Praetorian: The Great Game Page 21

  ‘… so remember to have the estate fully secured.’

  ‘I know my job, Vettius.’ Phaestor’s voice was curt; irritated.

  ‘Oh forgive me, captain, but the last time, two men were found hiding out from the slave-catchers in the observatory. Another cock up like that and I’ll not cover for you again. The Empress will hear of it and you’ll be chewing on hot coals for your negligence.’

  Rufinus stopped dead and sidled into shadow at the doorway’s edge.

  ‘You threaten me once more Vettius, you little Arab prick, and I’ll turn you inside out and use you as a kit-bag. I do not answer to you. Nobody answers to you apart from the slaves.’

  Rufinus nodded quietly to himself. Phaestor’s voice, for all the violence of his threats, was calm. He’d had the measure of the captain since the first day: not a man to cross lightly. Phaestor laughed, a strange sound in the strangled silence following his counter-threat.

  ‘Anyway. Let us step away from such bad feeling. Do we know who’s coming? Any people that need special treatment? African whores are not easy to come by on short notice, you know?’

  ‘Leave the hospitality to me, captain. Just have the villa secured. Three days: no one in… no one out.’

  A fresh, loud hiss announced another cup of water being cast onto the hot floor, resulting in a build-up in the steam clouds. There was a momentary silence, then Phaestor’s light voice piped up again. ‘Tad? Go get another bucket of water. We’re nearly out.’

  Rufinus panicked for a moment. This was the trouble with eavesdropping: if it was interesting and worthwhile, it almost always ended in discovery. The hulking figure of Tad appeared in the mist of the room ahead. There was no way even the great needle-toothed savage could miss Rufinus in the doorway.

  Taking a deep breath, he stepped back half a dozen paces and then strode forward toward the room, humming a tune that built in volume as he approached, as though he had only just come down the corridor.

  Tad stopped in the doorway, his head tipping comically to one side as he listened, until he saw the shape of Rufinus appear ahead.

  The giant worried Rufinus. A few careful and well-directed enquiries had told him everything he needed to know about Tad, other than his full name, which was reputedly unpronounceable in Latin. The man was a Sarmatian from the steppes north of the Danubius. They were horse people who occasionally served in the Roman auxilia, but inhabited a land far outside Imperial territory where they had a fearsome reputation as brutal, conscience-free warriors and head-takers.

  But even for the Sarmatians, Tad was something of a mystery. He was clearly far too large to comfortably ride any horse Rufinus had ever seen. He had been exiled by his own people and had come south seeking work. According to a rumour he’d heard from three different people, the great brute had been prosecuted in Thessalonica for eating a man alive, though acquitted since there had been no evidence, and the witnesses to the crime had failed to appear on the set day, or ever after for that matter.

  Such rumours were often blown out of proportion from a small grain of truth, but the sharpened fang teeth did little to suggest the giant’s innocence in the matter. He spoke very little Latin, which didn’t help, only understanding the bare minimum of words and speaking them with such a thick, glutinous accent that they were barely comprehensible. When drunk, Rufinus had heard Tad singing in his own language and he’d found it hard to describe. ‘Listening to a man gargle toads’ was the closest he’d come.

  Swallowing nervously, he forced an innocent smile. ‘Evening, Tad. All well with you?’

  The huge, muscular thing grunted and swept past, giving him a suspicious look, the earthenware mug clattering around in the empty bucket he carried. Tad naked was almost as horrible a sight as anything he had ever seen.

  Clenching his teeth, Rufinus strode on into the room. The latest clouds of white steam were now dissipating and he could see three figures in the fog. Vettius, the villa’s major domo and chief servant, sat with a towel across his knee, his dark skin, almost blue-black hair and small pointed beard glistening with sweat. Near him, Phaestor sat, leaning back in a relaxed pose. The third man was one of Vettius’ staff that he’d seen around a few times.

  The three men looked up suspiciously at the new arrival and Rufinus smiled warmly. ‘Evening.’

