A few hundred heartbeats later, he was in the network of access tunnels that threaded the hillside beneath the villa, connecting many of the outlying structures that were no longer used. Cold, wet days patrolling the outer regions of the villa had given him the opportunity to learn the servants’ passages and once or twice he’d been up to these storage corridors near the grotto. The stables were built into one such tunnel, the cold wind that was constantly drawn along the tunnel carrying away the smell of horses and their stalls.
The three slaves who maintained the tunnels, distributed goods and looked after the beasts and vehicles paid no heed to the limping, unsteady guard, armed and armoured and strolling in their midst. It was not the lot of slaves to question the employees of the villa.
‘I need a horse… a fast one.’
‘Of course, Domine.’
The slave bustled around the busy tunnel, gathering saddle and harness, and Rufinus slumped back against the wall, wincing as he felt one of the brand marks rub against the bindings around his chest.
The medicus had been right, of course. There was nothing critical about any of the wounds, even the missing nails. In a few months he would be hale and hearty. And even now, the wounds were small and manageable on their own. It was just the sheer number of cuts and burnings taken all together that was difficult to deal with. Every move brought with it at least half a dozen small pains.
Straightening, he saw the slave leading out a placid-looking bay mare from one of the stalls. He cast an approving eye over her as she walked out into the glow of one of the light-wells. She was sleek and healthy with good muscle tone. Slightly larger than the breeds used by the military, she had a long step and would surely be fast. He watched as patiently as he could manage while the horse was prepared in front of him.
It was perhaps an hour after dawn now, by his estimate. Time was running short. The games in the arena generally started mid-morning. There had to be time to get in a few of the mock fights, martial displays, animal processions and so on before a break for the noon meal. Equally, the games were never begun early enough to disturb the relaxed morning routine of the higher classes. By Rufinus’ estimate he had as little as an hour, or as much as two at most before the games would begin with the Emperor’s arrival… and death if he wasn’t there to stop it.
And here he was watching the slave faff around with tack.
‘She’ll be fine like that. Thank you.’
The slave frowned. ‘But she needs…’
‘She’s fine.’ Gritting his teeth, Rufinus hauled himself into the saddle with no small pain and difficulty, swaying as he sat, tears flooding his eyes, his jaw clenched.
‘Are you alright, sir? Can I help?’
‘Just be about your business’ Rufinus replied irritably, shifting himself into a remote semblance of comfort. As the slave scurried off to his tasks, Rufinus turned the horse and began to walk her down the passage, trying not to yelp with every bump of the saddle… mostly failing. Occasionally he passed other men loading carts or stacking boxes in side rooms, but he paid them no heed, nor they him.
A few moments later, he exited the tunnels with a sigh of relief. He’d only rarely managed to explore the western exits of the corridors, and wasn’t entirely sure of their full layout. And yet, as he rode from the claustrophobic gloom into a small open courtyard, he saw the ivy-clad arcades of the abandoned theatre off to his right.
Painfully kicking the mare into life and regretting not having asked her name, he cantered across the open ground beside the theatre, skirting the glorious curved colonnade and making for the slope. The first few loping steps were agony, but the rhythm quickly settled into a jostling blur of aches.
‘Come on… Atalanta. I shall call you Atalanta.’
As carefully as he could, yet speedily as he dare, he raced down the steep hillside, jumped the stream at the bottom - a move that made him scream aloud on landing and almost unhorsed him - and kicked the beast into an extra turn of speed as he rose up the slope beyond, cresting it and making for the road ahead, where it ran alongside the woodland of the estate.
It felt like an hour had passed when he finally reached the metalled surface and pushed the mare into every ounce of speed she had. He was racing against time itself, with the Emperor’s very life hanging by a thread at the end of the course. Every step of every hoof brought pains that threatened to drive the wits from his head, but he gritted his teeth and gripped the reins for dear life.
