Praetorian: The Great Game Page 33

  Two of the four slaves bowed and scuttled off through the door, which shut with a click, sealing him into the room with Lucilla, her ‘chamberlain’ and the two remaining slaves. Silence reigned for a long moment until Lucilla stood and stepped down from the raised throne, her gold sandals clacking on the marble floor and the delicate Serican silk garments swishing around her alabaster shins. Stepping towards Rufinus, she walked slowly around him and then came to a halt, facing him.

  Rufinus was acutely aware that he had a blade slung at his side in the presence of a member of the imperial family and that he could probably quite simply do away with her before any of the servants reached him. Moreover, if he braved crashing through the arched windows, he could be across the terrace and into the wilderness before the guards even heard.

  He could prevent Lucilla striking against the throne!

  But it would be stupid, despite everything. There was still no proof that a coup was her intention, and striking her down without proof of wrongdoing shifted the nature of the deed from duty to plain murder. Moreover, if she truly was planning on striking at her brother and making a play for the throne, it would involve a number of people. To do away with her now would only remove one player from the game, no matter how central she be, and would dismiss all hope of identifying whoever else was involved.

  An opportunity, but one that he had to pass up.

  She tapped her lip as she regarded him, one eyebrow slightly raised, quizzically.

  ‘You are an interesting character, it seems, Marcius.’

  He wondered for a moment whether he was expected to reply, but held his tongue resolutely. This was not a woman with whom to bandy words or test patience. Her smile fell away and suddenly she was all business. ‘My villa remains secure and peaceful for almost a year under the careful control of captain Phaestor and master Vettius, everything running smoothly, and then suddenly you and your little friend are hired in Tibur and the world here turns upside down. Some might say you were a disruptive influence?’

  Again, Rufinus held his tongue, but the lady gestured for a reply.

  ‘With respect, majesty, I have done nothing but secure your villa to the best of my ability.’

  ‘Well said.’ She paced back and forth a few times. ‘I have been informed that men in whom we have placed the utmost trust have been revealed as base villains in the employ of my brother, sent to spy, and no doubt worse, in my home. A network of them, no less! At least two, one of whom you unmasked personally - Vettius is most impressed at your reasoning and work in that affair - and the other who fell, presumably as an indirect result of either his own actions or your unmasking of his accomplice.’

  Rufinus bowed slightly. ‘I serve your majesty.’

  ‘Tell me about yourself.’

  Rufinus swallowed nervously. ‘I’m sure your majesty has been told my somewhat colourful history with the eagle? If it please, I would rather not relive such memories.’

  A tiny flash of something passed across her eyes and was then gone, replaced by an understanding smile that Rufinus had the feeling was about as real as the lead-white pallor of her face.

  ‘I have been told your history, such as it is, by Phaestor. Tell me more, though. Tell me of your family. Tell me of your home and what led you to the legions.’

  Rufinus frowned, unsure of what was unfolding.

  ‘I am no fool, Marcius. I am familiar with your clan. I have known members of the Marcii in Rome, of at least three family branches. The simple ‘Gnaeus Marcius’ might be enough for those in low circles. But to me that name is missing a family and I would know why. Phaestor and Vettius have both recommended you very highly as the man to place in charge of my palace, raising you to a commanding rank among your peers. I rarely deny their opinions, even given separately, but when they agree on the value of a man, I would be foolish to pass up such opportunities.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘But a man who keeps secrets from me cannot be trusted, whatever his reasons. I will have your complete openness, or I will have you opened, if you take my meaning.’

  Rufinus found his throat had gone very dry. It had never in all this time occurred to him that someone might be familiar with members of his clan. While the Rustius branch of the Marcii had fallen foul of Antoninus and left Rome for foreign climes, the ignominy that had attached to the name had not spread to other branches of the Marcii.

  And now he was suddenly presented with three choices.

