What was going on? Had Cleander sent him on some wild chase to be rid of him? Was there something more sinister at the root? They moved around the city, Senova taking in the surroundings with the fascination of a new visitor, Acheron padding alongside and causing something of a circle of open space between them and the locals, Rufinus’ suspicions building as they travelled.
Finally, they found themselves at the provincial palace, rising high above the city at the upper edge, close to the walls of the legion’s fortress, a great complex of red-roofed structures. The place was old but with more recent rich ornamentation. Rufinus remembered standing and examining all he could of Trajan’s funerary column in Rome, trying to familiarise himself with what he might find in Dacia, and remembered now that that great emperor had based himself here at the start of the campaign. Trajan himself may have had this building constructed, perhaps even with his famous architect, Apollodorus of Damascus.
Legionaries of the Fourth stood beside the grand doorway with its architrave portraying the slaughter and subjugation of the natives by some big-nosed officer and his cavalry.
‘If someone put something like that up in Isurium,’ Senova grumbled, pointing at the grand frieze, ‘the locals would pelt it with rotten fruit daily.’
Rufinus fought through his instinctive disapproval of such a display of anti-Roman sentiment. Spending time with Senova was changing his attitude, he realised, and he wasn’t sure whether it was for the better. He’d been subjected to endless lectures about slavery, which had diminished not one jot when he pointed out that the tribes of Britannia had a long and glorious history of enslaving one another long before Rome came along. And the idea of not offending barbarians would never have occurred to him a few months ago, but he had to admit that plastering the seat of local government with images of Romans standing on the necks of locals was perhaps not the most politic approach.
‘Maybe they’re not locals?’ It was possible – likely, even – that the local tribe were not the ones being trodden down in the image, but perhaps Dacians during the war, or Iazyges from across the river. Rufinus honestly couldn’t tell the difference between most of these tribes, though he’d never risk telling Senova that. He’d be listening to a diatribe about the aloofness of Rome for a week.
‘Hmph,’ was his companion’s final word on the subject and Rufinus, peering up at the architrave as they strode toward the gate, decided that perhaps it was time he paid a little more attention to the divisions between Rome’s subjugated peoples. It might stand him in good stead in Dacia. And if not, it would certainly go down well with Senova.
Rufinus took Atalanta off to one side and tied her to the hitching rail, returning to the grand door to find the legionaries eying Senova suspiciously and deliberately not looking at the hulking black shape of Acheron who sat patiently, a puddle of drool growing on the floor beneath enough fangs to fill a bucket.
‘Will my gear be safe there?’ Rufinus asked. In particular the silver spear, he thought. He hated the idea of leaving such a thing out of his sight, but there might be trouble if he tried to seek an audience with powerful governors while carrying a spear, no matter what it was made of.
‘We’ll watch it. You have an appointment?’ The legionary had a thick, weird accent, reminiscent of the native voices of the area. Rufinus couldn’t place it, but it was distinctly eastern. He smiled. It was he and Senova that were the oddity here, of course.
Rufinus dug into his satchel and found the hardened scroll case containing his orders and documents from the imperial administration, bearing the dual seals of Cleander and the emperor himself. The fact that Cleander had permission to use the imperial seal rankled, but that was just a footnote in the catalogue of Cleander’s crimes, to Rufinus. The seals were snapped, of course. The documents had been required to secure mansio lodgings along the journey from Rome. Still, the two men eyed the seals with interest as Rufinus slid out his orders.
‘I’ve been sent here by the imperial chamberlain to meet with the governor of Dacia.’
The two men exchanged grins. ‘Imperial bureaucracy. Always a month late,’ snorted one, confirming Rufinus’ suspicion that Albinus and his legion were not in Viminacium at all. ‘You’d best see Capella, anyway.’
With no further explanation, the guard turned and waved into the darkened archway. A moment later a miserable-looking slave in a grey tunic and rough sandals appeared, head lowered.
‘Take these visitors to the governor.’
