had spoken to the legate, was like an man of authority talking to a plaintiff, rather than a soldier to a superior officer. Somehow Albinus owned Niger the way Cleander believed he owned Rufinus. The question was: how long could Niger keep Rufinus had his friends safe if that was the case. The legate might argue against Celer, but Rufinus could not picture the same happening with Albinus. If Albinus were to hear of his capture and the evidence, his death warrant would be sealed within the day, and Niger would have no choice but to comply.
As he was marched across the courtyard, a splat of rain suddenly battered his forehead. Great. To top it all off, the rain was back. Moments later, the deluge was bouncing high from the floor and a crash of thunder echoed across the hills.
‘Don’t worry, lad,’ the centurion said, not unkindly. ‘We’ll bring you towels and a fresh tunic. But for now, I’m afraid you’re going in the old granary.’
With all the other rats, thought Rufinus bitterly as the rain soaked him, saturating his clothes and stinging his skin. Well he had done it. He had unpicked a plot that reached across the empire, had found evidence to support it, and had promptly handed both it and himself straight over to the enemy.
Where was Fortuna now, the fickle bitch?
XVII – Captivity
Rufinus leaned back in the cart and quickly decided that was not the best decision he could have made, for he now realised just how effective Senova’s carriage’s suspension had actually been. This thing was shaking his bones apart. At least he was free to move. His wrists were bound, tight enough that there was no hope of twisting out of them, but his legs were free and he had not been too tightly confined.
There had been another argument about that in the fresh blue morning the day after the storm had passed. Celer, backed by his little coven of legionary cavalry and Centurion Daizus, had demanded Rufinus be placed in a cage for the journey, tied to the interior and guarded by Celer’s men. Pescennius Niger had acidly refused. He had ordered that Rufinus’ hands be bound to prevent any attempts to free himself and that he be placed under guard in one of the wagons at the rear of the column, but beyond that he had seen that Rufinus had acceptable comfort for a prisoner. Moreover, Celer had eyed Senova sourly and glared at Acheron, demanding that the dog be placed in a cage for the safety of all concerned. Given the way Acheron’s lip curled back when he saw the tribune and Daizus, and the low threatening growl that issued in their presence, that might not be a stupid move, Rufinus admitted. Senova was pretty good at keeping the animal out of mischief, but Acheron might just take it upon himself to savage one man or the other, and that would certainly see the dog put down and Rufinus in ever deeper trouble. Still the three of them remained free despite Celer’s constant demands.
Senova and Luca, with Acheron pacing alongside, travelled in an expensive carriage along with Niger’s family, just behind the Fifth’s officers where she was safe and, coincidentally also unable to converse with the prisoner. Celer and his men rode slightly apart from the column, which consisted almost entirely of the Fifth Macedonica, periodically coming close enough to sneer at Rufinus. They could come no closer than that, though, thank the gods, because of the legionaries of the Fifth who guarded Rufinus’ wagon as it bounced along the road.
Two full contubernia of men kept watch over him, and Rufinus had to take it as a sort of complement that the officers felt he needed sixteen men to keep him secured. Rufinus had tentatively tried to strike up a conversation early in the journey, half expecting to be slapped and manhandled roughly down into the cart. In a pleasantly surprising turn of events it seemed that the legion’s legate had given no orders to prevent interaction and, indeed, had told the men to make sure Rufinus was comfortable and safe. Whether this was from genuine personal concern or fear that Cleander would hear of any mistreatment Rufinus couldn’t tell though, given what he’d seen of Niger, he suspected the former.
In any event, the soldiers exchanged some history with Rufinus and when it turned out that a vexillation of the Fifth had been part of that great push against the Marcomanni across the Danuvius under the old emperor and that Rufinus, as part of the Tenth Gemina, had fought in the same battle, an instant camaraderie arose, albeit a little strained in the circumstances.
‘The Marcomanni were real barbarians,’ a legionary called Iustus sighed. ‘Proper baby-eating, skull-wearing, “dance naked and drunk in the woods and worship a stick” sort of barbarians.’