  He could continue to hold his silence, in which case he had absolutely no doubt that Lucilla would follow through on her threat and have him split from neck to balls and opened for the crows to feed. Or, he could spin a yarn of adoptions and dubious histories that put him on the periphery of a family of distant cousins that would take months or even years to confirm or deny. But there were deep risks involved in such a deception. If Lucilla was not fooled by his dropping of a family name and knew a number of his more illustrious distant relations, she would be unlikely to fall for another contrived story.

  Or he could tell her the truth. Not the whole truth, of course, but a reasonable story constructed upon foundation elements of the truth, omitting damning parts such as Paternus, Perennis, and his time in the Praetorians.

  ‘Well?’

  Rufinus fixed her with what he hoped was an earnest look. Bone-deep it still felt wrong to be perpetrating lies and falsities, even to a woman suspected of plotting against the emperor. The deeper the currents at the villa took him, the more the truth slipped from his grasp and floated to the surface far above, out of reach, though hopefully not forever.

  Nothing for it but to dive ever further and hope.

  ‘Very well, majesty. My name is Gnaeus Marcius Rustius.’ A simple lie by way of omission. One that caused less of a wrench to his sensibilities than most.

  Lucilla turned her head slightly and narrowed her eyes as though examining something behind his left shoulder. Rufinus felt uneasy. Had he underestimated her? She might remember a Rustius presented at Vindobona, clad in blood and gore, though her attentions at the time had seemed more focused on arguing with her brother.

  ‘Familiar,’ she said, finally, ‘though I cannot at this moment put my finger on why. Enlighten me as to why your name rings a number of bells for me?’

  Rufinus swallowed nervously.

  ‘My father, Publius Marcius Rustius, caused a furore in Rome a little over twenty years ago that almost escalated into a riot and threatened the divine Antoninus. The name is a familiar one in high circles, ma’am. It is the reason I try not to assume it in public.’

  Lucilla’s frown deepened. ‘Rustius. Yes. I remember that. I’d just come of marital age and father and I were in Rome considering suitable husbands.’ She looked up sharply. ‘The Judah affair! Your father called the divine Antonius a ‘filthy jew-lover’ if I remember correctly?’

  A wicked little smile passed across her features; a smile that had nothing to do with humour. Rufinus swallowed again and lowered his eyes.

  ‘I believe, majesty, that that might be a piece of brutal paraphrasing by someone not present at the event. My father claims never to have said such a thing, but he did openly speak out against the emperor’s friendship with the Rabbi Judah. He felt it was inappropriate for an emperor of Rome to consort with a man who openly denied our Gods and preached as much to his people. In fairness, at risk to myself, and despite the fact that my father and I can rarely even speak civilly, I cannot say that I entirely disagree.’

  Lucilla shook her head. ‘You cannot have been even born then, when the riot was crushed before it began?’

  ‘No, ma’am. The divine emperor was busy signing proscription orders against my family when his illness took him from us. A number of the Rustii had already found their ends on a Praetorian blade before your divine father came to the throne and renounced the proscriptions. My father took ship for Hispania with my brother while their lands were taken in to the Imperial parks. I believe one of the emperor’s freedmen now occupies our house in Rome.’<
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  Again, that wicked smile passed across Lucilla’s face and she stepped back and looked him up and down.

  ‘My father was perhaps more long-sighted than I had thought. Antoninus’ association with that rabbi’ she spat the word almost as a curse, ‘was entirely inappropriate. Antoninus was soft. My father less so, but still given to romanticism. Rome needs a strong ruler, the likes of a Traianus or a Vespasianus.’

  Rufinus nodded thoughtfully. ‘Strong… and wise’ he added. Suddenly he blinked, aware that he had unwittingly spoken his thoughts aloud rather than keeping them in the privacy of his head. Lucilla’s eyes had narrowed to slits again.

  ‘Wisdom. Yes, wisdom too.’ She straightened. ‘So the scions of the Rustii come back to Rome to… what? To rebuild the family honour? Hard to do when hiding under assumed names.’

