Praetorian: The Price of Treason

by S. J. A. Turney

  It was an odd thing, this festival of Sol. A religious rite that was not celebrated in Rome, but Pompeianus had brought the practice with him from his native Syria and it made more sense to Rufinus than many of the lesser festivals in Rome. The unconquered sun was thanked on this date as the nights began to shorten and the days to lengthen once more. And who would not be thankful for that? He’d watched with the interest of an uninvolved observer throughout the day’s festivities, as had many of the senators and nobiles Gordianus had invited along. Pompeianus had led the rites and the rituals, and one or two of the others had joined in. Everyone had gone along respectfully with the chants and libations, of course, and Rufinus had reverently donated a little of the small pouch of expensive frankincense he kept for major divine offerings.

  It had all been quite fascinating – far more so than the gossip and general trivia to which he had then been subjected by Rome’s elite. They had all wanted to speak with Rufinus, after Pompeianus had gleefully introduced him as the man who had saved Commodus’ life and caused the downfall of the traitor Paternus. But for all their obsequious, fawning, fascinated behaviour, it had been clear throughout that their principal motives for speaking to him were intrigue as to the plot he had foiled and a needling hope that he might have some useful hints as to how to climb the ladder of imperial association. Once it became clear that he was now little more than a veteran soldier with a fascinating past, they quickly lost interest.

  And across all this – the rituals, the sacrifices and offerings, the banter and gossip, and then the feast with its music and games – Rufinus had failed repeatedly to keep his eyes from the alluring form of Senova as she moved around the room serving food and drink. Somehow she had yet to come close to him, and he was beginning to think that the absence of closeness was purposeful.

  Women. He never would understand them.

  Acheron padded across a Persian rug that probably cost a year’s pay for a Praetorian, leaving muddy paw prints as he closed on some poor politician and helped himself to the pile of delicacies on the man’s plate. Rufinus smiled at the hound, one thing he knew he could rely upon in a world of conspiracies and untruths.

  His subconscious nagged for attention and suggested that he’d just overheard something useful. Dragging his gaze from the hound, he tried to focus.

  Britannia. That was it.

  He turned to look at those around him. Pompeianus was busy in deep discussion of some economic matter with Septimius Severus, the quaestor of Sardinia, but the voice in question had been the gentle tones of young Gordianus, who was involved in a light-hearted exchange with senator Pertinax across the table.

  ‘I worry for him. Britannia is said to be cold and damp, and Father is not a young man anymore.’

  Pertinax nodded. ‘I’m sure things will be under control soon and your father will return to our more healthy climes.’

  Rufinus cleared his throat nervously. No matter how often he moved in such circles, he would never get used to speaking to the city’s elite. ‘Your father is in Britannia?’

  Gordianus turned and smiled. ‘Perennis counts my father as one of his more trusted allies. He appointed Father to command some legion off in Britannia after the unwilling rebel Priscus was removed. Father has a good record of command under the last emperor, and Perennis is determined that not all the glory for the putting down of the tribes on the island go to Cleander’s man.’

  ‘Rebellions and wars,’ Rufinus sighed. ‘I thought Britannia was supposed to be settled and quiet these days.’

  ‘Nowhere that requires a permanent presence of three legions can be considered quiet,’ put in the swarthy African, Severus, breaking off his own conversation to join in theirs. ‘When I am made governor of the place, I will reduce the land of the northern tribes to ash and impose the Pax Romana permanently, as should have been done long ago.’

  ‘So the land is that volatile?’ Rufinus knew little of that misty northern isle. His own father had always referred to it as a swamp, as had many of the nobles in Tarraco. But however poor the land itself might be, such distant provinces with large military presences presented a constant danger to the throne. Ambitious men with strong military backing often took advantage of such postings. Was that why Perennis and Cleander were both so interested in the place?

