Praetorian: The Great Game Read online

  Again, he kept his mouth shut.

  ‘There are snakes all around us, slithering about the palace and whispering in the ears of those in power. We, as the Praetorian Guard, have a duty, Rufinus, to stay above such things. Our job is to protect the emperor and nothing else. We were founded with that very purpose in mind. Our symbol is that of Tiberius’ birth sign. Our history goes back gloriously to even the days when such units guarded men like the immortal Julius Caesar. We are the emperor’s personal guard. His last line of defence.’

  Rufinus nodded his agreement. It was a succinct statement of the guard’s purpose that sat worryingly at odds with the conversation he had just had in Paternus’ office.

  ‘We do not involve ourselves in palace politics. We are not spies or assassins. The emperor has men to do that job - the Frumentarii among others. As such, I have ears in the Villa Hadriana as I understand you now know, but I draw the line at sending one of our men in there in disguise. That is not the job of a Praetorian. Paternus sees things differently. Like his former master Aurelius, may the great man live among the Gods for a thousand thousand years, Paternus is too often led by his heart and not his head.’

  He stopped and held out his vine staff, halting Rufinus in his tracks. ‘I regret the fact that you were placed in such an unseemly position for a guardsman. It was foolish and is beneath you. I further regret that Paternus still has enough authority to send you back. But I will tell you this once: forget your patronage to the old vulture. Work with Pompeianus at the villa and report back to me through his sources and we will draw this affair to a close as fast as possible and reassign you to a duty more befitting a member of the noblest military unit in the empire.’

  Rufinus looked across at Perennis and nodded slowly. The man was a martinet and lacked the grace and ease of an officer like Paternus, but it was very hard to deny the man’s point. Despite Rufinus’ dislike of the man, he realised that he didn’t have to like him to respect him.

  ‘Anything to add, Rufinus?’

  ‘May I speak my mind, sir?’

  ‘On this occasion, yes.’

  ‘I would like to know your opinion of Saoterus, sir, since I am about to return to the subterfuge in his presence.’

  Perennis nodded. ‘A fair question. Saoterus is one of a gaggle of dangerous men that bend the ear of our emperor. He has too much power for a freedman and far too much influence in the court. That being said, he may be the least harmful of the bunch. Some say he is in love with Commodus. Certainly he seems to be infatuated. Whatever the truth, I find it hard to believe he has anything other than the emperor’s best interest at heart. I would be surprised to find evidence of him involved in any conspiracy.’

  Rufinus nodded. The opinion seemed to sit comfortably alongside both his own and that of Pompeianus.

  ‘Then respectfully, prefect, I should return to barracks, clean up and try to get some rest before I return.’

  Perennis nodded. ‘Good luck on the morrow, guardsman. I trust we will see you in a real uniform again soon.’

  Rufinus gave a salute which Perennis returned casually before strolling off towards the city gate. The young guard watched the sour-faced prefect disappear behind a group of chatting men and sighed. Strange. Somehow all the twisted politics of this whole messy situation seemed easier to deal with when one adopted Perennis’ attitude. They were soldiers, devoted to protecting their emperor. He would return in the morning with fresh hope, trying to stay above the murky swirls of the villa’s politics, his eyes locked on that one goal: protect the emperor. It made it all fall into place so much more easily.

  As he walked back to his barracks, the smile slipped from his face as he remembered that he would still have to deal with Dis the Frumentarius, whatever Paternus planned. Walking out of the cold wind into the familiar cover of the barrack block, he saw Mercator and Icarion standing in his doorway with a jar of wine.

  ‘Nice interview, then?’

  ‘Enlightening’ Rufinus said thoughtfully. ‘Let’s get inside and crack that open. I’ve only drunk cheap piss for the last four months.’

  Warming to the smiles of his friends, Rufinus strode into the small room, surprised at how odd and unhomely it felt after four months of life at the villa. His bunk had clearly been used for storage by Icarion, given the rumpled blanket and the patterns in the dust. Mercator slouched into the chair, relaxing on a silk cushion that Icarion had paid above the odds for from an Arab in the forum. The small Greek sank onto his bunk and scooped up three purple-stained Samian-ware cups from the low table next to him, slopping wine into them with gay abandon before handing them out.