  Rufinus took a deep breath. ‘Only I, majesty. My brother died in a hunting accident a number of years ago. I left Hispania to seek a life in the army, though events conspired to deny me that and I find myself in Latium as a mercenary.’

  ‘Fortunate for us, however.’

  She frowned once more and then turned to her painted chamberlain and nodded. ‘You will serve well here, I feel, Rustius. You need not deny your name with us; I am hardly a woman to hold the grudges of men long dead.’

  She returned to her throne and took a seat, shifting among the cushions until comfortable.

  ‘I will speak to Phaestor and Vettius. You will be given a command of eight men and shall be responsible for the security of my palace. I expect total and utter loyalty, as I’m sure you understand.’

  Rufinus’ heart swelled. Despite the subterfuge involved in all of this, it was hard not to feel pride in advancement, especially being told to use the cursed family name openly. He bowed respectfully.

  Lucilla gave him another look up and down. ‘And have some new clothes and armour made. I have no wish to watch you stride around the palace with the gait of a peacock and the garb of a vagrant.’

  Rufinus felt the colour rise in his cheeks and lowered his face to hide the fact.

  ‘Now go and prepare yourself. You’ll continue to follow assignments Vettius hands you until the captain returns with my new people, and then we will look to your new role.’

  Rufinus turned his lowered gaze into a bow, then straightened and spun on his heel, striding from the room with his head high; a moment of unaccustomed pride, marred only slightly as his boot slid on the smooth marble floor and he almost pitched forward into the doors.

  Recovering himself in a flurry of movement that caused chuckles from the throne area, Rufinus pushed open the door and rushed through, before his blush became noticeable. The door swung shut behind him and he pushed it the last fraction until it closed with a click. The veteran guard who attended the door stood to one side, leaning against the wall in a relaxed fashion.

  ‘You alright, Marcius?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘You’re bright red.’

  Rufinus harrumphed and his shoulders sagged a little. ‘Wish I was going off duty’ he said with feeling. ‘I could use a strong drink.’

  The other man grinned. ‘I’m off in fifteen. I’ll have it for you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Turning away, he strode along the corridor, past the water villa, nodding to the guard patrolling there, and into the courtyard that separated the twin libraries from the palace, its colonnade reflecting the morning sun from dazzling white marble columns and painted walls, the decorative garden in the centre well-tended and perfect. Most perfect of all: it was entirely devoid of people.

  Rufinus, still walking with head high and back straight, glanced this way and that and, noting his solitude, slumped against the wall and let out an explosive breath. That had been a challenge he had been neither expecting nor prepared for. He realised with a small wave of sadness that he was becoming an accomplished liar through necessity, and the fact was anathema to him.

  He needed to think. Fortunately, patrolling the Pecile garden with its ornamental ponds and tree avenues would be the perfect situation to consolidate his thoughts on these latest developments. He realised that he could have passed through the circular colonnade of the water villa and headed straight for the garden, but his mind had been whirling as he’d left the room, and he’d automatically exited the way he’d originally arrived. Now he would have to stroll through the library terrace and across the slope to the beautiful garden.

  The sound of footsteps echoing from the corridor out of which he had just emerged pulled him straight and he squared his shoulders to move off when he realised that these were not the hob-nailed steps of a guard, but the gentle slap of feminine sandals on an ‘opus sectile’ floor of marble and glass. The tinkle of female laughter sent a shiver down his spine.

  Senova.

  The breath-taking creamy face of the British slave girl, framed with elegantly waved sable hair, appeared around the door frame, her mouth turned up at the corners with a delicate smile. Next to her, the other slave girl from the council chamber breezed along, recounting some tale of amusement, charcoal hair hanging to her shoulders, displaying the signs of recently having been tightly curled atop her head, her hazel eyes only a few shades lighter than her bronzed skin.

  Trying to push a relaxed smile onto his face as he stepped away from the wall, he cleared his throat.

  Both women squeaked and started away from him in surprise, Senova leaving the floor by a fraction.

