‘Lucilla…’
The older man had stepped forward, his hands outstretched, but Lucilla took a step forth to meet him and delivered him a ringing slap on his cheek. ‘Idiots. All of you. Get back to the Canopus and join the others as though you were a welcome party guest and not some back-alley conspirator. You are all hereby forbidden from exchanging a single word with one another for the rest of the night!’
The looks of shock at the command drew a snarl from her. ‘Go and try to act normal. And avoid drinking yourselves into talkative insensibility tonight. Any of you whose tongue slips tonight will wake tomorrow without it. Now get out of my sight!’
There were mutterings too quiet for Rufinus to catch and the four tramped off into the garden, the lights bobbing in the darkness.
‘And for the love of Venus extinguish those lamps. You’ll attract every eye in Latium if you’re not careful.’
The orange glows faded and died quickly and the sound of footsteps faded into the distance. Rufinus’ heart leapt once more and began to pound as Lucilla stepped over to the parapet, leaning on her elbows and looking out across the villa, bathed in silvery moonlight. Her hands gripped the stonework a foot above his head and he felt dust brush down into his hair. Her willowy garments, so gauzy they showed every contour of her shapely legs, billowed a handwidth from his nose.
‘Venus divine, give me the strength to make it safely through another year of cretins and I will dedicate you a great new temple over their foolish bones.’
With a deep sigh, she turned and strode away from the edge, more dust fluttering down over Rufinus in her wake. He paused for a while before daring to descend the ramp. He no longer panicked as he walked, hearing the pitter-patter of falling mortar beneath. He no longer noticed the discomfort and pain in his feet. He no longer paid heed to anything.
The theories were true.
He’d had confirmation that the worries of Paternus and Perennis were more than mere imaginings. While nothing had been said that was directly damning, largely due to the careful control of Lucilla, the meaning behind the words was as clear as the new water of the Canopus pooclass="underline" there was a plot. It was still in its formative stages, clearly, but those regulars who visited the lady were her co-conspirators, as was the young Quintianus, about whom the others had concerns.
He was ‘not up to the task’. It was not too hard to reach a conclusion as to the nature of the task to which they referred. That sycophantic, immature young man? The very idea seemed laughable, but then, who would suspect such a man?
The following days were tough for Rufinus. He finally knew, beyond doubt, that his sending to this place had been justified. He knew that, despite the deaths of innocent men and the lying and subterfuge that turned his stomach, at least his goal was still a true and noble one and not misguided or manipulated.
He’d hardly been able to wait, but the next visit by Constans to replenish the stocks depleted after the festival had seen him desperately scribble a list of the conspirators, a note that the plot’s culmination did not appear to be imminent as yet, and that the young senator Quintianus was at the knife-end of the attempt, a fact that did not sit well with the others. He was, sadly, also forced to add that although this was a conclusion he had drawn from overhearing them, and that the purpose was clear, he had no material evidence of the plot. He requested further instructions.
A week passed in nervous tension. He’d become as taut as a ballista rope and had begun to snap at people in irritation, a thing that surprised him, as he had never considered himself such a man. Finally, as his nerves reached breaking point, the reply arrived with Constans. Just as he had sent a tablet sealed with wax, the reply came in the same manner, despite the apparent trustworthiness of the merchant.
Good work. I am prepared to bring the matter to the emperor’s attention, following which warrants will be issued for all those involved. However, since there appears to be no urgency and you yet have no proof, you will need somehow to confirm the matter of Quintianus’ role as the principal of the plot. We need to be sure we have the entire group and that no one slips through the net. It would ill-suit us to prevent this plot only to discover that there was more than one strike planned with different attackers who have escaped our round-up. Achieve confirmation of these things and pass on details and then we will move.
Rufinus had nodded slowly to himself. It felt nerve-wracking to be sent back into the viper’s nest and told to lift her up and check her eggs, but he could not fault the reasoning. The very life of the emperor was at stake and they had to be certain.
And yet, as the weeks rolled on through high summer and the first echoes of autumn began to fall across the villa with the red-brown leaves, it became apparent to Rufinus that his one chance to learn anything useful had been due to a slip-up by the conspirators and now that they were careful and secluded in the lady’s dining room on their visits, his chances of learning what he needed to know had shrunk again.
It was two weeks after the festival and its revelations that Rufinus found the courage to visit Pompeianus. His early euphoria at discovering the plotters had been clouded by the realisation that the Syrian nobleman’s blood family had now been irrevocably implicated in the plot, and at its very heart. The general’s nephew was on a path that led to arrest, brutal torture and very public execution.
He had marshalled every thought and given himself an afternoon off, collecting a jar of wine from the cellars and approaching the dominus’ garden with a deep, unhappy breath.
The former general was exactly where Rufinus had expected to find him: pottering around the stadium-garden, trimming shrubs, tending flowers and edging lawns. It never ceased to amaze Rufinus how the man, who had been a friend to Marcus Aurelius, commanded legions in Germania, sat in the senate, governed provinces and guided the hands that ruled the empire, never seemed quite so happy and at home as when allowed to potter around his garden, keeping things neat and beautiful.
‘Ah… guard officer Rustius. It seems to have been an age.’
Rufinus smiled uneasily. Behind him there was a ferocious barking noise and then a yelp of excited joy and a huge black blur bounded past his shoulder toward Pompeianus. The general, used to such behaviour after the month of the dog’s residence in this very garden, stepped carefully behind the conifer so that Acheron had to slow and round the corner to reach him. Too many times he had been knocked flat.
‘Good boy. Stay down. You’re filthy.’
Rufinus’ smile widened to a natural shape. ‘I only have to mention your name and he’s out of the praetorium and running to come see you. I fear he’s as much your dog as he is mine.’
Acheron had recovered fully from his wound and the brutal events that had led to the demise of his brother and master seemed to be receding, though not a night passed without the beast experiencing dreams that caused it to wail with the most hopeless and dreadful sound imaginable, a habit that had led to his accommodation being moved to the most obscure corner of the huge Praetorian barrack building, where Acheron could not keep Phaestor awake.
As the Sarmatian hunting hound fawned around Pompeianus, jumping and nuzzling, Rufinus cleared his throat.
‘I presume we are safe to talk here?’
Pompeianus shrugged. ‘Unless you saw anyone loitering outside the wall.’
The young guardsman nodded to himself. ‘I finally have confirmation. My being here is justified.’
The general paused in his trimming, left hand still ruffling Acheron’s head. ‘I feared the time was coming. My wife is at its heart, I assume? As such it is almost inevitable that my own name will be drawn into the matter. Is this the reason for your drawn features and apparent unhappiness?’