Rufinus found himself with almost unprecedented levels of freedom. For almost a week he had been sure his ‘evidence’ against Fastus was as damning as it was ever likely to be, though whether that would be enough to convince anyone else remained to be seen.
His deepening suspicion that the ‘ANDE’ on the burned parchment he now kept in his purse referred to the freedman and imperial advisor Cleander had left him in something of a quandary. If that was truly the case, it would make Fastus another agent put here by the authority of a man in the circles of imperial power, possibly on the same mission as Rufinus.
His feeling, however, that Cleander was considerably less trustworthy than an angry snake made him less inclined to preserve Fastus’ secrets and made him feel better about possibly landing the man in trouble. Still, to make Fastus a traitor might well be signing the man’s death warrant and whoever his master, the man seemed to be innocent enough in himself. He had put the problem to Pompeianus who, as expected, had shrugged and told him to use every piece he was given in the great game. Somehow that had not helped with the ethical side of the problem.
The fact remained that even with freedom to roam without the watchful dogs of Dis, the evidence he had gathered on Fastus was still circumstantial enough to be of little use. The more he’d thought about the matter, the more he became agitated at his inertness. Every day he did nothing but watch was a day closer to this large meeting of dignitaries – a day closer to Commodus’ death, and he might never have more to go on than Fastus’ dubious note. In the end, he made the choice, standing sheltering from the cold by the arches of the southern theatre. He would have to try and push himself up that rung, else all might be for naught. He needed someone gullible and suspicious enough to latch onto his words and swallow them whole. Memories of the major domo – Vettius’ – reaction when he’d come across that meeting in the baths suggested that he was the man for the task.
The next morning, Rufinus stepped purposefully out of the barracks and took a deep lungful of freezing morning air. Following directions he’d worked out from his own observations and discussions on the villa’s layout with Pompeianus, and aware that he was due on duty shortly and would be missed, he strode through the arch, across a small paved area; cut across a lawn and past a colourful flowerbed.
In a particularly ironic moment, he was busy congratulating himself on two entire months without an accident when his foot encountered a particularly vicious sheet of ice on a slanted flagstone, sending him reeling toward the wall before him. Throwing his arms out to arrest his momentum, he slipped, his head connecting painfully with the stone with a ‘thunk’.
Pulling himself upright and shaking his head to clear it, he reached up and touched a tender point on his forehead. At least his hand came away clean with no blood. Looking to the left, he spotted his goal and made for it.
An almost invisibly nondescript door in the plain wall opened easily under his hand just as the general said it would, revealing a triangular garden surrounded by a delicate covered portico. Doors led off from here in several directions, two of them guarded by men he recognised by sight; the entrance to the palace itself on the right and the palace baths on the left were both under close guard. The doorway ahead, though, stood open and inviting and Rufinus crossed to it, trying to ignore the inquisitive gaze of the guards.
Approaching the door at the narrow end of the triangle, he stepped aside as a servant hurried from it carrying sheaves of parchment, rushing through the cold air to the palace doorway, which the guard dutifully opened for him.
As he made his way through the doorway into the corridor beyond, Rufinus wondered momentarily at the wisdom of taking his suspicions to the major domo. He could imagine how Phaestor was going to react to having one of his men implicated in treachery and the entire matter being taken over his head to the villa’s chief servant. Still, there was no other way. If Rufinus wanted to be noticed and rise in the villa’s echelons, he had to utilise the suspicious nature of the major-domo and hope Phaestor would not take it out on him afterwards.
The short corridor within led to another decorative door ahead, also guarded, and two office doors, one to each side. With a steadying breath, Rufinus strode across and rapped on the left door.
‘Come.’
With a last moment check that his purse was still hanging at his belt, he opened the door and walked into the office of Vettius, the villa’s major domo. The swarthy man looked up from his desk where he continued to make marks on the wax with his stylus despite his eyes being on the visitor. His black hair and pointed beard were freshly oiled.
‘Make it quick or close the door. It’s cold.’
Rufinus nodded and closed the portal with a quiet click before stepping forward and standing opposite the man, impressed at how he continued to write without even glancing at the tablet, the neat row of marks not even drifting. ‘Well?’ the man snapped. ‘I’m busy, you know…’
Rufinus swallowed.
‘I wasn’t really sure who to bring this to, master Vettius, but given the nature of what I have to say, I felt that it should be yourself rather than captain Phaestor.’
The scribbling stopped and the man frowned. ‘Out with it, soldier.’
‘It’s about one of the other guards, sir. I think he may be trouble.’
‘Troubling guards is a matter for the captain, not me.’
Rufinus nodded. ‘Normally I would agree, sir, but I fear we have a spy or traitor to the empress in our midst.’
Granting the lady Lucilla that title galled him, but this was time to play the loyal follower and in her demesne she could call herself anything she wished. ‘A traitor? You have evidence of this?’
‘Only circumstantial, sir, but strong enough to be more than mere suspicion.’
Vettius leaned back in his chair, gesturing to the seat opposite before cradling his fingers. Rufinus sat uncomfortably. Silence fell for a moment and the major domo gave him an impatient look.
‘Well, sir’ Rufinus said quietly. ‘It’s the recent hireling that joined the same time as me: Fastus. He claimed to have been an auxiliary soldier who’d fallen on hard times, come from the Danubius front via the mountains. I have plenty of reason to believe that’s not true.’
Vettius narrowed his eyes. ‘A man may lie about his background for many reasons that do not make him a traitor, but I shall indulge you nonetheless. What have you seen?’
‘Well sir, if the man was from an auxiliary unit he’d know more about weapons, armour and maintenance. I served in the legions myself and I can spot a soldier, auxiliary or no. The man can flail about with a sword, of course. I’ve seen him at practice, but it’s not the thrust and block of a soldier. I’d say he learned from a private tutor; either a gladiator or a street fighter of some sort. But he didn’t maintain his mail for the first week and a half after we arrived and it became ridiculously rust-pocked before the captain told him to get a barrel of sand on it. He seemed surprised. An auxiliary soldier would know all about the need for keeping armour rust free. He’d have been straight on it to save himself from all that work later.’
‘Circumstantial, as you say. There’s more?’
‘Much more, sir. The unit he claims to have served with seems to shift between the First Bracaugustorum and the Second Bracaugustorum, depending on the tale he tells. At one point he told me an anecdote about the journey south that took place in Interamnia, yet he claims to have lost his kit in Asisium. I cannot see a conceivable route from the north to Tibur that would pass through both unless he was hopelessly lost and spent a few months wandering up and down Italia.’