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.