‘I shall endeavour to keep the villa free of vagrants and enemies’ he said brightly, earning himself a black look.
‘Then you will have half an hour to eat before you report to the empress’ palace, where you will relieve Harrapus the Cappadocian. Understood?’
Rufinus nodded, his heart racing. The central area and Lucilla’s palace. It would be a tiring regime, with little free time, but it was what he had been working for these past months.
A thought struck him. ‘Who am I to be paired with?’
Vettius gave him a surprised look. ‘Paired?’
‘All guards are to be paired off to prevent treachery.’
‘Only those who haven’t proved themselves, Marcius’ he replied with an exasperated sigh. ‘List one: those who can be trusted. I swear I thought you were brighter.’
Rufinus smiled. ‘Too daft to be dangerous, I suppose.’
Again, Vettius flashed him a black look. ‘Anyway, you’re almost halfway through the first duty, so as soon as you can, you’ll need to report to the Pecile, since there’s no one patrolling that area. But…’ he added as Rufinus turned, ‘there’s something else you need to do first. The empress wants to see you.’
Rufinus’ heart skipped a beat.
‘The
empress
?’
‘Yes. She’s wanting to speak personally to all those who’ll be patrolling her palace. She’s a lady who likes to be aware of her surroundings. But interestingly, she asked for you by name as soon as I could send you. So run along. You’ll find her in the council
chamber, if you remember the directions, and then make your way to the Pecile when she’s done with you.’
Rufinus nodded, pulse still pounding like a chariot hurtling round the Circus Maximus. He thanked Vettius, but the man was already involved once more with his lists, paying no further heed to the guard.
Turning quickly, Rufinus hurried out into the corridor. It took him but a moment to recall the route to the council chamber, jammed between the Pecile, the imperial baths and the water villa, tucked away almost forgotten in a corner. The last time he had stood in its echoing marble hall had been following the accusation of Fastus that had precipitated this sequence of events.
A hundred heartbeats later, he approached the open door of the chamber, the apsed end to the black and yellow marble room visible through it and lit by bright sunlight flowing through the huge triple arch, white marble statues in their niches almost shining with a strangely lunar glow. The door stood wide, one of the veteran guards he knew by sight to the side. Rufinus nodded to him and the man returned the gesture, ushering him in with a sweep of the arm. Inside, the room warbled with the sound of quiet conversation which died away as he entered.
Lucilla was every bit the monarch in her crimson stola and golden shawl, hair bound with a fine gold net, complemented by gilt earrings and necklace, any one of which would pay his wages until the day he went grey. She sat upon a throne of dark wood which still bore inscriptions that carried the words AELIVS and HADRIANUS. Clearly she already considered herself the inheritor of the imperial title.
A tall man with a lean face and grave expression, made-up like a painted woman, stood to one side and slightly behind, in the manner of a chamberlain. The man tried to smile and the effect was like a crocodile sneering. Rufinus took an instant and almost pathological dislike to the man. His wandering gaze as he stepped inside also took in the four slaves standing quietly in the corner, waiting to attend their mistress. Rufinus felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck as he saw Senova, and warmth thrilled through him.
Remembering himself just in time, Rufinus came to a sharp halt some five paces from the throne and sketched a deep bow.
‘Guardsman Marcius, I believe?’
Rufinus straightened and nodded. ‘I am, your imperial majesty.’
The title seemed to please Lucilla and he saw the corner of her mouth lift just a little. ‘You look familiar, Marcius.’ She frowned for a moment and then something passed. ‘I expect I’ve seen you around the grounds.’ She turned to the slaves. ‘Cesta? Valla? Go prepare my bath, and shut the door on your way out.’
Two of the four slaves bowed and scuttled off through the door, which shut with a click, sealing him into the room with Lucilla, her ‘chamberlain’ and the two remaining slaves. Silence reigned for a long moment until Lucilla stood and stepped down from the raised throne, her gold sandals clacking on the marble floor and the delicate Serican silk garments swishing around her alabaster shins. Stepping towards Rufinus, she walked slowly around him and then came to a halt, facing him.