  Phaestor fixed him with a stern look. ‘Not now, Marcius.’ Rufinus stopped in his tracks. Had the captain seen him eavesdropping? No. If he had, he would have commented. ‘Private session? My apologies.’

  Turning, Rufinus made to leave, but Vettius’ voice cut through the steam. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Sneaking around and poking your nose into our business? You spying on us, Marcius?’

  Phaestor frowned as he turned to the major domo. ‘He uses the baths every day, Vettius. Don’t be a dick.’ He turned to Rufinus. ‘Just go away, Marcius. Private matters.’

  ‘Some security chief you are,’ sneered Vettius. ‘He’s probably been loitering outside, listening to us. He looks shifty.’

  ‘Everyone looks shifty to you. He’s fine. Just has an unhealthy obsession with bathing. Now fuck off, Marcius, eh?’

  Relief flooding through him at Phaestor’s words, Rufinus turned to leave.

  ‘Actually,’ the captain said suddenly, ‘you said you needed an errand run, Vettius?’

  Rufinus waited, mid-step, still facing the door. A grudging agreement came from the major domo in a grumble. ‘True. Marcius?’

  Rufinus turned again to see the servant holding out a wax tablet, the wooden case dripping with condensation. ‘Take this. It needs to go to the mistress’ laundry maid before the damn wax melts. You know where to find her?’

  Reaching out, Rufinus grasped the wooden case, shaking his head.

  ‘Go to the main slave chambers. You need the top floor at the southern end. All the lady’s slaves are there, but the one you need is her laundry maid - girl called Alia. Got that?’

  Rufinus nodded.

  ‘Yes. Alia; laundry maid. Main slave quarters, top floor, southern end.’

  ‘Good, now get lost and don’t start playing around with the girls there. The Empress has a strict ‘no touching’ rule with her female slaves.’ he sneered. ‘And her male slaves too, in case that’s your preference!’

  The other servant in the room laughed, though Phaestor’s piercing gaze had not yet moved. Turning, grateful to be leaving the room, Rufinus strode out toward the octagonal room, where he met Tad returning with a bucket of cold water. Carefully sidestepping the giant, he strode on and rushed to the hot room, where his clothes lay strewn on the floor.

  Nudging the tunic with a toe, he sighed. The clothes had hardly had time to do more than lose their excess water. They were still clammy and unpleasant, though warmer.

  Grimacing, he slid into the tepid, clinging garments, and walked back out into the changing room, where he retrieved his sword belt and boots and threw his cloak over his shoulders. A moment later, he was dashing from the doorway of the baths and off to the slave quarters, each occupying one of the hundred or more rooms formed by the substructures supporting the villa’s gardens and palaces.

  As he walked, he flicked open the wooden container to examine the notes on the wax surfaces within. Clearly there would be nothing desperately secret, else Vettius wouldn’t have entrusted it to one of the new men. Still…

  SHEETS

  TOWELS

  WATER BOWLS

  SPARE GOWNS

  EAST PALACE GUEST ROOMS XII . XIV . XX . XXIII . XXXIV

  SERVANT ACCOM - V GROUPS, V-X IN SIZE

  STABLING UP TO LX HORSES + CARRIAGES

  Rufinus frowned. A number of visitors then. Eminent guests, too, given the size of their retinues. Rufinus smiled to himself as he pondered how to be in a position where he could observe the visitors and possibly even overhear?

  Snapping the tablet shut, he strode on down the passage, repeating under his breath ‘Twelve… Fourteen… Tw
enty… Twenty three… Thirty four,’ memorising the rooms. The corridor angled up as it marched toward the light and, at the end, gave out to a wooden staircase with concrete supports that rose the four storeys, providing access by timber walkways to each chamber in the façade.

  Breathing deeply, he stepped out onto the stairs and began to climb, the rain once more battering his face and running in rivulets down his neck into his tunic. The walkways were apparently considerably sturdier than they looked from the ground and, despite occasional creaks and groans, nothing cracked or shifted as he climbed to the top level, though the timber was slippery in places.