  As he finished filling the third, he raised it. ‘To our young war hero, safely returned from his detached duty…’ he grinned. ‘…where apparently a mermaid beat him half to death.’

  Rufinus rolled his eyes. ‘I’d love nothing more than to tell you where I’ve been, but it’s not over yet, so I can’t. I’m afraid I’m heading off again in the morning. Let’s say the ship’s putting out to sea on another voyage and leave it at that.’

  Mercator and Icarion exchanged worried glances. ‘Whatever it is you’re up to, be very careful,’ Mercator said quietly. ‘I know you were assigned personally by Paternus, but I fear that hitching our wagons to him might leave us all in deepest shit. Don’t tie yourself too tightly to a rock that might be thrown overboard, my young friend.’

  Rufinus shook his head and took a quick, appreciative gulp of the wine, surprised that Icarion hadn’t watered it. ‘I’ll say this: I’m also under the aegis of Perennis now, so I’m fairly sure I’m safe at this end. I’m more worried about the job itself and the stumbling blocks awaiting tomorrow.’

  Mercator frowned. ‘Wish you could tell us more. We might be able to help.’

  Rufinus shook his head vehemently. ‘Better you don’t. But while I’m here, tell me about Paternus. He seems to have changed. Is he losing it?’

  Again, the two veterans shared a knowing glance. ‘The prefect’s been rather outspoken in the presence of the emperor,’ Icarion said in hushed tones ‘on the subject of his advisors and their influence. He’s alienated just about everyone with any power. He’s still in well with the old guard in the senate, but even they’ve started to sit back and stay quiet. Paternus just doesn’t seem to know when to stop. Some say that Commodus is a breath away from ordering his death and I really wouldn’t be surprised.’

  Mercator nodded sagely. ‘Everything Paternus does to block the moves of the emperor’s favourites takes him further out of the circle and hands more power to Perennis.’ He leaned forward, his voice dropping yet further. ‘I would never advocate a split in the guard, but if sides were drawn right now, Paternus would find himself with less than a century of men, and they’re the old veterans like us.’

  Again, the two men shared a look and this time, Rufinus thought he saw a flash of guilt in it.

  ‘What?’

  Icarion sighed. ‘Maybe not even us. We’ve been talking it over. We’re officially bound to Perennis anyway, as we’re in his First cohort, and that might not be a bad thing. Paternus is going to bring down his friends and allies when he falls.’

  Rufinus nodded. It was hardly a surprise to find their support of the older prefect waning. Given his discussions with the two officers just now, he would find it hard to stand in defence of Paternus himself. ‘I presume my transfer from the First cohort never went ahead, since you have no new room-mate and neither prefect mentioned it?’

  Mercator nodded. ‘Paternus put in the orders, but Perennis blocked them. I think he was interested in finding out what Paternus had involved you in. Since then, I suspect Perennis is keeping you separated from the vulture; though whether for your safety or for his, I couldn’t say.’

  Rufinus’ gaze slipped to the corner, where his Praetorian gear was stored, packed in water-tight covers, the armour and helm out and polished to a shine as if he’d last worn it yesterday. A third tall wrapping alongside the two javelins con
firmed that his prized hasta pura – the silver spear – was still safe.

  ‘I see you’re keeping all my kit ready. Even polishing my armour?’

  Icarion nodded. ‘Doesn’t take much to maintain when it’s just sat inside.’

  Rufinus sighed and leaned back, sipping his wine. ‘This is good stuff. You don’t water it?’

  Icarion laughed. ‘A Greek never waters good wine. Save the cheap swill for that.’

  Mercator, grinning, reached out and poured himself another cup. ‘Drink up. There’s plenty to get through and you’ll need a good insulating skin for your bracing sea voyage tomorrow.’

  The next day dawned cold and crisp. The water tanks had not quite iced over, but each breath plumed in the air and a thick coating of furry white covered every surface, gradually dissipating as the sunlight warmed the world.

  Rufinus moved very quietly about the room, gathering his travelling kit, careful not to wake the sleeping form of Icarion, though as he left the room the man’s eyes opened and he gave Rufinus a good luck sign.

