S.J.A. Turney - The Great Game

Paternus exploded in a flurry of motion and angry grumbling, hurrying across and slapping his own hand on the altar. ‘Lying peasant! Apollo should burn you down where you stand. I have never involved myself in the death of an innocent man, and I deny these accusations.’

Prefect Perennis had hurried across in his counterpart’s wake and now stood a few paces behind him. Commodus waited in the centre of the temple, his expression unreadable, while the priest tried to blend in with the rear wall’s decoration.

Rufinus smiled and Paternus jerked as if struck, taken aback by the feral fury in that grin.

‘I would also state in the sight of Apollo Palatinus, diviner of truth, lord of the sun, that it is my solemn belief that prefect Paternus is the man who ordered six Praetorian cavalrymen, who I can later identify if required, to murder in cold blood a member of your majesty’s Frumentarii who was working undercover at the same villa, purely to keep him out of my way.’

He looked across at the emperor and then back to Paternus, whose face had paled to the same colour as the marble columns behind him.

‘A Frumentarius?’

Rufinus nodded. ‘Yes, majesty. I know not his real name, but he went by the name of Dis at the villa. He had saved both my cover and my life prior to his offhand execution.’

Commodus’ face had taken on a dark look and Rufinus could see the danger rising, grateful that, for the first time in so many months, the peril was not his.

Paternus made a spluttering sound, apparently unable to find adequate words for what he was trying to say. He turned to the emperor, but flinched at Commodus’ face as the man gave a single nod. The pale prefect frowned in confusion and realised too late that the nod had not been meant for him.

Perennis’ blade appeared through Paternus’ chest, punching through the decorative leather breastplate with remarkable ease, the crimson tip pointing up at Rufinus’ face. Paternus’ eyes went wide.

The younger of the two Praetorian prefects leaned in close to his victim’s ear. ‘It’s an offence to the Gods to lie in their presence, friend Paternus.’

Paternus gasped and reached up to the tip of the blade protruding from his chest, touching the point in apparent confusion. Rufinus stepped towards him.

‘A nobler death than you gave the Frumentarius, sir.’

The blade suddenly swivelled from vertical, through horizontal and back to vertical, shredding the black heart through which it passed. Paternus’ mouth opened in a pleading look, but all that emerged was a long stream of dark blood that ran down his chin and neck, spattering his breastplate.

Rufinus leaned close and watched the life pass from his eyes, his spirit departing the broken shell on the other prefect’s sword. He shivered slightly at the memory of his brother’s last look: that desperate, sorrowful gaze that had suddenly blanked and cleared as body and spirit became separated.

A spell had been broken.

And in the presence of his commander, and the emperor of Rome, and Apollo Palatinus, the lord of healing and light, Rufinus wept.

‘Ah….’

Pompeianus leaned back on the dark red cushion of the couch and sipped from his wine, pondering for moment before adding more water. ‘It would appear that everything has worked out remarkably well, except for poor Saoterus, of course.’

Rufinus nodded sadly as he sat on the less comfortable wooden chair. Lounging in the manner of his host would probably reopen a number of his gradually healing wounds. Besides, lying on something blood red somehow didn’t appeal this evening.

‘I have to say that, despite everything, and despite the conversations we’ve shared in the past, I have high hopes for Commodus,’ Rufinus said, reaching for his own glass and taking a small sip. It was becoming apparent that wine did not agree with the painkiller the Praetorian medicus had prescribed, so he was indulging in only a small quantity. He desperately felt like drinking himself into insensibility despite the danger.

‘How long will your wife remain in exile, and what will you do?’

Pompeianus shrugged. ‘She will not be in exile for long. The gesture was a magnanimous one for the look of the thing. She and her co-conspirators will be dead soon enough, I’m sure. It will be quiet and private and entirely escape the notice of the public. And then I will be freed of any entanglements. Perhaps the emperor has plans.’

‘Perhaps he will keep you here as an advisor?’

‘No. Not after this. I may have to disappear from Rome entirely for a while. My name is too closely linked with the plot, and many will seek my fall.’ He smiled. ‘Fear not though, young Rufinus. I have many country villas of my own, a son whom I can train and guide, and more pieces yet on the great board. My game is far from over; indeed it may only just be beginning.’

The door opened and a slave bustled across the room, refilling the wine jug. Rufinus paid little attention, pondering the sad truth of his host’s words.

‘Besides,’ Pompeianus went on, ‘I live in hope that my young friend, the guardsman Rufinus, will visit me regularly to keep me informed and entertained. I have wide swathes of land on which you can exercise that dog of yours. And perhaps other pursuits?’ Pompeianus laughed.

He grinned and winked, gesturing toward the wine jug that had just been refilled. Rufinus turned with a frown, just in time to see a very familiar face closing the door next to it.

‘Senova? But how?’

Pompeianus took another swig of wine and grinned again. ‘My brother-in-law sent only the dourest, least helpful and pleasant slaves with my wife. She is, I fear, in for a poor life in the short time she has left. While I, it appears, have inherited the best of her estate.’

For the first time that day, Rufinus smiled with genuine pleasure. ‘Then it really does appear that things have worked out well.’

Pompeianus narrowed his eyes and shook his head with a sly smile. ‘Do not relax yourself, my friend. The game has been complicated and tough, and you won it with courage and style, but you know as well as I that it doesn’t end there. There are always more games to be played; always more opponents to face.’

Rufinus sighed and leaned back.

There would be other games and other opponents.

But not today.

He drained the wine glass and reached to refill it. Maybe he’d just risk insensibility after all.