Rufinus was acutely aware that he had a blade slung at his side in the presence of a member of the imperial family and that he could probably quite simply do away with her before any of the servants reached him. Moreover, if he braved crashing through the arched windows, he could be across the terrace and into the wilderness before the guards even heard.
He could prevent Lucilla striking against the throne!
But it would be stupid, despite everything. There was still no proof that a coup was her intention, and striking her down without proof of wrongdoing shifted the nature of the deed from duty to plain murder. Moreover, if she truly
was
planning on striking at her brother and making a play for the throne, it would involve a number of people. To do away with her now would only remove one player from the game, no matter how central she be, and would dismiss all hope of identifying whoever else was involved.
An opportunity, but one that he had to pass up.
She tapped her lip as she regarded him, one eyebrow slightly raised, quizzically.
‘You are an interesting character, it seems, Marcius.’
He wondered for a moment whether he was expected to reply, but held his tongue resolutely. This was not a woman with whom to bandy words or test patience. Her smile fell away and suddenly she was all business. ‘My villa remains secure and peaceful for almost a year under the careful control of captain Phaestor and master Vettius, everything running smoothly, and then suddenly you and your little
friend are hired in Tibur and the world here turns upside down. Some might say you were a disruptive influence?’
Again, Rufinus held his tongue, but the lady gestured for a reply.
‘With respect, majesty, I have done nothing but secure your villa to the best of my ability.’
‘Well said.’ She paced back and forth a few times. ‘I have been informed that men in whom we have placed the utmost trust have been revealed as base villains in the employ of my brother, sent to spy, and no doubt worse, in my home. A network of them, no less! At least two, one of whom you unmasked personally - Vettius is most impressed at your reasoning and work in that affair - and the other who fell, presumably as an indirect result of either his own actions or your unmasking of his accomplice.’
Rufinus bowed slightly. ‘I serve your majesty.’
‘Tell me about yourself.’
Rufinus swallowed nervously. ‘I’m sure your majesty has been told my somewhat colourful history with the eagle? If it please, I would rather not relive such memories.’
A tiny flash of something passed across her eyes and was then gone, replaced by an understanding smile that Rufinus had the feeling was about as real as the lead-white pallor of her face.
‘I have been told your history, such as it is, by Phaestor. Tell me more, though. Tell me of your family. Tell me of your home and what led you to the legions.’
Rufinus frowned, unsure of what was unfolding.
‘I am no fool, Marcius. I am familiar with your clan. I have known members of the Marcii in Rome, of at least three family branches. The simple ‘Gnaeus Marcius’ might be enough for those in low circles. But to me that name is missing a family and I would know why. Phaestor and Vettius have both recommended you very highly as the man to place in charge of my palace, raising you to a commanding rank among your peers. I rarely deny their opinions, even given separately, but when they agree on the value of a man, I would be foolish to pass up such opportunities.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘But a man who keeps secrets from me cannot be trusted, whatever his reasons. I will have your complete openness, or I will have you opened, if you take my meaning.’
Rufinus found his throat had gone very dry. It had never in all this time occurred to him that someone might be familiar with
members of his clan. While the Rustius branch of the Marcii had fallen foul of Antoninus and left Rome for foreign climes, the ignominy that had attached to the name had not spread to other branches of the Marcii.
And now he was suddenly presented with three choices.
He could continue to hold his silence, in which case he had absolutely no doubt that Lucilla would follow through on her threat and have him split from neck to balls and opened for the crows to feed. Or, he could spin a yarn of adoptions and dubious histories that put him on the periphery of a family of distant cousins that would take months or even years to confirm or deny. But there were deep risks involved in such a deception. If Lucilla was not fooled by his dropping of a family name and knew a number of his more illustrious distant relations, she would be unlikely to fall for another contrived story.
Or he could tell her the truth. Not the whole truth, of course, but a reasonable story constructed upon foundation elements of the truth, omitting damning parts such as Paternus, Perennis, and his time in the Praetorians.
‘Well?’
Rufinus fixed her with what he hoped was an earnest look. Bone-deep it still felt wrong to be perpetrating lies and falsities, even to a woman suspected of plotting against the emperor. The deeper the currents at the villa took him, the more the truth slipped from his grasp and floated to the surface far above, out of reach, though hopefully not forever.