Cursing the distance and the many delays he’d been forced to endure, he rode past the edge of the woods that marked the end of Lucilla’s domain, and was almost overcome with emotion when a huge black shape emerged from the undergrowth at a run and fell in alongside the mare, trying to match her pace.
‘Acheron!’
Surprise gave way to relief and gratitude as he watched the huge, muscular hound, pushing itself to the limits of its endurance to keep up. Recognising that the pace he had set in his desperate panic would destroy his mount before he reached the city, Rufinus eased off just a little. Besides, losing consciousness from the pains of the gait and falling from the horse would serve no use at all.
The mare relaxed into her gallop, and Acheron began to match her pace for pace, pink tongue lolling from the side of his mouth as the three of them pitted themselves against the passage of time to save Commodus from disaster.
The exhilaration of the ride almost made him forget his pains.
XXVI – Preparations and reparations
RUFINUS slowed Atalanta to a walk. Despite the tortuous pace he’d set since leaving the villa three quarters of an hour earlier, he had slowed twice already to allow the magnificent bay mare, as well as his screaming flesh, a rest. Acheron had kept up remarkably well, and Rufinus had felt the bond he shared with the great black hound strengthen with every mile.
Now, the Castra Praetoria’s eastern gate stood impassable before him. Approaching the gate at a walk, he came to a halt.
‘Ho there!’ he called.
Strange. The alarm should have been raised before a visitor got this close to the walls. He should have been challenged by now. He paused for a moment.
‘Praetorian?’
A tense moment later, a face appeared above the gate, his white horsehair crest wavering in the wind. A gentle rain had passed an hour ago, but the speed of the clouds scudding across the sky promised further showers for the day, and the gusting wind contained a chill.
‘Who goes there’ said the surprised guard, out of breath.
‘Gnaeus Marcius Rustius Rufinus; guardsman of the first cohort.’
‘Argentulum? Where in the name of Vesta’s tits did you come from?’
‘Let me in. Where is the rest of the guard?’
The face disappeared from the gate and there was silence for a long moment before the sounds of the bolts being withdrawn and the heavy restraining bar lifted. The face of a tired-looking guardsman peered round the edge of the gate.
‘Don’t expect you know the password?’
‘’Course I don’t!’ Rufinus snapped. ‘What is going on?’
The man straightened and stepped aside, swinging the gate a little wider to allow Rufinus entry. ‘I ought to escort you under guard when you approach without the password, but I think we’ll forego formalities.’
Rufinus glared at him as he dismounted painfully and stood, shaking from the pain and discomfort. ‘I asked you what’s happening. Where is everyone?’
The man shrugged. ‘All down in the city. The emperor took the whole guard to secure the palace, the procession route and the amphitheatre. There’s only half a century of us left in the camp as a guard: mostly those of us who were in the hospital and a few malcontents and lazy bastards. Sorry I was a long time answering… suffering something chronic with the shits right now.’
Rufinus gave him a distasteful look. ‘Any of the officers here?’
‘Nah. Just a fat optio lounging around in the headquarters, helping himself to the wine ra
tion, and the quartermaster faffing around somewhere.’
‘So where are the prefects?’
‘Perennis is at the palace, commanding the emperor’s escort. Paternus is at the amphitheatre, securing it.’
‘Not securing it enough.’
He handed the reins of the mare to the surprised guard.
‘Do me a favour: put Atalanta in the stables for me, and make sure she’s fed and watered. I’ve got to kit up and get into town before the world comes crashing down.’
He was already stumbling off toward the barracks, legs wobbling slightly after the ride, when the guard waved at him. ‘But I need to go shit!’
‘Stable the horse. Then shit!’
Ignoring anything further from the unfortunate ill guardsman, Rufinus tried to run but devolved into a painful stagger after a few steps, feeling the aches and pains start to come on again. As he ran, he unstoppered the vial of painkiller and tipped a small measure between his lips, hoping it was enough to take the edge off the rising tide of pain, but not enough to wool-coat his brain.
