The Great Game (22 page)

Again, Rufinus kept his gaze locked on the wall, immobile.

‘Barring anything that might turn up in today’s investigations and interviews, Scopius will go into the lists as that most ignominious of things: a deserter. It would not be the first desertion in the history of the guard, for certain, but generally they’re new
recruits who quickly discover they’re not up to the job, frail old men who are tantalisingly close to retirement and don’t want to risk their neck in a fight, or unfortunates whose personal circumstances tear at the heartstrings. Even then, desertions are rare. I doubt we have one a year.’

He narrowed his eyes and the fingers ceased drumming, both hands coming down palm flat on the table with a slap.

‘We never, and I mean
never
, have desertions with no discernible cause among longstanding guardsmen who have served for half a dozen years and fought in the front lines. Scopius was perhaps not the sharpest gladius in the stores, but he was a solid soldier. That he might choose to simply walk away is laughable.’

The prefect’s eyes strayed down to a wooden tablet on the desk before him. ‘It would appear that Scopius was last seen signing out of the fortress with a permission chit from myself, clearly forged, and heading along the road for Praeneste. Cavalry troopers have done a recce for me as far as that town and have found no evidence of the man. As I said, Scopius was a solid soldier, but I would hardly say he was clever enough to disappear so thoroughly.’

Rufinus remained still, his breathing tightly controlled.

‘Although records attest to your presence in camp on the morning of his departure, I note that you somehow acquired courier duty within the city for the afternoon? That’s not a task commonly given to recent recruits, particularly when it involves private correspondence with the officers in the Castra Peregrina. And somehow you managed to return to camp wounded?’

Finally, silence descended as Perennis clearly expected some sort of comment. Clearing his throat, Rufinus spoke steadily.

‘I was attacked by opportunistic brigands on the Caelian hill, sir. One of them managed to get in a lucky blow. It was all reported on my return.’

Perennis’ gaze remained cold and suspicious. ‘Brave footpads to attack an armed and armoured Praetorian in a public place in bright daylight in Rome? One might say hardly credible, even? I gather an investigation by the local station of vigiles has turned up no sign of the bodies. Curious, wouldn’t you say?’

Rufinus kept his peace, not sure of whether to answer.

‘And you decided to visit a local doctor and have the wound bound before returning to the camp?’

‘I worried about blood loss, sir, and thought it best.’

Perennis sneered. ‘There is no evidence that you had any involvement in the disappearance of Scopius and, as such, I am unable to bring any disciplinary measures to bear, much as I would love nothing more.’

A weight fell away from Rufinus at the statement. He would go free. Scopius was gone and he’d got away with it, even under the scrutiny and investigation of the martinet Perennis. He tried very hard not to let a smile of relief break out on his face.

‘However,’ the prefect said sharply, bringing his attention back to the conversation and a knot of tension to his stomach. ‘I cannot in good conscience have you go swanning about in camp knowing you’ve got away with whatever it is you did. Return to your quarters for now, Rufinus, and stay put. You are confined to barracks until I can find an appropriately remote and unpleasant place to post you where you can cause no further trouble.’

Rufinus remained impassive, his heart racing. A posting away from Rome? It seemed ridiculous, and yet there were plenty of duties away from the city carried out by the guard.

‘And I think I will have to have you transferred out of the First cohort. I am not comfortable having you under my command. I think we’ll let Paternus deal with your troublesome presence in future. You are dismissed, Rufinus.’

The guardsman, close to shaking, threw out a salute and turned, marching from the room without looking back.

Across the courtyard he marched, his mind racing with the elation of freedom, tainted by the faint worry of what duty Perennis would find for him and that he would be leaving his friends’ cohort. Beneath the shady arch he strode, out into the main street, past the two men guarding the main entrance. Mercator and Icarion stood leaning on a fountain opposite. Their faces broke out into a broad grin as they saw the young guardsman approach.

‘What happened then? You’re free to go, I presume?’

‘No evidence means no guilt’ added Icarion with a laugh.

Rufinus furrowed his brow as he approached the shady colonnade at the street side. ‘I don’t think I’m entirely out of the shit yet. Perennis is trying to find some way to punish me through duty or posting and he’s moving me out of the First cohort. I could be on a ship or in a marble quarry this time next week.’

