The Great Game (35 page)

The couches and low tables standing upon pelts and fleeces in the centre were lost in the enormous space. Rufinus almost forgot his aches and pains as his eyes drank in the splendour around him while the servant led him across to the seat and sat him down.

‘Please stay here, and I shall return with water and linen.’

Rufinus nodded, though as soon as the servant had left the room, he strode across to the huge window to look out, his breath taken once more. Not only did the titanic window overlook the garden but, due to the design of the complex and the height of the building opposite, the view took in the roofs of much of the villa, the enormous ‘pecile’ garden with its ornamental pond that rose above the slave quarters and, stretching off into the distance, the hills and
fields of Latium, all the way to a distant smudge on the horizon that marked the great city of Rome.

He was still goggling a few moments later when the servant returned and called him over to the table. Seating himself carefully, Rufinus tried to relax, though this disturbing and unexpected turn of events denied such possibilities. The servant asked him where all the wounds were and Rufinus reported them almost mechanically, describing each one. Rufinus was surprised when the man produced a medical bag, filled with needles and eye-watering implements.

‘Please relax. I am not unskilled in the medical arts.’

Pompeianus clearly chose his companions and surroundings well. Indeed, if one was to be trapped in a wing of a villa and live in virtual seclusion, he could not have done better than to end up in this complex, which was without a doubt the most magnificent part of the whole villa, and surrounding himself with servants rather than slaves, servants who were apparently rather more highly skilled than the average household helper.

A cup was held out in front of him. Gripping it, he realised that it was empty. He frowned in confusion at the servant, who nodded. ‘How resistant to pain are you?’

Rufinus peered at the vial in the man’s hand, now hovering over the cup. He would have liked nothing more than to slip into the blessed folds of sleep; he’d certainly had enough excruciating pain for one day. But Dis was coming back shortly, and in the meantime he was in the private rooms of the general, while all was a confusing whirl of the unknown. To be in any way out of control now could be a critical mistake.

‘Give me the lightest dose you consider worthwhile. I’ll manage.’

He’d hoped he sounded brave and strong rather than resigned and worried, but suspected he’d failed from the smile on the servant’s face.

After a few moments to allow the drug to work its effects, the following quarter of an hour was among the worst in Rufinus’ life. The man, clearly a trained surgeon, worked smoothly and swiftly as his patient ground his teeth, tears streaming down his cheeks and his breath coming in small gasps as he watched with terrified, awful fascination. The servant drew a glinting blade from within the leather bag beside the table and washed it in the bowl of steaming water
before taking it to the skinned strip on Rufinus’ arm, his tongue protruding from the corner of his mouth as he worked.

Rufinus’ eyes widened and he almost pulled his arm away, forcing himself to endure and closing his eyes, grinding his teeth as the man worked, making several small cuts, creating flaps at the top and bottom of the skin to either side of the missing strip, which he then stretched and pulled together, effectively covering the raw section of arm with tight, thin skin.

Holding the wound shut, he reached into the bag again, withdrawing a small leather wallet. Holding it in his teeth, he removed a small metal pin with his free hand, expertly sliding it through one flap of skin, bending it, and then pushing it through the other before twisting it so that it lay flush with the arm. A small bottle from the bag was then opened and drops sprinkled onto the freshly-pinned wound.

‘What’s that?’ Rufinus gasped, intrigued despite himself.

‘Vinegar. Good for slowing the blood.’

‘You know your craft.’

The servant smiled. ‘I was a junior medicus in the Second Adiutrix under the general in Germania. I’ve tended more wounds than I’ve eaten meals.’

As he bound the wound, slowly and thoroughly, he nodded in satisfaction. ‘This arm will have to be in a sling for one week to allow the skin’s edges time to knit. Then you must remove the sling and begin to work and stretch the arm. Begin with only tiny movements, but work up more each day over the month. One month from now I expect you to be able to stretch it out fully with no ill effects. It is all a matter of patience and working slowly. Now let me see your hand.’

As Rufinus held out his hand, a purple stain beginning to form beneath the skin over most of the back and two fingers drooping, the medicus-servant nodded.