  The view was spectacular, or would have been, were it not for the sheets of rain and roiling grey clouds that obscured anything more than a handful of miles distant. The vaulted chambers opened onto the walkway across the width of the structure, each aperture separated from the walkway by a railing, behind which the slaves lived, each in a single chamber. The nearest room, close to the corner, would be the very one he sought, home to the lady Lucilla’s laundry maid.

  Stepping in through the small gap in the railing that was the only method of access, he stood in the relative shelter of the arched space, dripping and freezing as the rain slanted down in sheets a couple of feet away.

  The chamber’s slave occupant had, like the others, hung an old blanket from hooks in the ceiling, forming a fabric wall and leaving a five-foot ‘balcony’ between it and the railing. Rufinus approached the hanging, his mind furnishing him with memories of the many times he had stood at tent flaps in legionary camps across the northern empire, often in similar weather, knocking on the wooden frame for permission to enter.

  Here there was no wooden frame. After all, in a villa of high nobility, who bothered to knock in the substructures? Who cared about the privacy of a slave?

  In all fairness, not Rufinus. He’d never spared much thought for the slaves at the family villa back in Hispania and could hardly name any of them with any surety. Slaves were the invisible workings of the world. But here and now, every person he could befriend, be they noble, guard, servant or slave, could be of use. Clearing his throat, he called out through the blanket.

  ‘Miss?’

  There was shuffling in the chamber beyond the blanket which stopped suddenly at the voice, then began again, increasing in volume until the curtain was pulled aside by a woman in her early thirties, Rufinus would guess. She was of some sort of Celtic extraction, flaxen-haired with braids and pale skin, its pallid tone heightened by the dark grey woollen stola she wore.

  ‘Yah?’ she said, her expression a mix of fear and confusion.

  ‘I’ve brought a message from Vettius.’

  Holding his breath against the smell of damp, clammy mould that issued from the chamber, he held out the wax tablet Frowning, she took it and snapped it open, examining the list within, nodding with a sigh.

  ‘Thank’ she said, simply, reaching up to pull the blanket back across when a voice from behind called out.

  ‘Alia?’

  Rufinus stepped aside, turning to the speaker, and his heart lurched and threatened to burst from his chest. The breath-taking form of the woman who had haunted his dreams ever since Vindobona stood a few feet away, her hair glistening with raindrops.

  Rufinus stared, fascinated, as he watched a single drop of crystal-clear rain slither from her brow, down the curve of her curiously and charmingly upturned nose, where it sat, glittering. His eyes slipped from the drop to the peach-coloured bow of her lips below.

  He began to sweat despite the chill and was aware once again of stirrings that he really didn’t have the time and leisure to deal with. He smiled weakly.

  ‘You?’ she said sharply, her eyes locked on him.

  Panic flooded Rufinus and he fought the urge to run. Damn it. He’d been here such a short time and already two of the villa’s occupants had identified him! He tried not to feel just a little bit smug that, despite her busy world and the thousands of important men she must see on a regular basis, she had recognised him after almost eight months and half a thousand miles.

  The laundry maid blinked in surprise and, before Rufinus could think through the problem, he had grasped the newly-arrived slave girl by the elbow and turned her, all-but dragging her out into the rain.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Rufinus panicked. Was there a way he could take control of the situation, or had things just suddenly become entirely untenable? The rain battered down on the pair as Rufinus hauled the slave girl out onto the wooden walkway, the structure empty of people due to the inclemency of the weather. His feet skittering a little on the slippery wood, he looked around desperately before stepping across to the next chamber and dipping inside out of the rain again.

  His heart pounding a trireme-rowing beat in his throat, he pulled the girl in through the gap in the railing and quickly hauled aside the blanket that provided meagre privacy and warmth to the room. To his relief the chamber was empty.