  ‘Apologies, ladies.’

  Senova narrowed her eyes as she straightened and a flash of irritation passed across them. ‘What are you doing lurking in shadows and jumping out at women? Has Phaestor stopped bringing whores in for his men?’

  Rufinus felt irritation rise parallel to the ruddy colour that rushed to his cheeks and, to make matters worse, as he tried to snap out a comeback, he found his mouth was dry and all that emerged was a curious rasp.

  The swarthy-skinned girl gave him an impish grin.

  ‘No’ he finally managed to trot out in a hoarse voice. ‘Though actually, Phaestor has stopped bringing in such women as a security risk.’

  He realised how idiotic it sounded, harshly countering a sarcastic jest. ‘But…’ he floundered for a moment and felt the colour blush hotter on his face. With a sigh, he let his shoulders droop in defeat. ‘I was recovering. Came as a bit of a shock, all that.’

  Senova nodded, an expression of calm understanding replacing the irritated smile. ‘I can believe it, given your talent for keeping secrets.’

  Rufinus felt his heart start to pound faster and a cold wave brushed the hair on his arms making them stand straight. He had not seen this intoxicating, wondrous woman for weeks, or even months, barring a quick sighting across the grass, and other, more immediate events had conspired to push her from his thoughts. It was only now, standing face to face with her, that he remembered just how much she knew about him. One word from her in the council chamber could have seen him crucified within the hour.

  ‘Relax, Gnaeus Marcius… Rustius, is it? You’re free of such worries now.’ She winked from an angle that kept the gesture hidden from the other girl and Rufinus felt his pulse slow to a steadier pace.

  ‘Maybe you can walk back with us?’ the other girl asked, and something in her voice caused Rufinus to turn his gaze on her, tearing it with regret from the grey eyes of Senova. The second slave smiled sweetly, her eyes creasing in a pleasant manner.

  ‘Of course’ he replied evenly. ‘I have to patrol the Pecile, so I’ll drop you both off at the quarters on the way.’

  ‘Thank you, though I am only travelling to the entrance complex. You can drop me there before you walk on to the chambers with Senova.’

  There was a hint of a knowing smile on her face and Rufinus snapped back to glance at the pale-skinned taller slave, only to see her flash a quick admonishing glance at her companion. His heart soared at that one tiny accidental admission.

  ‘Come on’ he said, his voice cra
cking slightly as they walked.

  It was certainly the longest way round to the Pecile garden, but he needed the time to recover from the interview and as they strode past the barracks, Rufinus looked up at the building, wondering whether, as a newly-promoted junior officer, he would no longer be quartered there? Would Phaestor move him into the Praetorium? It was quite possible, particularly given Dis’ departure and the coming influx of new men. Or possibly he might even be moved into the palace proper, given his new role?

  The security of the empress. It would have been a thing of great pride, were it not for the fact that he embodied the very thing he had been promoted to prevent; that his priority was the security of the emperor.

  His wandering gaze fell upon the other slave girl as they walked, and he noted that her eyes darted out across the villa’s grounds nervously when she believed no one was looking. Curious.

  Past Pompeianus’ palace they strode and Rufinus felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth at the sound of a deep, ferocious growl somewhere in the huge garden. The noise of one of the former-general’s servants admonishing it in a panicked voice completed the job and his smile widened. Circumstances had not allowed for him to keep Acheron by his side and so he’d left the giant Sarmatian hunting hound within Pompeianus’ household, at least until the wound was fully healed. He had heard rumours of several other injuries appearing among the staff as they tried to feed, contain, or simply tend to the beast.

  Perhaps if he moved quarters, he would finally be in a position to make room for the dog. Curiously, he found that even in such a short time, he had grown to enjoy the company of the great black beast in the scant moments he’d managed to spend with it. Somehow, providing Acheron with a stable life and a new, caring master seemed like the honourable thing to do, given his culpability in the events that had robbed Dis and Cerberus of their lives.