Behind him, the guardsman, busy swinging the gate closed, yelped and jumped back as Acheron trotted into the fortress, sparing him a baleful look. The guard’s bowels surrendered.
Hurrying as much as his body would allow, Rufinus made his way through the corridors of the building to the room that had been his more than a year since. Icarion had kept the room clean and clear, though he was still using Rufinus’ bunk for extra storage. Rufinus’ kit stood in the corner and he staggered across to it. If he was to get near the emperor armed, he would have to be in Praetorian paraphernalia.
He noticed with some regret that the more valuable of his possessions seemed to have vanished. Even worthy Icarion couldn’t watch his treasured items at all times, and any sneak thief could find access to any room, given enough time. The leather medal-harness still hung on the bedstead, though the phalera from it had gone, probably to some street vendor for a few sesterces. Such decorations fetched a high price in some circles. Besides, no other Praetorian could wear it without being questioned as to its sudden arrival on his chest.
But the phalera was not the saddest thing. His two javelins stood in the corner, but the third spear in its leather wrap - his hasta pura - was also conspicuously absent. He gritted his teeth as he removed his mail shirt, allowing it to drop to the floor and painfully drew on his musty, dusty white Praetorian tunic, hissing and yelping. When this was all over, someone was going to pay for that theft. Melted down, the hasta pura would be worth a fortune in silver.
Would it be worth the unfortunate thief’s punishment? Hardly, he growled to himself.
Grumbling continually, sharp pains and dull aches drawing tears from his eyes, he divested himself of the drab equipment of a private mercenary and kitted himself out as a Praetorian guardsman. He realised with surprise and relief, as he examined his belt buckle, that he was using both eyes. His beaten eye’s swelling appeared to have gone down enough to allow him to open it. The sudden addition of depth perception to his vision made him feel queasy, but it would be most useful if he met any kind of trouble.
It felt odd after all this time to don official vestments, but somehow also right: as though he had merely stepped out of them for a while. For precious moments he considered the armour. The mail shirt he’d dropped to the floor would do the job, but he felt more at home in segmented plate, and his own armour stood there waiting for him expectantly. There was no hope of getting into it on his own. With a cluck of irritation, he gripped the armour and hauled it painfully from the corner onto the bed. He would have to find someone in the compound to help him. The chain shirt would have been easier, but today he was a Praetorian again, and would damn well look like one!
Acheron appeared in the doorway, tongue lolling, wandering over to the rainwater catchment basin near the end of the corridor and lapping water as though he may never stop. Rufinus smiled at the hound as he gingerly slung the gladius and baldric over his shoulder, feeling one of the cuts on his ribs leak into its wrapping.
A distant roar brought him back to focus. Somewhere off in the city, that sound had risen and fallen like a wave of noise.
Thousands of people shouting.
Like a crowd at the games.
His heart jumped as he was forced to consider the possibility that Commodus had just shown up at the amphitheatre. If that was true, then it was all over. Even at the fastest a man could run, he couldn’t be at the amphitheatre in less than quarter of an hour and that would be quarter of an hour too late. The condition he was in, it would be half as long again at best. Had he missed his opportunity by that little?
Acheron continued drinking, unconcerned. Panicked into rushing ever more, Rufinus grasped the helmet from the table in the corner and, jamming it on his head and lifting the plate armour with his good hand and a grunt, turned back to the door, ready to face whatever awaited him in the greatest city in the world. He’d love nothing more than to take his shield, but there would be simply no way of using it with his arm in this state. If it came to a fight, he would just have to rely on the laminated plates of the manica to protect him.
A second distant roar rose and fell, and this time Rufinus could distinctly hear the sound of an elephant trumpeting over the top. His pulse racing, he realised that the wild animals were being led from their places of captivity through the streets in preparation for the day’s events. The most dangerous beasts: the lions and rhinoceros, the bears and wolves, would have been kept in the cells beneath the arena, but for a celebration of this magnitude, even the great amphitheatre of the Flavians did not contain enough cells to hold all the gladiators and animals required. The less dangerous would be kept in the training schools and bestiaries nearby, and paraded to the amphitheatre in time for the show to begin. As long as the beasts and men were still being brought to the arena, he had time, but it was running out rapidly. The presence of such a large crowd in one place pointed to the imminence of the event.