  Shivering, Rufinus stepped out into the cold air, pulling the cloak as tight as he could around him with his good hand, holding it closed with the fingers of his sling-bound arm. With a deep breath, he strode through the camp as men went about their early morning ablutions or plodded home from night duty. A few moments later, he ducked into the arch of the stables and sought out the stable-master, a slight man with a neat beard and a permanent smell of horse.

  ‘Guardsman Rufinus. Have you had orders for me?’

  The man glanced across at him, looking his dishevelled uniform-less figure up and down distastefully, and nodded.

  ‘Both prefects sent me authorisation to release one of our courier steeds. A fast and strong beast, they said. I’ve had Bellerophon saddled for you; he’s one of my best - the big dappled grey in the corner stall. Make sure you look after him. Orders are to deliver him to the compound of a merchant called Constans near the south gate of Tibur and then continue to your destination on foot.’

  ‘I understand’ Rufinus nodded.

  Following the stable-master’s pointing finger, Rufinus trotted over and creaked open the door to see one of the most magnificent steeds he had ever laid eyes on watching him warily.

  Appraisingly, he walked around the beast a few times, admiring form and muscle and the shine of his coat. Outside, the slam of wooden stall doors, clatter of hooves and clank and rustle of armour announced the departure of a cavalry troop. Rufinus paused momentarily to glance through the stall doors. Half a dozen men in white tunics and chain mail were steadying their horses under the watchful gaze of a Decurion.

  Turning back, Rufinus began to pack his gear, listening as the officer in the courtyard distributed orders. The clatter of hooves began again, rising to an echoing clamour as they passed beneath the arch and receding into the distance to be replaced by the sounds of camp life, overlaid with the snorting and clumping of stabled horses.

  Slowly, he made sure that everything was secure, tightening straps, and finally unlatched and swung open the door, leading the magnificent grey out into the cold sunlight, where he deftly mounted. He paused for just a moment, long enough for the steed to become used to his weight and settle comfortably, before geeing the horse forward toward the arch.

  As he passed the stable-master, who stood running a finger down a list on a wood sheet, the man looked up. ‘Remember: look after him and deliver him to the merchant.’

  Rufinus saluted and walked the horse past him, revelling in the joy of riding such a strong, lithe and well-trained beast. A brief pause at the camp’s east gate and he was out into the open, cold wind whipping his face as Bellerophon picked up speed, unbidden. Rufinus steered with his knees, turning the beast toward the Tibur road. Few people were about on the road at this time, just a few locals going about their business and a couple of carts, empty and heading to Tibur, Empulum, Collatia or some such settlement.

  Rufinus thrilled to the whipping wind and easy speed and cantered along the metalled road happily, eating the stadia and then the miles. Just before the peeling, crumbled houses of Collatia he passed a group of men armoured in dulled mail and wrapped in brown cloaks, their horses tethered by the road, busy digging into bread and cheese, breaking up their journey as the wind whipped their hair and beards.

  It was only as he was past and they had disappeared behind him around a corner that he realised they were the Praetorians he had seen saddled in the yard that morning. It brought a small smile to his face to discover that he was not the only member of the guard being sent out in a rude guise on some underhand task.

  The smile slid slowly from his face as the reality of the coming day sank home once, danger looming darker and closer with every passing mile that brought him towards Tibur and the Villa Hadriana.

  XVIII – Descent into darkness

  RUFINUS turned off the road and traipsed with a sinking feeling along the narrow private road that led to the villa. Constans the merchant had taken in the horse and reminded him of the route and Rufinus had made his way down the zig-zag road with considerably less enthusiasm than his last break-neck descent, his pace slowing as he neared the villa.

  All along the beautiful road to the first structure his mind raced, working out the best way to approach his return, given that he was unaware of the official reason for his departure. At least the giant Sarmatian thug was no longer a factor.

  His stomach grumbling, complaining of missing the morning meal, Rufinus strode across to the servants’ door in the side of the entrance building. The sun was on its ascent now, the villa’s occupants having broken their fast hours ago, the noon meal still a couple of hours away.