‘Simple splint and binding and that’ll be fine in time.’

Rufinus watched passively as the man worked, and only when he had finished and sat back, replacing his tools in the bag did Rufinus realise that Dis was standing in the doorway. The man moved like a cat. How long had he been there?

‘Are you finished?’ the guard officer asked the servant.

‘Yes sir. All done. He’ll…’

‘Good. You know me. You know who I am. Bearing that in mind, I would ask you to mention this to no one and to go across to the other side of the master’s complex and busy yourself there until we are gone. There are no other servants here?’

The man shook his head and Dis smiled a cold, threatening smile.

‘You never saw us, never tended any wounds and most certainly will disappear without trace if I find out you have spoken to anyone or if I find you listening in after you leave. You understand me?’

The servant nodded again and, grabbing his leather bag, hurried past Dis, trying to bend away from him as he passed, and off down the stairs. Dis strode calmly over to the huge window and paused. Rufinus stood and walked painfully over to join him. A floor below there was an audible click and, a moment later, the servant rushed across the stadium-shaped garden and into the building opposite.

Dis sighed deeply. ‘He’ll tell no one. Regardless of any threat from me, Pompeianus chooses his men well. He will tell the general, but that I can contain.’

‘What is happening?’ Rufinus said quietly.

‘
You
are happening, you idiot. Breezing into the villa like a bull in a glass factory, knocking over carefully nurtured constructions, all-but screaming your Praetorian status. If you’d brought a scorpion shield you could hardly have advertised it louder!’

The man was clearly irritated and Rufinus shook his head desperately. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I…’

‘Shut up, you imbecile. As if I didn’t have enough to deal with, with Perennis poking his nose in everywhere and trying to set Pompeianus up as some sort of spy, now I get landed with you! Are you Perennis’ man too? Or perhaps Paternus? Or one of the senate, even?’

Rufinus mind raced. Who
was
this man? ‘No one. I…’

‘You must be Paternus’ man. The old goat’s heart’s in the right place, but he’s got all the subtlety and imagination of a concrete block. And now I hear you’ve landed our Fastus in the shit, for which I
really
have to commend you!’

Rufinus stepped back. ‘He’s traitorous! Cleander’s man!’

Dis turned and the flash of cold fire in his eyes made Rufinus back away. ‘You idiot! Fastus was
my
man. I’ve been finding it increasingly difficult to get back to the city, so I had to recruit someone to run messages for me. And he’s barely learned his way around the villa before some wet-behind-the-ears Praetorian shops him! Well the poor bastard’s future’s fairly set now. It’ll turn out he had a weak heart. I’ll have hardly started work when his poor system gave out, before he could give us anything useful or any names. I swear I’m almost tempted to turn you in just to make my day a little more productive.’

‘Who
are
you?’ Rufinus finally found the strength to say.

‘I’m Frumentarii, from the Castra Peregrina, you idiot. If you think back not too far you might even remember taking some damn documents from me at our camp. I have a facility for remembering faces, and yours sticks in my head more than most for its good-natured simpleness!’

Rufinus staggered back and slumped into a handy chair close to the window’s edge. The Frumentarii!
The emperor’s secret service
. The ‘Hand of Hadrianus’ as they’d been known at their foundation. Spies, policemen and assassins all rolled into one. Rufinus’ head continued to spin.

‘Frumentarii?’

‘Yes. With an ongoing mandate from Commodus to keep tabs on his sister and root out names of those who might be considered disloyal to the throne. Lucilla is a hub around which treachery turns. And now everything I’ve spent the year building is in peril because of you and Paternus. What am I to do with you? I should just have let Tad eat you alive.’

Rufinus was shaking his head. ‘But Fastus was in league with Cleander!’

‘Don’t be idiotic.’

Rufinus thought back. ‘ANDE’. It could be so many things. Leaping to conclusions it appeared he had condemned a loyal servant of the empire to unfortunate death.

‘What do we do?’