  Trying not to hurt the slave girl, he pulled her inside and let the blanket drop back into place. The chamber’s interior was dim with only the pale grey light around the edge of the ill-fitting blanket wall pushing back the darkness. Much like Alia’s next door, the room was furnished with a single basic wooden cot, topped with a thin pallet and blanket, a chair and a wash bowl. The occupant, whoever she was, had tried to liven the room up a little by hanging blankets and old threadbare carpets on the walls. It entirely failed to turn the room into anything but a dismal cell.

  Rufinus, still panicking about what to do, let go of the girl’s arm and pointed to the bed. Her eyes widened and Rufinus shook his head in irritation. ‘Sit down. We need to talk.’

  As the slave girl perched nervously on the edge of the cot, her eyes tracking every movement of her abductor, Rufinus grabbed the rickety wooden chair and dragged it over to face her, plonking himself down on it with a squelch.

  ‘Did I hurt you?’ he asked, his voice full of concern.

  The girl shook her head, her eyes a mix of fear and suspicion.

  ‘Honestly. I didn’t mean to pull you out so roughly. I just had to get you out of there quickly. We need to talk in private.’ He rolled his head, his eyes roving around the chamber. ‘I guess this is about as private as we’re going to get.’

  The girl sat back more comfortably. ‘Why are you here?’

  Rufinus baulked. There were easier questions to answer and he felt ill prepared for that one just yet. ‘Let’s begin with introductions. I’m Gnaeus Marcius.’

  ‘But not really?’

  Rufinus sighed wearily. ‘Yes I am really Gnaeus Marcius. There’s more to it than that, certainly, but that much is still true. And you are?’

  ‘Senova.’

  A Briton, yes?’

  ‘If you say so. I am of the Brigantii, in north of the place you call Britannia, yes.’

  ‘Alright, Senova. You remember me?’

  ‘You were a soldier in Vindobona? The one with the silver stick?’

  ‘Spear’ he corrected absently, his mind churning through problems.

  ‘You were a friend of the Praetorians; a friend of the emperor?’

  Rufinus blinked. ‘I’d hardly say that. Alright. I’m here in secret.’

  ‘For Praetorians and emperor?’

  Rufinus felt a moment of panic again. Just how much did Senova know of the rift between Commodus and Lucilla? If she was too well informed and as loyal as she really should be to her mistress, almost anything Rufinus now said could land him deep in the shit-pit.

  ‘After a fashion’ he muttered. ‘Let’s say the only person other than yourself who knows who I am is Pompeianus.’

  For a moment, Senova’s face brightened and Rufinus thought he saw a solution.

  ‘Pompeianus is a good man. There is reason to believe…’ he paused and tried to find the right words: ambiguous enough to mask the truth while appearing to reveal it. ‘There is reason to believe that the Imperial family is in danger from a
potential usurper.’

  Senova frowned and Rufinus wondered whether he’d gone too far suddenly.

  ‘I am sorry. What is this word ‘usurper’. I only speak Latin for three years. Some words are still unknown to me.’

  Rufinus heaved a sigh of relief. ‘A usurper… a man who would kill them to make himself emperor. Or a woman.’ He added almost as an afterthought.

  Senova nodded thoughtfully. ‘I think mistress thinks the same. She is always having private meetings and buys many new guards.’

  Rufinus nodded, grateful how what appeared to him to be behaviour seriously indicative of treachery could appear quite the opposite with just a little nudge of suggestion. ‘It is absolutely imperative that I remain in secret here. Lives may depend upon it. Do you understand?’ Just which lives, she couldn’t know, of course. Senova nodded.

  ‘I will not tell anyone but master Pompeianus.’

  Rufinus paused. He’d much rather she kept the subject away from the Syrian master’s ears too, but small concessions would have to be made. If Senova was to trust him and keep his secret, she must be free to confirm the story with the only other man involved in any way. He sat back in the chair, his mind still racing. Of course, that meant that he now had to make closer contact with Pompeianus; had to warn him about the somewhat twisted version of the truth he had given the girl so that the former general wouldn’t contradictory him. He was suddenly, very uncomfortably, aware of the intensity of the gaze she was throwing his way and felt the colour rising in his cheeks, hopefully invisible in this gloom.