Mercator shrugged. ‘Better than some outcomes. I’d love to know what you did with the little prick, though. Better I don’t, of course, but I’d still love to.’

‘When we’re old and grey, if we’re still alive, I’ll tell you the tale.’

‘Come on. Let’s go get a drink.’

Rufinus shook his head. ‘Can’t, I’m afraid. Confined to quarters until further notice.’

His friends grinned. ‘That doesn’t mean we can’t come to yours.’ Mercator laughed. ‘Icarion lives there, after all! I’ll get some wine I’ll see you there shortly.’

Still grinning, the veteran turned to head toward the small thermopolium, a food and drink store that serviced the camp, operated by retired Praetorian veterans with the prefects’ permission.

He stopped suddenly in his tracks. ‘Oh ho. What’s this?’

Turning to head off to their barracks, Rufinus and Icarion looked around in interest to see a group of mounted Praetorians emerge from the camp’s city gate. The lead figure was Paternus, resplendent in burnished cuirass and plumed helmet. In amongst the white figures of the Praetorian cavalrymen rode three men in togas, the lengthy garments hoisted up with difficulty to allow ease of riding.

‘Civilians in the Castra Praetoria?’ Icarion mused. ‘That’s uncommon.’

The three stood still, watching the unusual party as it rode to the centre of the camp, to the headquarters building. With a terse command, Paternus dismissed the cavalry troopers, who saluted and dispersed, taking their horses to the stables. The prefect and his guests dismounted, handing their reins to a trooper who had remained for their horses, and then stretched, stamping their feet to bring life back.

Aware that the soldiers around the fort were generally going about their business while the three of them stood and gawped, inviting comment, Mercator grasped his friends by the shoulders and turned them away before they landed in trouble.

‘Hold!’ called Paternus, rubbing his hands together. ‘Guardsman Rufinus?’

Rufinus’ heart leapt. Being singled out by an officer was rarely a good thing and he’d really had enough of a grilling by
Praetorian prefects for one day. The three men turned and saluted, coming to attention.

‘I thought so. Come with me, Rufinus.’

The three guardsmen exchanged surprised glances, Rufinus wrestling with conflicting commands from the two prefects. He had to obey Paternus, clearly, but what If Perennis should send to his quarters in his absence and find that he had gone?

Sighing, he fell in and followed Paternus and the civilians who were already making for the prefect’s domus beyond the headquarters. As he walked, he took the opportunity to study the three civilians. They were not young men, all clearly patrician. He mused over the three all the way to the villa’s entrance. He’d spent so little of the past seven years around civilians that it seemed odd to be walking alongside them.

The two guards on duty by Paternus’ door snapped to attention as their commander approached, saluting with a crash. The prefect acknowledged them and strolled on into the house. A large atrium with a decorative pool in the centre, paved with expensive Numidian marble, echoed to their footsteps. It was, as Rufinus might have expected, an austere, muted house, all marble and cold colours, with no warm painted walls or country scenes. The house was empty and clinical with an unlived-in look. Somehow it perfectly reflected the prefect’s personality, oddly noble in its austerity.

A slave, tall and willowy, in a plain green tunic, his leathery tanned face framed with short grey hair, strolled from one of the side rooms and bowed slightly. ‘Domine.’

Paternus smiled wearily. ‘Ah, good. Misak.’ Unclasping his cloak and dropping it over the slave’s arm, he gestured toward the garden. ‘Take the household staff to the bathhouse and keep them there. No one is to come near the triclinium until further notice. I wish to speak to this guardsman alone.’

Again, Rufinus swallowed nervously. As if he hadn’t had enough of personal interviews! As the slave, a man with definitely eastern looks, shuffled away down a corridor, Paternus, still all business, gestured to a triclinium as sterile and white as the rest of the house. Without pause, he strode in and Rufinus faltered for a moment before following on, the three togate men hot on his heels.

Without standing on ceremony, Paternus strode across to a comfortable looking couch and dropped onto it, sighing with relief. ‘Publius? Be so good as to close the doors.’

