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.
Somehow, though, he was convinced that the complicated direction his career had taken was far from over.
Gritting his teeth, Rufinus veered off the road that led to the crowded, dirty streets of the city and made his way toward the Praetorian fortress. Approaching the gate in its high brick wall, away from civil structures, Rufinus slowed and pushed his cloak back to show the sword by his side. Dressed like a nobody, and dusty from travel he would hardly be recognisable as a guardsman.
‘Halt! Identify yourself!’ called a voice from the top of the gate. A bolt-thrower turned with an audible creak to point down at him as though one weary, dusty traveller might pose a threat to the fortress of the most powerful military force in the world.
‘Gnaeus Marcius Rustius Rufinus, regular guardsman in the First cohort, century of Aelius Metellus, returning from special duty.’
There was silence, punctuated by low discussion on the wall.
‘Wait there, Argentulum.’
Rufinus ground his teeth. Four months away from the place and the damn nickname still hadn’t died. Breathing deeply and wondering what reception awaited, he paused ten paces from the gate and leaned on the travelling pole with which he had carried his kit. After a couple of moments there was a series of clunks and the smaller door within the large gate swung inwards with a squeak of badly-oiled hinges.
‘Welcome back, soldier.’
The watch centurion eyed him curiously as he approached the gate, limping slightly, his arm in a sling and his hand bandaged.
‘I’ve sent a runner to the headquarters. You should probably go there as soon as possible, but I’d highly recommend a swift wash and stowing that auxiliary shit you’re carrying in your room first, then changing into a proper white tunic as though you were a guardsman and not a walking midden.’
Rufinus saluted the officer wearily and walked through the gate, past the interested gazes of his peers and into the camp. The gloom lifted only a little as he spotted two familiar figures pounding across the dusty ground towards him. Mercator and Icarion were both equipped for duty, armour flashing in the sun, swords at their sides and white cloaks swirling as they ran, grins plastered across their faces.
It was hard not to feel uplifted by the presence of the pair, but even as the smile broke across his face, the reason for his return and the anticipation of the coming interview wiped it away.
The two veteran guards scraped to a halt and fell in on either side of him as he walked, grins wide as they looked him up and down.
‘What in the name of seven sacred shits of Jove happened to you?’
Rufinus glanced sideways at Mercator. ‘Good to see you too. A twelve foot Sarmatian cannibal with pointed teeth tried to eat me; even succeeded a little bit. I was saved by wild dogs.’
Icarion grinned. ‘You enjoyed your little ‘cruise’ then?’
Rufinus flinched irritably at the sarcasm. ‘That was an unpleasant, painful and completely wasted trip.’
Mercator laughed. ‘You’ll have to tell us all about it after you report in. I’ve got some nice Falernian back in the barracks, hidden away from prying thieves in a pile of socks.’