Rufinus chuckled at the description.
‘Not like the Iazyges and the Costoboci. Or the Roxolani. They’ve been around Romans and Dacians for so long they’re almost civilised. They know cavalry tactics and can use a spoon.’
Again, Rufinus laughed. ‘In fairness, I’m not sure the Marcomannia actually eat babies. I never saw it happen.’
‘Well no. We were at war. You like a roll in the hay with a farm girl, I’ll bet, but you probably wouldn’t do it on the battlefield.’
Another laugh. There was something oddly impenetrable about the man’s logic.
‘Gargilius did,’ snorted another. ‘Remember her? Rosy-cheeked Chatti girl. There we were moving through the forest, swords out, waiting to be jumped at any moment and we find Gargillius up against a tree with her as if he’s got not a care in the world.’
Raucous laughter broke out among the guards and one red-faced soldier told them all to do something biologically improbable to themselves.
And so it went on, an odd mix of good-natured banter and strained prisoner-guard relations.
Throughout the day, especially when Celer and his men swung by to be offended by his continued survival, the men of the Fifth would apologise that they could not keep the tribune further away, and would note how unhappy they were keeping prisoner a veteran whose crime was so spurious that none of the officers seemed to know, or at least wouldn’t talk about. When the legionaries had quietly tried to pry that information from their charge, Rufinus had simply sighed and stated that he’d got on the wrong side of Celer and the man had stitched him up. It was part of the truth, so he didn’t feel too guilty about the rest being omitted. The suggestion that somehow an honest soldier had been sold down the river by an unscrupulous officer only increased the respect the men gave him and made them hate the visitors from the Thirteenth all the more. Good, Rufinus thought. he could not yet see a way out, but building bridges with his captors and opening rifts between them and Celer was a good start, whatever he decided was possible in the end.
The journey from Porolissum on the frontier to the legion’s base at Potaissa would take three days, moving at the peace-time speed of a full legionary column, and Rufinus disembarked that first evening feeling like a shirt of rusty chain that had been put in a barrel of sand and rolled around for cleaning. He had felt every rock and even pebble beneath the cart’s wheels, and it took some time for him to be able to stand straight upon alighting.
They camped that first night on the edge of a small town called, rather worryingly, Draco. The officers, including Celer and Daizus, found lodging in a mansio that served the regular traffic between Porolissum and Potaissa, while the legion encamped close by, near a stream. On passing, Rufinus noted a small temple on the edge of the town and wondered what deity was most revered in this area. Always best to know which god was most present to pray to. When he discovered that the shrine was to the strange witch goddess Hekate, its threshold host to the ro
tting corpses of three sacrificed dogs, it did nothing to improve his opinion of the place. Named for a monster and worshipping a witch goddess. Wonderful.
Rufinus was shown to a tent where the basic amenities were made available. In fairness, it was actually somewhat more comfortable than he’d been used to when on campaign with the Tenth, and he had no complaints, especially as he had it to himself with no snoring, farting tent mates. When he needed to use the latrines, one eight-man contubernium accompanied him while the other guarded his tent and then, as the evening set in, they instituted a watch system with always five men guarding the prisoner. He was going nowhere. Even if he could slip past the five men, he was in the middle of a legionary camp, and could neither find nor free Senova and the others anyway.
Rufinus was leaning back on his blankets and starting to settle in when there was a cough at the door of the tent.
‘Yes?’
‘Visitor,’ announced a legionary, and Rufinus sat up, blinking away the tiredness of the journey. The tense worry that it would be Celer faded as the tent flap shifted aside and Senova appeared in her warm cloak, wrapped tight against the night’s chill. Summer was almost upon them now, but the evening still held something of a bite.
‘I’m surprised they let you come,’ he said. ‘They did let you come, didn’t they?’
Senova smiled. ‘I’m breaking no rules, and I have not brought you a small siege engine and a panoply of armour with which to escape. Celer did not want us to see one another, but Pescennius Niger is according me every civilised comfort. He asked me to check on you and make sure you were being well treated.’
Eagles of Dacia Page 25