Dis was standing, hands clasped behind his back, staring out of the window. ‘I don’t know why you’re here…’ Rufinus moved to answer, but dis held up a restraining hand. ‘I don’t
want
to know why you’re here. But I don’t want you here, either. You’re getting in
the way. Go back to your camp and tell Paternus and Perennis to stop interfering in the business of the Frumentarii.’

Rufinus shook his head.

‘It would look suspicious. I’ve already been given an assignment to look after Saoterus while he’s here.’

Dis issued a low grunt.

‘I’ll see to that. I have business with the emperor’s favourite while he’s here and it would be better for all concerned if you were gone. I shall tell Vettius that I’m happy with your innocence, but I need you to head to the city and check into Fastus for me.’

Rufinus cast his eyes downward and Dis turned and fixed him with a tired look.

‘Gather your gear, young Praetorian. You’re going home.’

PART FOUR: THE GREAT GAME

XVII – Return to Rome

RUFINUS shouldered his kit and gloomily watched the walls of the Castra Praetoria loom ever closer. The journey had been not only a descent onto the plain of Latium, but also a descent into grumpy melancholy. He had left at dawn on the instruction of Dis, without reporting to Vettius or Phaestor, the reason for his departure left in the hands of the Imperial spy. Now, as the sun dipped towards the western horizon, he had almost arrived and was no happier about the fact.

Seven hours of walking with intermittent rest and food breaks had given him plenty of time to run over everything in his mind time and again and brood on his conclusions: His entire time at the villa, including a beating that rivalled anything he had ever experienced, and which was the reason for his slow rate of travel, had been a complete waste of time. He had almost ruined a year’s work for an agent of the Frumentarii, on the personal duty of the emperor. He had unnecessarily condemned an innocent man to death, since Dis could hardly leave Fastus alive. The grand sum of the information he had managed to gather in more than three months of slogging around the villa, wet, cold and uncomfortable, was one dismal item: that Saoterus was visiting and Lucilla was not particularly pleased about it. Was that really worth so much effort and the death of a man?

It was, of course, the assumed grisly end of Fastus that particularly rankled, but he tried to keep his thoughts away from that dark course.

It had seemed that Pompeianus had been absolutely right from the start: this was a game, exactly as he’d described, and Rufinus was becoming aware that there were numerous players and that if he was not willing to play, then he resigned himself to being a piece instead.

There was no way to avoid the game. He’d started playing at the villa, but his first move had been a disaster and he’d lost quickly and thoroughly, ending once more as a mere playing piece for Dis.

It had occurred to him that he had only Dis’ word he belonged to that shadowy unit, but it all made sense and the man had remembered him from the Castra Peregrina. No, he was definitely one of the imperial agents, though Dis was certainly not his real name. In theory, since he belonged to a different branch of the military, Dis had no authority over him, but in practice, quite apart from the man’s advantage in the villa’s hierarchy, no one refused the Frumentarii.

Certainly not twice.

So the Frumentarii were watching Lucilla and seeking traitorous activity through her. No mention by Dis of the possibility of a coup or assassination, which suggested very strongly that the imperial agent disregarded such possibilities.

And yet both Praetorian prefects, independently, were convinced of the existence of such a plot; convinced enough to have each set an agent in the villa. The game was already quite baffling and rushing by above his head. Apart from Dis, Paternus and Perennis, Pompeianus seemed to be playing his own side-game, as apparently were Saoterus, Lucilla, of course, and probably Cleander, for all his apparent non-involvement.

If the Syrian general was right, Commodus himself was above and apart from it all, probably blissfully unaware as he enjoyed the benefits of ultimate power with none of the responsibility.

That last also sat badly: the idea of the young emperor being unconcerned with the running of his empire and allowing politicians to wield his power did not match up with his memories of the golden-haired Hercules he had met in Vindobona.

The whole thing was both a puzzle and an irritation. For the thousandth time since Dis had saved him from the Sarmatian, he wished that he had remained in the glorious Tenth and had nothing to do with the Praetorians and their power games. But now, returning to their camp and removed from the plotting and intrigue of Lucilla’s palace, perhaps he could settle into the life of a Praetorian guardsman without any more lunacy.