Rufinus stood, uncertain what to do, and watched as the man the prefect had addressed turned and swung shut the doors with a click. He was perhaps in his late fifties with a full beard, his blond hair going grey in places and numerous lines and creases on his careworn face. His eyes, as he turned back, were those of an intelligent, if troubled, man.

The three noblemen strolled across to couches and sank to the cushions. Rufinus remained standing, uncomfortable, nervous and almost, though not quite, at attention. The three men with them were clearly senators from the stripe on their togas.

‘At ease, Rufinus. Take a seat. You may need it.’

Blinking, feeling the cold chill of worry in his spine, Rufinus walked stiffly across to a free couch and sat on it, bolt upright and uncomfortable. ‘Thank you, sir.’

The man who had closed the doors gave a slight chuckle. ‘Are you sure this is the right man, prefect? He’s about as flexible as a statue. His very stance screams ‘soldier’ at me.’

Paternus nodded and turned to Rufinus. ‘You can relax, Rufinus. In fact, I think you need to. I would have wine and food brought, but what we are here to discuss is for the ears of those present alone, and not even my trustworthy major domo.’

Rufinus slumped slightly, though still stiff and uncomfortable. The condescending grin on the bearded face of the senator opposite was starting to annoy him now.

‘Gentlemen’ the prefect said quietly, ‘allow me to introduce to you Gnaeus Marcius Rustius Rufinus, guardsman of the First Praetorian cohort, former legionary of the Tenth Gemina, veteran of the Marcomannic war and recipient of the hasta pura. This young man saved my life in Marcomannia and descends from a line apparently once as illustrious as your own.’

The three senators nodded appreciatively and Rufinus was irritated to feel his cheeks flush. He must look like an embarrassed schoolboy. He’d be wetting himself next. And what was that irritatingly condescending comment about a ‘once illustrious’ line about?

‘Rufinus, allow me to introduce you to three of the most eminent of Rome’s senators; men who had the ear of the great Aurelius and who even now strive to direct out new emperor on the path to a glorious reign: Titus Flavius Claudianus…’

A man with thoughtful green eyes and sallow skin nodded at him. The man looked not in the best of health and Rufinus noted him wince as he leaned forward.

‘Lucius Aurelius Gallus…’

The second man, his mop of brown hair brushed back from his beardless face, giving him a surprisingly feminine appearance, nodded in turn.

‘And Publius Helvius Pertinax.’

The bearded man, who had not taken his eyes off Rufinus, nodded.

‘Now that we are all acquainted, let us to the business in hand.’

The bushy-bearded Pertinax leaned forward towards Rufinus and held up a restraining hand toward Paternus. Rufinus looked at his commander in surprise at this offhand treatment, but Paternus seemed unfazed by it. ‘Guardsman Rufinus’ the senator said quietly, ‘will you consent to answering a few questions?’

Rufinus nodded uncertainly.

‘You have permission to speak freely, Rufinus, in the circumstances.’

Pertinax narrowed his eyes. ‘Where do your loyalties lie, Rufinus? To whom do you dedicate your first prayer of protection?’

Rufinus blinked. ‘To the emperor, of course, sir.’

Pertinax narrowed his eyes and Rufinus felt panic beginning to rise. He had the distinct feeling that he’d just given the wrong answer for some reason.

‘Not to Rome? To the senate and the people? Not to your prefect who plucked you from obscurity and cast you into life in the highest circles of the empire?’

Rufinus swallowed nervously. Was this some sort of trick? Pertinax was a senator, after all. There had been countless secret groups and failed coups in the senate over the past two centuries who had tried to do away with the imperial role entirely and return to a system of republican government.

And yet… Paternus?

Rufinus remembered the relationship between the prefect and the former emperor Marcus Aurelius. They had appeared to be more than fellow commanders: they had been friends. Paternus was no republican conspirator and therefore, by extension, neither were these men.

‘No, senator’ he replied calmly. ‘As a soldier, my life is given over to the protection of Rome, its senate and people, yes. But my first duty and loyalty is always to the emperor and then to the eagle of the Praetorian Guard.’

Pertinax sat back, his face giving nothing away. ‘And if we were to ask you to perform acts of betrayal for the good of the emperor?’

Rufinus, settling into his position, shook his head. ‘If it is for the good of the emperor than it is not betrayal, senator. Such a proposal is clearly contradictory.’