S.J.A. Turney - The Great Game

After each such meeting, as Senova laughed at his feeble jokes with a throaty, intoxicating chuckle and told him humorous anecdotes from the servants’ area that would otherwise never surface, Rufinus would return to his solitary patrol or to his room, acutely aware of the vast gulf that would always separate Senova and himself. It mattered not that the slave girl was the bound woman of his secret enemy, or that guard and slave could hardly consort even if the domina allowed it; there was a deeper, blood and bone rift:

He was scion of a patrician family. His ancestors had been governors and senators. She had been a poor farm girl from a conquered nation who had failed to pay her taxes and been sold to the nearest slave trader. Or perhaps she had been arrested and sold following some revolt? He had heard that the people of Britannia were unable to mark a decade without launching themselves into violent rebellion. Whatever the case, he and Senova were destined to remain apart, if parallel, for their span in this world.

It cast something of a pall on their meetings; a pall that he tried desperately to keep out of his voice when they spoke. And yet it seemed that somehow the closeness and ties between them grew with every meeting. By the time the first snow hit, they had reached a point that they only had to lock eyes across a courtyard and they both laughed, kicking straight back into the conversation they last had as if they had never been apart.

Galla, however, who seemed to show up among the other slaves and servants almost as often as Senova, remained a mystery that bothered him. There was a constant nervous tension about the girl that kept him distant and slightly on edge, unable to relax in her presence. Time and again he saw her dashing across open spaces as though she expected to be attacked. He had seen similar looks in people’s eyes in his early days at the villa among the servants and guards, living in fear of Dis’ vicious hounds.

Sometimes she smiled at him and asked him to walk her from one place to another. Sometimes she regarded him suspiciously and scurried off as though he might lunge for her. Whatever the case, she was clearly nervous about something, and those nerves were increasing with time. Rufinus watched her with interest and confusion, waiting for the inevitable crescendo that was coming. Would it be a romantic tiff gone wrong that would end in murder? Was she in some sort of trouble with one of her superiors?

The one thing that he felt fairly confident over was that she was not another spy in the lady’s house. She had been bought from a reputable slave trader and bore the signs of long-term slavery on her flesh, from the whip marks on her shoulders to the brand on her arm.

So what was the secret that lay behind those nerves?

He had tried to talk to Senova, and those times were the only occasions when the intoxicating slave-girl shut her lips tight, her face darkening, unwilling to pursue the subject.

The months rolled on as winter came again. This time, Rufinus was grateful that he was now in a position of command, running the indoor security in the palace rather than huddling in the arches of the southern theatre against the chill. As the moons waxed and waned, each cycle bringing another visit by the small party of conspirators, his strange close-distant relationship with Senova deepened, his concerns over the behaviour of Galla widened, his closeness with Acheron grew and his nerves frayed.

The sand in the hourglass of Commodus’ life was now most definitely running low, and no matter what Rufinus did, he could get no closer to the secrets that were being discussed in that dining chamber.

RUFINUS surfaced from sleep like a man clawing his way into the light, blinking, weary and confused. The room was lit by a glow from the lead-paned window, which meant…

‘Dawn?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Damn it, man, I only went off shift in the middle of the night!’

‘I know sir, but…’

‘But nothing. I can’t have been asleep more than two or three hours!’

‘Yes, and I’m sorry sir, but this is urgent.’

Finally the man’s tone of voice registered, and Rufinus’ mind swum to the surface, suddenly alert. The man sounded frightened. ‘What is it?’

‘The empress, sir. She’s on the warpath. Really angry. Sent me to fetch you as fast as I could.’

Rufinus’ heart jumped again, a feeling that was becoming so familiar it seemed almost normal. Quickly, he fell out of bed, grateful that he’d been so weary when he retired the night before that he’d slept in tunic and breeches. As quickly as possible he struggled into his boots, strapped on the belt and sword and, as a last moment decision, sprinkled a few drops of the balsam, alum and frankincense that had cost him a week’s wages at the market, somewhat masking the odour of night sweats with its heady spiciness.

‘Where is she?’

The guard, a Thracian gladiator called Hactes who feared neither man nor beast and had reputedly killed one opponent with his teeth, blanched. ‘I’m not sure, sir.’

Rufinus tried to keep the irritation from his voice. ‘How are you supposed to take me to her when you don’t know where she is?’

Hactes shook his head, his face still nervous. ‘She was storming around the palace, sir. She could be anywhere.’ His eyes slid to one side and Rufinus realised that he was regarding Acheron with a nervous look. Two incidents early on had taught the influx of gladiators to tread carefully around Rufinus’ great black pet.

‘Acheron – stay here.’ He turned to Hactes. ‘Come on’ he said with exaggerated patience. ‘Dawn. Her bath will be waiting, so she’ll be somewhere around there.’

With the worried gladiator in tow, Rufinus hurried out of the Praetorium and across the damp gravel, water-logged from yesterday’s rain, through the door to the palace proper, and finally to the Imperial baths. The complex was secured with a single guard on the exterior door, though the interior was frequented only by the lady and her attendants.

Rufinus nodded at the guard, one of the two men assigned to him that predated the influx of gladiators. The man nodded back respectfully.

‘The empress?’

The guard pointed at the door and gave a grim smile. ‘She’s been waiting for you.’

Rufinus raised his brow as he regarded the door. The private baths of the family were not a place where guardsmen were welcome. The tone of the man on duty, though, as he’d gestured to the door, had spoken volumes about Lucilla’s mood. Taking a deep breath he strode inside, pausing for a moment to let his eyesight adjust to the shade after the watery sunlight. The baths were beautiful, even here in the outer chamber where the slaves generally waited in attendance and the materials and clothes, towels and wooden sandals were kept.

A young Greek eunuch who Rufinus vaguely recognised waved him over. ‘Majesty awaits you. You must remove your boots.’

Rufinus nodded. The nailed soles of his boots would wreak havoc on the beautiful, decorative floors of the bath house. In record time, he undid his boots and slid them off, tucking his feet into the wooden shoes and clacking off in the direction the eunuch gestured.

Other slaves, servants or attendants helpfully directed him at the next three doorways as he passed from hall to chamber until he entered a large, domed, circular room. The delicate roof centred on an oculus that let in a beam of sunlight which reflected from the foamy white surface of the water in the round bath below. The walls were painted with colourful scenes of marine life and the water-bound Gods. The central bath, with concentric steps leading down, appeared to be filled with milk, causing Rufinus to frown in confusion for just a moment before he remembered: it was a tale told of the decadent days of the early empire, when vain noblewomen would bathe in the milk of asses to keep their alabaster pallor. A circular floor around the edge held couches and tables of delicate gold and ebony.