The slave bowed deeper and gestured for Rufinus and Senova to follow, turning and padding back through the arch. Rufinus tried not to catch the glower on his companion’s face. This was neither the time not the place for another discussion on the evils of slavery. He whistled to Acheron and the three of them moved toward the gate. The two guards lurched back, one’s hand going to his sword pommel and the other wagging a finger toward Acheron.
‘You can’t take that thing in.’
Rufinus frowned. ‘My dog goes where I do.’
‘That’s a dog? The governor hunts bears sometimes, but even them buggers are a smaller than that thing.’
Rufinus smiled maliciously. ‘Well I can leave him with you…’
The soldiers looked at one another. The one still gripping his sword shrugged. ‘A mandate from the imperial chamberlain overrules our orders, Oppius.’
The other soldier shook his head. ‘His orders don’t say anything about the dog.’
‘They don’t say anything about the woman either, but I’m not stopping her going in.’
‘Good point.’ The soldier waved at Rufinus. ‘Keep that thing under control.’
‘He’ll be good,’ Rufinus promised with a wicked smile as the three of them passed beneath the arch and hurried to catch up with the slave who was waiting quietly in the shadow.
The disparity between rich oppressor and poor oppressed was rather driven home as they emerged from the archway. The governor’s palace seemed to have been constructed around a square, with a portico of red and white columns on all sides and a rather grand looking stair case opposite. At the centre of the wide courtyard was a pool with two fountains shaped into nubile nymphs, jetting water high into the air with splosh and a gentle trickle that reminded Rufinus he hadn’t been to the latrine for some time. Hanging baskets of flowers gave a pleasant, colourful edge to the place, and the red-tile roofs had been scrubbed clean recently. A rich young man in a ridiculously expensive tunic and cloak sat on a marble bench in one corner while a slave polished his sandals.
The slaves were everywhere. They moved silently, gravely, with heads down, gazes locked on the floor in front of them. They were all clad in drab grey, which matched their skin tone as though they were dead already. Rufinus could feel the disapproval radiating off Senova and tried to concentrate on the matter in hand. Capella, the guard had said. Governor of Upper Moesia. An important province, even if the border had largely moved with the creation of Dacia. Governors of this level would probably be ex-consuls and men with heroic records as generals. Men of power and value. Men of whom to be wary.
Acheron trotted ahead to the glorious fountain and stopped there, dipping his head and drinking from the crystal water, noisily. A blue-tunic’d functionary started to scurry across the square, shouting at Acheron to stop, but as he came close and the great Sarmatian hound raised his soaking head and turned a mouth full of huge white teeth at the man, the functionary fell silent and instantly found something more important to do in a different corner of the courtyard. The flow of grey slaves in the square changed their silent, miserable flow with simple ease, leaving a wide space around Acheron, like a line of ants discovering an obstacle in their path.
The slave led them across the square and up the grand white steps into another great doorway with another pediment showing heroic Romans battering the wits out of snarling, wild-eyed savages. This one had no guards, but a man in a toga made a dreadful strangled noise and hurried out of the way as the dripping form of Acheron trotte
d up and fell in beside Rufinus. Inside, doorways led off to both left and right, and Rufinus realised oddly that most soldiers would feel overwhelmed to be in such a place. Not he, though, who had been in the palace of Vindobona when Aurelius died, in the palace of Carnuntum with the Pannonian quaestor, and in the imperial palace itself on the Palatine more than once. The number of slaves seemed to diminish inside the building to be replaced by clerks in military red, rushing this way and that with armfuls of documents. Rufinus and Senova were led directly ahead to a third door, manned by soldiers of the Fourth, and out into a second courtyard. The legionaries made to stop Rufinus and his great black hound, but either the sight of a scroll case bearing the imperial seal, or more likely the Tartaran rumbling coming from the dog, decided them against it, and they simply let the animal pass through. This court looked even richer than the last, with a floor of chequered black and white marble, a single fountain displaying four water-spurting dolphins, and delicate columns all around, draped with hanging flowers.
