He paused again, and when he resumed it was clear from the change in his voice that he was talking directly now to Bersheba.
'All the unruly strength of your kind lies within you. Yet for all that strength, what are you but an ornament to reflect your master's power? But in times past you were a proven weapon of war, a champion of the battlefield. Be thankful your master has not used you so, or used you worse. He has not bent his mind in that direction thus far, but it may come to it. Unless? What if, by some accident, your might was employed not for but against him? Could even Caesar survive the strength of your caress, or the weight of your body upon his? Think upon this, mighty one: an Empire may depend on it.'
By the time the door closed behind Claudius, Rufus was in a cold sweat. The names he had heard were among the most influential and powerful in Rome. And here was proof of their treason. Proof of Claudius's treason. He wanted to unhear what he had just heard, but no matter how hard he tried it gnawed at his brain. So he did the only thing possible. He put it away in a compartment inside his head where it would stay until it could be used as a bargaining chip — or he felt the bite of the executioner's blade.
With few official duties and a wife who wanted little to do with him, Rufus spent each waking moment of the coming weeks pondering how he could help Fronto. He knew there was only one person he could go to, but could he trust him when even his master did not? There was only one way to find out. He put a white rag on Bersheba's door and the next day set off for the little fountain.
Narcissus was still in the benign mood he had affected since Drusilla's death and it was clear he felt Claudius's patronage placed him above harm from the purges.
'We really must find somewhere else to meet. It stinks here.' He sniffed at Rufus. 'It's not you, so it must be the drains. Have you something for me?'
Rufus mentioned a few things he had heard among the servants, but nothing seemed to interest the Greek. Then he said hesitantly, 'I would like to ask your advice. A friend is in trouble. Fronto. I thought you might be able to help.'
'Mmmmm.' Narcissus let the syllable linger, and stared at Rufus as if seeing him for the first time. 'Fronto is an acquaintance,' he conceded. 'But I have so many acquaintances. Advice? Yes, I can probably provide advice. But help you? Why should I help a slave?'
Rufus thought the answer was self-evident: 'Because I tell you things.'
Narcissus actually laughed. Did Rufus really think the palace gossip he provided was of the least importance? Did he not understand he was merely a minute part of a larger whole? A tiny worker ant who could be crushed underfoot in an instant and not even be remembered, never mind missed.
'I don't believe you have told me anything that would warrant.. help.' The final word emerged slowly, as if it was something distasteful, and he turned to walk away.
Rufus let him get halfway along the path.
'I can tell you what Claudius says to Bersheba,' he said.
Narcissus stopped, hesitated for a second, and turned back with a broad smile. 'Yes?'
Rufus gave him the information one titbit at a time and watched the Greek's eyes light up. Only one thing did he hold back; the knowledge that Claudius did not trust his faithful servant Narcissus would be useful in future. When he finished, he explained Fronto's dilemma.
The Greek shook his head in mock sorrow. 'You really are terribly innocent. And Fronto. Of course Protogenes is corrupt. Everyone in Rome from Caligula down is corrupt. The Emperor squeezes the aristocracy to fund his lunatic schemes, so the aristocracy squeezes the middle class, and the middle class squeezes the plebeians. The only people who don't get squeezed are the slaves, because they have nothing to give.'
'But surely you can help?'
'I may drop a word here, or a hint there, if I am certain it will do me no harm,' Narcissus said dismissively, indicating the interview was at an end.
XXXII
Now they feared him. All of them. He could see it in their eyes when he attended the Senate. The baldheads would not meet his gaze and their bodies cringed as they wondered what Nestor might have in store for them. He could see it in the streets when the mob bowed so low their noses touched the earth. Even his generals did not dare oppose him.
He was above them all. Drusilla had confirmed it.
The voices began when the headaches stopped, in the weeks after they tried to kill him. After she joined the gods in their heavenly paradise, she had come to him in the night when he was in dire need of her reassurance. The attack had shaken him more than he would ever admit. It was all very well to see violence from afar, or to see it inflicted on others at your command, but when you could smell the blood and the torn vitals, and at the same time were aware that the heart the blades sought was beating inside your chest, it was different.
But it did not matter now.
Drusilla had spoken. He was the match of any member of the pantheon, even Jupiter himself. It was time to have done with earthly things. To claim his place among them.
He would become a living god.
They came for Rufus in the deepest hour of the night, and without warning. A hand across his mouth and a sword at his throat ensured his silence and he was dragged from the room naked and shaking with fear. Livia lay with her face to the wall, apparently sleeping, but he knew she was awake, and terrified.
Outside in the moonlight, one of the men put his tunic in his hands, but they didn't stop to let him dress and he had to do his best as he was hustled along. The questions raced through his head. Who were they? Where were they taking him? He expected to be escorted to the palace and the unspeakable place in its depths from which no one returned, so he was surprised when his captors took pains to stay among the trees and guided him to a little-used path which led them down the hill and into the city. They weren't gentle: the sword never left his back and, if he slowed or stumbled, they hastened his progress with kicks and punches. Each man was heavily cloaked and they took care to stay just behind him so he didn't have the chance to dwell on their faces, but a glimpse of armour beneath a flapping cloak gave them away.
Scorpions.
Now he understood where he was going, but not why.
The Castra Praetorium was more fortress than barracks; the massive main doors would have stopped an army. But there was another, lesser known entrance on the northern face, and it was to this that Rufus was taken. Once inside, they pushed him along endless empty corridors and finally down a set of steep steps to a single door which led to a tiny windowless room. His captors threw him inside and the door clanged shut behind him, leaving him in impenetrable darkness, blacker and more frightening than any night.
He sat for a few moments allowing the panic to recede and listening to the sound of his own breathing. Only the beating of his heart gave him an indication of the passing of time, but he knew that the strength of his fear made his incarceration seem a dozen times longer than the reality. It was difficult to say what scared him more, the thought of being locked in this airless dungeon for ever, or what awaited him when the door finally opened again.