  Gordianus shrugged. ‘From what I understand, the actual risings of the tribes are of only passing concern to anyone involved. They are just an excuse to play with the system of command there. The place is being used like a latrunculi board by the prefect and the chamberlain. They each placed their pieces as early as possible and now vie for control. Perennis has nine pieces in place, commanding all the major units and fleets, barring the Sixth Legion in Eboracum. Cleander only has three pieces in the game, but they include that legionary commander, the governor, and the procurator. All those in Rome that I might consider shrewd are watching the province intently. Whoever comes out of the insurrection there in control of Britannia will more than likely repeat that success in Rome. Cleander’s man Marcellus is more or less claiming to have done it all himself, but others, including my father, are still keeping the chamberlain’s men in check.’

  ‘What,’ the dark-complexioned Severus murmured, turning to Rufinus, ‘is your opinion of Perennis and Cleander?’

  ‘It is not my place to offer judgement on my commander,’ Rufinus said quietly.

  ‘Come now. You are among friends, young guardsman, and anything you say will be held in the strictest confidence, I am sure.’

  Rufinus looked up into Severus’ gimlet-eyes, trapped between the long, black curly hair and the intricately coiled beard, glittering darkly. There was something there that made Rufinus twitch. The swarthy African had been made questor of Hispania Baetica, but due to the troubles in the south of the peninsula had been transferred to Sardinia, from which it was only a short hop to Rome. It had not escaped Rufinus’ notice that the man rarely seemed to be present for his own command, and was instead in the capital for every festival, celebration or meeting of the powerful. Had Rufinus been playing the game long enough now that he was recognising political positioning everywhere he looked? Certainly there was ambition and strength in the African’s eyes. Ruthlessness too, Rufinus suspected. But intelligence as well. Severus, he decided, was a man to watch.

  ‘I really cannot comment on my commander. It would not be right.’

  Pertinax smiled knowingly, and Pompeianus nodded, but Severus would not be turned aside. He leaned forward, gesturing with his cup. ‘Your reluctance is understandable, especially for a man who has already been the downfall of one prefect. But I will put you at your ease, Rufinus. I will reveal my own mind first.’

  Rufinus shivered.

  ‘Perennis is a dangerous man, young Rufinus. He is positioning his sons to command Pannonia and Dalmatia, and with them he will gain control of the Adriatic fleet, especially since their base at Ravenna is under the mastery of a distant cousin of his. I suspect you did not know that?’ His eyes glittered ominously. ‘The governor of Pannonia is ageing and will soon be recalled. When he does, one of Perennis’ sons will step up to that post, mark my words, and then Perennis will control the central seas and provinces of the empire, cutting east from west. He vies even now for control in Britannia, which will give him three legions in the north.’ The man flicked a quick glance at Gordianus. ‘I do not condemn your father, but beware maintaining close ties with the prefect. And the reason I am not currently questor of Hispania Baetica? Because after the place was attacked by Mauritanian tribes, it was handed to the emperor’s direct control. And who do you think administers the place for Commodus while he is busy with his gladiators and his girls?’

  Rufinus felt his spirits sink.

  ‘Yes. Your expression makes it clear that you understand,’ Severus muttered. ‘Within the year, Perennis will control All of the Adriaticum and its coasts, Britannia and southern Hispania. And you can be sure that he has strings to other puppets in positions of power too
.’

  ‘The prefect has always had the good of the empire at heart,’ Rufinus said defensively. ‘And Cleander…’

  Severus waved him aside. ‘Cleander is a snake, I will grant you. I would not trust him to mix my wine. But he is less overt, less military, and currently a lot less danger than Perennis. I think you try to convince yourself of his innocence, Rustius Rufinus, through your loyalty to the Guard. But think on this: what value is your oath to the Guard if it is being used to support a usurper?’

  ‘Quiet, Severus,’ barked Pompeianus. ‘What was a frank discussion of personality is now turning into treasonous talk and such things are dangerous. I have already narrowly escaped being tied to one failed plot. Do not involve me in another.’

  Severus nodded. ‘Quite right, my friend. I overstep. And I am a loyal servant of the emperor as are we all. It is not Commodus that I condemn, but the man who would undo him.’

  ‘I do not think you can condemn a man based on the word of that philosopher at the theatre a couple of months ago,’ Rufinus said quietly. ‘I saw him up close and I do not think he was a normal rabble-rouser. He had the build of a professional fighter.’