  He hesitated before knocking. Something was still gnawing at him, asking him whether he was truly best serving the emperor and even the guard by continuing on the course of action set by Paternus.

  But he was here. There was still enough of a threat to have alarmed both prefects, and the only way they could identify potential dates, times, methods and perpetrators was through him.

  Rap, rap, rap.

  The door was opened by a man Rufinus knew vaguely by sight. The servile population of the villa so outnumbered the residents and the guards that most of their faces blurred into a haze. It was only as his thoughts swept across the word ‘slave’ that he found himself picturing the face of Senova and wondered that he had not looked up at the slave quarters on the way in on the off-chance she was standing there on the balcony.

  ‘Gnaeus Marcius of the guard. I need to see Dis or Phaestor.’

  The servant narrowed his eyes for a moment, looking the battered visitor up and down as though running through a mental checklist and then nodded. ‘Follow me, sir.’

  Pausing to allow the man time to close the door and slide the bolts home, Rufinus breathed deeply, trying to exude an air of confidence that he thoroughly lacked.

  The slave hurried off with that fast shuffle of hopeless indentured servants everywhere, his eyes darting nervously at every sign of movement. Rufinus paid not a jot of attention to his surroundings as he was led through rooms and gardens, passageways and staircases to the grand edifice that was once the residence of the Praetorian Guard. The fine building rested upon huge vaulted substructures, reminiscent of those that now housed the slaves. Through a fine marble vestibule they moved, along a corridor lined with busts of men armoured in the fashion of generals of old.

  And suddenly they were at their destination: a door with no markings; presumably that of either Dis or Phaestor. Rufinus waited for the slave to announce him, but the shuffling man simply gave him a swift bow, turned and hurried away. Taking a deep breath and preparing himself for the worst, Rufinus stepped forward and rapped on the door.

  ‘Come.’

  The captain’s voice was sharp; impatient - unusual for the smooth-tongued man. Rufinus swallowed nervously and opened the door. Phaestor sat with a sword in his hand, running a whetstone along the edge as he looked up at his visit
or, taking in the sling and the various pads and bandages. His eyes widened for just a moment and then narrowed under furrowed brows. His short-cropped hair and beard glistened with sweat, indicating that he had been exercising heavily.

  ‘Marcius? What are you doing here? And what happened to you?’

  Rufinus swallowed again. Good questions he felt entirely ill-equipped to answer.

  ‘I was finished earlier than expected. I should find Dis and speak to him, but thought I’d best report in as soon as I arrived, sir.’

  It was a gamble, for certain, but an educated one: vague enough that the answer would fit a thousand situations, while still answering the captain’s question adequately. He had to rely on the likelihood that Dis would not have written him off completely, given the possibility of him showing up unexpectedly.

  His heart skipped a beat in the moment’s silence.

  The whetstone stopped halfway down the blade and Rufinus saw the knuckles of the man’s right hand tighten on the hilt. His own hand dropped just a fingerwidth or two toward the pommel of his sword.

  Scrape.

  The stone finished its descent along the blade and Phaestor nodded, frowning. ‘But the state of you?’

  ‘Bandits on the road. I gave good account of myself, but still barely got away.’

  The captain continued to frown, but eventually nodded. Rufinus felt an almost explosive release of pressure inside and fought to contain his relief.

  ‘Dis is hunting and giving his dogs a run.’ He stood, replacing the whetstone on his cabinet and sheathing his blade. ‘Drop your gear and come with me. I know where Dis will be. You’ll not find him yourself and there’s no telling when he’ll get back if he gets a sniff of a deer.’

  Rufinus continued to breathe as steadily as possible as he piled his travelling kit in the corner, retaining his sword, and followed the guard captain from the room. It was hard to believe he’d got this far. His simple lie had bought him time. The next problem was going to be tougher. He would have to face Dis, and the two men would need somehow to synchronise their lies in front of the captain or they would both endanger themselves. And even then, once they had convinced Phaestor all was in order, Rufinus would have to convince Dis that he needed to be here. There would be a lot more lying to go this evening before he could safely slump into that cot beneath the farting form of Glaucus.