The governor’s private area of the complex, he realised. Neither clerks nor slaves. Just an empty courtyard with trickling water. A sudden explosion of noise startled Rufinus as Acheron spotted two pigeons pecking at the marble floor and set off at a run in a tangle of legs and snorting. The guards behind them peered through the door in shock at the appalling noise and watched, horrified. Rufinus disliked pigeons on a number of levels – they were stupid and docile, seemed to be everywhere all the time, and took the greatest delight in crapping on everything – but despite that, he felt faintly sorry for the two birds as Acheron hit them like a ballista bolt at a pomegranate. The birds were too lazy, slow and fat to take off swiftly, though one bought time for the other with its life. The lucky plump bird, flapping madly and cooing, managed to reach a gutter as Acheron sent a cloud of grey feathers up into the air.
Oh good. Leaving that mess in the governor’s courtyard would make them popular. The noise of snapping bones was gradually replaced by the sound of the fountain. Rufinus winced. The latrines. Damn it, he should have gone before attending to anything important.
Another set of steps led them up to a door. The slave rapped lightly on the wood and it was opened by a man in an expensive blue tunic and a face that not even a mother could love. The functionary listened to the slave’s brief introduction, sniffed as though the visitors smelled like dead horses, which they probably did, and then beckoned. The slave disappeared and the two found themselves in a small chamber facing ornate bronze doors. The functionary was about to shut the door again when Acheron, still with feathers protruding from his muzzle, pushed through and stood beside Rufinus. The ugly man stared in horror.
‘What is that thing?’
‘This is my dog, Acheron,’ Rufinus replied sweetly. ‘He gets edgy when I’m not around, so for the good of all concerned I brought him with me.’
The functionary stared at Acheron, his face working through a gamut of expressions. Finally, he nodded and moved slightly so that Rufinus and Senova were between the dog and himself.
‘Governor Quintus Naevius Capella has finished his work and was about to retire for the evening. Since you apparently have documents from the capital, confirmed by the guards, I will admit and announce you, but you must be brief and to the point. The governor is enjoying the company of the provincial procurator, Titus Sicinius Cilo, and may or may not wish to dismiss him first. Be quiet until you are spoken to and respectful with your gaze, and make sure that animal is quiet and well behaved. Your names and positions?’
‘Gnaeus Marcius Rustius Rufinus of the praetorian guard, formerly of the Tenth Gemina, on the business of the imperial chamberlain, and the lady Senova of Isurium, my travelling companion.’
The effect was slightly spoiled as Senova let out a tiny snort of humour at the grand manner in which he introduced a Brigantian captive and former slave. The functionary gave her a suspicious look and rallied. ‘It is customary for visitors to the governor to bathe before audiences, and not with the horses, for that matter. Still, time is short. Wait for your cue.’
With that he opened the door and stepped through.
‘Domini, may I present the praetorian guardsman Gnaeus Marcius Rustius Rufinus and his companion, the lady Senova, bearing orders and documents from the imperial chamberlain in Rome.’
There was a pause, and Rufinus realised that had been the cue, so entered the audience chamber and bowed. Senova did the same just behind him, Acheron padding in and keeping pace at the other side.
The room was large – as large as the emperor’s own aula regia in the capital, and almost as rich. Trajan’s temporary palace, he remembered again – suitable for an emperor on campaign. Two men sat in large chairs on a dais at the far end, one slightly higher than the other. At this distance, they were visible only as a thin man and a fat one. Rufinus realised one was beckoning and strode into the room, closing on the chairs.
As he and Senova came to a halt some ten good paces from the governor, Rufinus became aware of two men lurking in the shadows at the rear. They were not legionaries from the Fourth, but were armoured in leather and had the look of professional killers. Private guards for the governor’s person. Both men unslung small but powerful recurve bows and drew an arrow. Neither nocked the missile or stretched a bow string, but both had their eyes locked on Acheron. Seemingly, Rufinus was innocuous enough, but neither guard was going to let the hound move without loosing at him.