  ‘Were it only his word, I would agree,’ Severus countered.

  As Rufinus frowned in incomprehension, Pompeianus sighed and leaned across. ‘You are safely locked away in the Castra Praetoria, Rufinus, so you do not see what goes on at court. Rumour and condemnation fly around the court like leaves on the wind. Perennis’ tattered reputation is being picked at and pulled apart. There is conjecture that the wave of proscriptions that followed my wife’s unwise plotting were the work of Perennis and not the emperor; that the victims who were executed and their estates impounded were no more involved than you or I, but that they were political rivals of Perennis. There is no proof, of course, but the circumstantial evidence is becoming overwhelming.’

  Rufinus felt a chill run the length of his spine. Could Perennis really be turning into another Paternus?

  He hated himself for it, but his mind cast back a month, to the sight of senator Capito’s head bouncing down the Gemonian Stairs. He was fairly sure that Capito had done nothing more than side with Cleander against Perennis. The prefect might well have crossed the line there, and the idea that Rufinus might be serving a would-be usurper was hard to countenance.

  ‘I see your troubled look,’ Pompeianus said soothingly. ‘It is a sad thing, but I fear Perennis’ career is facing a rather abrupt ending. Whether he be guilty or innocent, the tide is rapidly turning against him, and Cleander rides that tide like Neptune in his chariot.’ The old general turned to the others. ‘Gordianus, I heartily recommend that you urge your father to set aside his command and retire if the tribal war there is over. His current associations may be harmful in the coming months. Severus, you should return to Sardinia and stay out of the way – you are known to have associated with Cleander occasionally. Pertinax and myself can navigate the treacherous currents of the senate. We have done so successfully for decades now.’

  There was a tense silence for a moment and finally, Severus, with one last, calculating look at Rufinus, turned back and launched into a conversation concerning the shortage of good garum sauce due to the troubles in Hispania. Matters having turned to the culinary, Rufinus slumped back and let the discussion pass him by once more. The very idea of his prefect being an enemy of the emperor seemed ridiculous, and yet it was becoming extremely difficult to ignore the mounting evidence. What could he do? He was a Praetorian. He could let Perennis send him to that distant posting at Habitancum as threatened, but that would put him in Britannia, which, it seemed, was also at the heart of the troubles. Or he could petition the prefect to release him back to his old legion, but that was every bit as worrisome, for the realisation had hit him that the Tenth was based at Vindobona in Pannonia and was thus now commanded by one of Perennis’ sons. Even the unthinkable – going home to Hispania and his estranged father – put him in a region now involved in the same damn troubles. Whichever way he turned, it seemed he was doomed to face the Perennis problem.

  And somewhere deep down, he still resented the fact that the prefect had refused to reveal the names of the remaining murderous cavalrymen to him. Was there another reason for that? Surely Perennis couldn’t be using those same killers himself for nefarious purposes?

  Something made the hairs prickle on the back of his neck, and Rufinus glanced up to see Senova looking at him from the far side of the room. As soon as he met her gaze she looked away, collected an empty silver platter and slipped out of the open doorway into the peristyle.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ Rufinus interrupted the others.

  ‘Of course,’ Pertinax smiled. ‘Even the gods must answer when nature calls.’

  With a smile and a nod, Rufinus hitched up his toga and backed away, skirting round the room where small pockets of Rome’s most important men discussed meaningless minutiae, slipping on a wet tile and almost knocking the lyre player into the fountain in one of his more embarrassing clumsy moments. He stooped to ruffle between Acheron’s ears as the great hound stared, slavering, at a senator with a chicken leg until the nervous Roman gave up and tossed his snack to the waiting beast. He passed Publius and his friend busy telling a horribly off-colour joke that was drawing the scowls of some of the older men. A few heartbeats later, he slipped out into the peristyle.