Nothing for it but to dive ever further and hope.
‘Very well, majesty. My name is Gnaeus Marcius Rustius.’ A simple lie by way of omission. One that caused less of a wrench to his sensibilities than most.
Lucilla turned her head slightly and narrowed her eyes as though examining something behind his left shoulder. Rufinus felt uneasy. Had he underestimated her? She might remember a Rustius presented at Vindobona, clad in blood and gore, though her attentions at the time had seemed more focused on arguing with her brother.
‘Familiar,’ she said, finally, ‘though I cannot at this moment put my finger on why. Enlighten me as to why your name rings a number of bells for me?’
Rufinus swallowed nervously.
‘My father, Publius Marcius Rustius, caused a furore in Rome a little over twenty years ago that almost escalated into a riot and threatened the divine Antoninus. The name is a familiar one in high circles, ma’am. It is the reason I try not to assume it in public.’
Lucilla’s frown deepened. ‘Rustius. Yes. I remember that. I’d just come of marital age and father and I were in Rome considering suitable husbands.’ She looked up sharply. ‘The Judah affair! Your father called the divine Antonius a ‘filthy jew-lover’ if I remember correctly?’
A wicked little smile passed across her features; a smile that had nothing to do with humour. Rufinus swallowed again and lowered his eyes.
‘I believe, majesty, that that might be a piece of brutal paraphrasing by someone not present at the event. My father claims never to have said such a thing, but he did openly speak out against the emperor’s friendship with the Rabbi Judah. He felt it was inappropriate for an emperor of Rome to consort with a man who openly denied our Gods and preached as much to his people. In fairness, at risk to myself, and despite the fact that my father and I can rarely even speak civilly, I cannot say that I entirely disagree.’
Lucilla shook her head. ‘You cannot have been even born then, when the riot was crushed before it began?’
‘No, ma’am. The divine emperor was busy signing proscription orders against my family when his illness took him from us. A number of the Rustii had already found their ends on a Praetorian blade before your divine father came to the throne and renounced the proscriptions. My father took ship for Hispania with my brother while their lands were taken in to the Imperial parks. I believe one of the emperor’s freedmen now occupies our house in Rome.’
Again, that wicked smile passed across Lucilla’s face and she stepped back and looked him up and down.
‘My father was perhaps more long-sighted than I had thought. Antoninus’ association with that
rabbi
’ she spat the word almost as a curse, ‘was entirely inappropriate. Antoninus was soft. My father less so, but still given to romanticism. Rome needs a strong ruler, the likes of a Traianus or a Vespasianus.’
Rufinus nodded thoughtfully. ‘Strong… and wise’ he added. Suddenly he blinked, aware that he had unwittingly spoken his
thoughts aloud rather than keeping them in the privacy of his head. Lucilla’s eyes had narrowed to slits again.
‘Wisdom. Yes, wisdom too.’ She straightened. ‘So the scions of the Rustii come back to Rome to… what? To rebuild the family honour? Hard to do when hiding under assumed names.’
Rufinus took a deep breath. ‘Only I, majesty. My brother died in a hunting accident a number of years ago. I left Hispania to seek a life in the army, though events conspired to deny me that and I find myself in Latium as a mercenary.’
‘Fortunate for us, however.’
She frowned once more and then turned to her painted chamberlain and nodded. ‘You will serve well here, I feel, Rustius. You need not deny your name with us; I am hardly a woman to hold the grudges of men long dead.’
She returned to her throne and took a seat, shifting among the cushions until comfortable.
‘I will speak to Phaestor and Vettius. You will be given a command of eight men and shall be responsible for the security of my palace. I expect total and utter loyalty, as I’m sure you understand.’
Rufinus’ heart swelled. Despite the subterfuge involved in all of this, it was hard not to feel pride in advancement, especially being told to use the cursed family name openly. He bowed respectfully.
Lucilla gave him another look up and down. ‘And have some new clothes and armour made. I have no wish to watch you stride around the palace with the gait of a peacock and the garb of a vagrant.’