The governor – the one in the higher chair had to be the governor – was thin and reedy, like a man half-starved to death, his elbows and joints protruding from bony limbs. The toga hung on him like a cloak on a rake. His face was shrunken and cadaverous and Rufinus found it hard to look at the man without his eyes watering. By comparison, the procurator in the lower seat seemed as though he might well have eaten all the meals in Viminacium for several months. Parts of him overflowed the seat and the toga was seriously put to the test containing him. His neck looked like a sack full of melons. His lips were wide and rubbery beneath small, piggy eyes. Rufinus disliked all financial officers on principle, but this one shot to the top of his list for some reason.
Both men had a built-in sneer, as though the gods had forged their bodies to know they were better than everyone else. In fact, Rufinus disliked them both. The governor’s left eyebrow rose in a series of jerks as though some slave somewhere were hauling on a tiny rope. Behind Rufinus, Senova made another faintly amused sound and he willed her to shut up and not get them in trouble. Both men looked at Acheron with a faint twitch of nerves, and made sure the archers were paying attention, before returning their attention to the man and the woman.
‘Cleander has sent me a praetorian? Pray tell me why, and why he brings savage Sarmatian hounds into my presence,’ rasped the bony one, his eyebrow now impossibly high.
Rufinus cleared his throat. ‘Governor, I was led to believe that the governor of Dacia and his fellow legate – Clodius Albinus and Pescennius Niger – were here, preparing to deal with a Sarmatian incursion into Dacia. I am to join their retinue on the orders of the imperial chamberlain. The hound here, Acheron, is my companion and protector.’
The two men looked at one another, and the fat one let out a strange, girlish chuckle. The cadaver turned back to Rufinus. ‘Niger and Albinus – the black and the white – are not here, young man. Niger never was, in fact. During the recent troubles, he remained in the north with his Fifth Macedonica. In my understanding, the Sarmatian incursions have been dealt with and Dacia begins to settle once more. Albinus was here with the Thirteenth Gemina a while ago, but he returned to his own lands almost two weeks hence, after stripping Upper Moesia of its manpower.’
Rufinus frowned. ‘I do not understand, Governor.’
Capella sighed, a sound like wind rustling papyrus. ‘Albinus came here to replenish his legion, which was seriously under-strength.’
Still, Rufinus frowned. ‘To Moesia?’
Again, a shared look and a girlish giggle, and th
e mobile corpse with the impossible eyebrow that still sat atop his forehead, susurrated an answer. ‘Young man, Albinus could hardly trust recruits from his own territory when half of them were running from Sarmatian raiders and the rest were taking the opportunity to rise up and complain at their rightful masters. Dacians are untrustworthy at the best of times, and after the recent troubles? No, Albinus came to somewhere with a loyal source of manpower to recruit.’
‘That seems unusual, Governor,’ Rufinus said, in carefully blank tones. He had met more than one governor in his time, and none of them in his experience were likely to offer a wet fart for one of their opposite numbers, let alone such a grand accommodation.
‘Albinus and I have… an arrangement.’ It was said in an oddly mysterious tone, and elicited yet another squeaky giggle from the procurator. Rufinus was starting to wonder how long he could remain in the presence of these two without punching someone.
‘Might I ask where Clodius Albinus is now?’ Rufinus said, through grinding teeth.
‘Dacia somewhere,’ the governor said dismissively with a wave of a skeletal hand. ‘I would suggest Drobeta. That is his nearest sizeable fortress. The nearest place that can support a legion.’
Drobeta. The place Trajan had constructed his great bridge and begun the conquest of Dacia. It seemed oddly appropriate to enter the province there. ‘Thank you, Governor Naevius Capella. We shall make for Drobeta first thing in the morning. I shall inconvenience you no longer. Many thanks for your time.’
‘For the emperor and his chamberlain, there is no inconvenience,’ Capella replied, loading the words with enough dripping bile to suggest that he would rather eat his own foot than help Cleander. Rufinus might not like these two, but he had to agree with them on that point at least. With a bow, he turned and gestured for Senova and Acheron to follow. His heart jumped in his chest as he saw Senova opening her mouth, a quizzical look on her face. Oh, turds…
Eagles of Dacia Page 3