‘Come on, lad.’
Ruffling Acheron’s ears as he left the room, he staggered and almost fell sideways against the wall. Worried for a moment that he had overdosed on the painkiller again, he pulled himself straight. Hopefully it was just a combination of the extra weight of the helmet on his confused skull and the hour-long breakneck ride that had given him unsteady legs.
Taking a measured breath, he strode along the corridor, ignoring the aches and pains from his body. His mind was so wrapped up in his task that he ran straight into the figure standing outside the barrack block’s door before he even spotted him, dropping the segmented plate armour to the ground. Hissing with pain as various small wounds reopened, he straightened, wishing the painkiller had a quicker effect.
The figure of the Guard’s chief quartermaster straightened scratching his copper-coloured hair. ‘Rufinus?
The young guardsman shook his head and focused on the man in front of him. ‘Allectus? Why aren’t you at the amphitheatre?’
The ruddy quartermaster’s face took on a grumpy aspect.
‘Paternus ran a check on my stores and decided they weren’t up to scratch, so here I am going through everything. Where in God’s name did you spring from, anyway?’
Rufinus shook his head. ‘Sorry… no time. Can you help me into my armour?’
The quartermaster nodded with suppressed interest and stooped to pick up the plated suit, opening it like a clamshell so Rufinus could push his arms through the shoulder holes, with some difficulty where the manica caught, closing it and lacing it up. As he finished, he stepped back and admired his work, noting for the first time the wrappings on Rufinus’ damaged hand.
‘You’ve had trouble, I see?’
‘I’ll manage. There’s trouble heading for the emperor, so I’ve got to run.’
Allectus nodded thoughtfully. ‘If you’re heading for the amphitheatre, Merc and Icarion are assigned to the western side, gates fifty-five and fifty-six. You find them and they’ll be able to help.’
‘Thank you’ Rufinus called over his shoulder, already heading along the barrack block’s wall toward the camp’s main thoroughfare. Another cut opened up on his side as he veered off round the building and hurried toward the western, city-oriented, gate. Once more there appeared to be no guardsmen on duty. Ducking beneath the archway, he moved to lift the pivoting bar, wondering whether he’d have the strength.
‘Oi!’
Rufinus turned at the shout. A Praetorian stepped out of the chamber in the flanking tower, pointing at Rufinus. ‘Where in Hades do you think you’re going?’
Rufinus turned to him, rolling his eyes. ‘Duty. What do…?’
But Rufinus’ voice trailed off as he narrowed his eyes. The man was familiar. He looked the guardsman up and down as the man limped out of the doorway. Something had happened to his leg that kept him in hospital. The tell-tale bulk of a bandage was just visible under the man’s white full-length trousers.
Full length… like the cavalry often wore. The man’s six-sided shield confirmed his status as a Praetorian horseman. And Rufinus knew him from the wayside on the road to Tibur so long ago. He smiled, and the guard frowned at his expression, turning as he heard a low, menacing growl.
Rufinus’ smile widened as the man’s eyes bulged. ‘Where did you get that dog?’
‘He belonged to a friend. He’s a good lad really… unless you cross him.’
The cavalryman backed up to the wall and fumbled for his sword hilt. ‘Bastard thing should be dead! Get him away from me!’
Still smiling, Rufinus turned to the gate, stepped to the bar and lifted it, slowly and carefully, feeling the muscles in his arms burn with every flex, more cuts across his body hissing their agony at him. Concentrating on his task and trying to ignore the pain, he slid back two bolts and lifted others from the indentations in the threshold slab, trying not to listen too closely to the noises behind him, though the initial shriek that was cut short had been tough to ignore.
Praetorian: The Great Game Page 42