  His eyes took a moment to adjust to the dark of the garden, despite the lamps burning by each doorway that led off around the porticoed edge. He almost missed the flash of pale grey as Senova vanished through another door, and he hurried after her, shrugging into his toga for warmth. She moved along that corridor, ignoring the various side passages, placing the platter on a table and disappearing into the darkness at the far end. Rufinus hurried along the vestibule and emerged into the villa’s extensive grounds a moment later.

  The December chill cut straight through him despite the heavy toga, though the weather was being kind for the season really. The frosts had not yet begun and the clear sky covered him with a canopy of black sprinkled with silver stars. The valley of the Anio lay beyond the villa’s periphery to the north; tiny villages dotted here and there, a small wood bordering the estate further to the east. And Senova was hurrying that way down the garden slope toward a small shed that sat next to a private vineyard in the lee of the wood.

  As she fumbled with a key at the shed door, Rufinus closed on her. She was shivering in her pale grey stola with no cloak against the cold. Her already pale, northern skin was almost blue in the moonlight.

  ‘You’ll catch a chill,’ he said quietly. Senova jumped and dropped the key, reaching down swiftly and scooping it up.

  ‘Forgive me, Domine,’ she said.

  Rufinus frowned. ‘I thought we were friends?’

  ‘If you wish it, Domine.’

  Her gaze was lowered as she turned the key over and over. Rufinus ground his teeth. ‘Please look at me.’

  Obediently, Senova raised her eyes. He felt that familiar thrill run through him at her gaze, but it was tempered somewhat by a chilliness that had nothing to do with the cold December weather. ‘Senova, can we speak freely?’

  ‘Of course, Domine.’

  ‘Will you stop with the Domine bollocks, for the love of Juno?’

  He noted her lips become thin and straight and recognised the signs. Good. If she was angry, then at least she was showing some bloody emotion.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘What?’ Good – no Domine this time.

  ‘Tell me what it is that’s bothering you.’

  There was a long silence, and then her eyes narrowed. ‘You abandoned me.’

  Rufinus stepped back at the thick accusation in her tone. ‘I…’

  ‘Don’t deny it. You abandoned me. At the villa of my mistress two years ago I put my own life in danger to help you. It was the right thing to do, and I thought that… I thought you liked me. Not the way captain Phaestor used to like the slave girls, in that he’d us
e us when he felt like it. I thought you genuinely liked me.’

  ‘I did. I do.’

  ‘And yet when I was no longer hampered by servitude to that evil woman and I took on a pleasant life serving a good master, you went away.’

  ‘I…’

  He had. He’d left her. He had abandoned her.

  ‘The master told me you wanted me. And he told me I had his blessing to lie with you if you wished it. And yet you never came.’

  ‘I…’ Rufinus swallowed noisily. ‘I had trouble. I was badly injured.’

  Was that a flicker of acceptance? He pressed on while he felt he might be winning.

  ‘I was disfigured. Scarred and damaged. It took half a year before I could look in a mirror without the urge to smash it. I was taking poppy juice for the pain for a lot longer than that. Too long’

  He was losing her. His barrage of excuses were just that, after all. There was no way he could imagine Pompeianus and Senova reacting with anything other than sympathy and care. And yet he’d been selfish – had more or less shunned them both and shut himself off from the world. For two years, he’d shut himself away from the world. But now, it seemed, the world was refusing to let him hide any longer. Medics, cavalrymen, chamberlains, prefects, senators and nobles – and now even Senova – were determinedly pulling him back.

  ‘I am sorry. It was a poor way to treat you. I have no real excuse.’

  Senova turned and unlocked the door, swinging it open with a loud creak that echoed across the grounds. A rustling noise caught Rufinus’ attention, and he turned to see Acheron pad out of the vineyard to stand close by. A comfort. The musty smell of a long-term storeroom wafted out of the shed, and Senova passed inside. Rufinus followed, his breath pluming as Senova used the fire-starters by the door to light the small oil lamp.

  ‘What are we doing in here?’ Rufinus muttered.

  Racks along two walls held amphorae, each labelled in delicate script, and Senova moved across them, searching for something. ‘The master of this villa makes a small amount of wine and reckons it a good variety. He wishes the guests to sample his best.’