Rufinus staggered, his leg buckling for a moment before he managed to straighten it again. He was going to lose. He couldn’t beat the lightning-fast ex-gladiator, and he apparently couldn’t even successfully anticipate his moves!
Like a ghost, Phaestor backed into the stygian corridor, his shape becoming indistinct in the gloom. Rufinus concentrated. Moving into the darkness himself would be suicide, but standing here like this he couldn’t hope to counter the next move, and the longer he stood here doing nothing, the more strength sapped from his body and the closer Commodus came to crossing to Hades.
He was irritated at being left no other choice, and the emperor’s too-fast progress around the amphitheatre’s exterior could be tracked from the noise of the crowd. Grinding his teeth, Rufinus stepped back into the larger corridor, where Phaestor would have to come out to him.
He almost expected a blow from behind, and a quick glance told him why the other four new arrivals had not joined the fray and ended it for him quickly: Mercator and Icarion had appeared from a stairwell nearby, javelins discarded and swords out and ready, and had intercepted the thugs. A separate battle now raged in the curved corridor nearby.
Phaestor stepped from the gloom, an evil grin splitting his swarthy features. ‘You’re good, Praetorian, particularly for a man in your state.’ He paced forward menacingly. ‘For all your wounds, for a soldier, you’re very good. But you’re too rigid. Legionaries are always taught rigidly, with no attention to the so-many ways you can outmanoeuvre an opponent. You’re predictable and formulaic, because you learned to fight in ranks.’
He spun the sword in his hand with a light, expert grip. ‘Me, on the other hand? I learned my trade in this very building. Winner of twenty two combats. Only ever lost twice, and both times I fought well enough they let me live. Got my rudis and my freedom, but I never lost what this place gave me: a talent for killing. I’m not fettered by the legion’s rules and discipline. A legionary will never beat a gladiator… you’re just too slow and clumsy, and your strength’s wilting like a flower. Look at you: you couldn’t raise an eyebrow, let alone a defensive stroke.’
Rufinus’ mouth curved up into a slight smile as he subtly shifted his grip on the gladius in his hand.
‘You find it amusing? I assure you, you won’t for long. Your time’s running out, little Praetorian. Soon I might decide to stop playing with you and let you die.’
With no warning and no shout, Rufinus threw himself forward and down in a graceless belly-flop, the like of which he had achieved accidentally countless times in his life, tripping or slipping. He landed heavily and painfully on his front beneath and before his enemy.
Phaestor had been prepared for a strike but his blocking blow, already moving out to stop Rufinus’ blade, was at chest height, while Rufinus had fallen gracelessly to the floor, face down, landing with a thud that expelled every last breath from his chest.
Clumsy…
He had always been clumsy. But the one useful thing about such clumsy falls is that they were never expected and couldn’t be anticipated. And this time, his sword had arced out sideways and forward as he fell, the weakened guardsman putting every remaining ounce of his strength into not the dive, but the swing.
Phaestor, stunned by the crazed move, looked down at the idiot he had been facing, now prostrate on the ground in front of him, dazed and with the breath knocked from his chest. The captain smiled as he decided it was time to end the bout. The young man was clearly mad.
It was as he wondered what the idiot had intended that Phaestor realised just how much agony was racing up his leg and burning along his veins like a petroleum fire. His eyes narrowing in confusion, his gaze left the body of the man on the floor and drew closer until he was looking directly down.
At the sandaled foot and half a shin lying sideways on the floor in a slick of crimson, a jagged nub of white bone visible at the top.
The captain’s eyes widened as he fell, the stump of his severed leg hitting the stonework hard and sending a fresh sheet of agony up though him.
As the man slumped, shock robbing him of his senses, what was left of his left leg bending at the knee so that his remaining half shin sat comically next to the severed section in a lake of blood, Rufinus hauled himself onto his own knees, inexorably slowly and with cries and tears of agony.
‘Gladiators are also trained to show off’ he panted. ‘Legionaries don’t boast when they could be busy fighting.’
With a wince of pain, he stepped back and hauled himself painfully to his feet, his eyes never leaving the stunned face of the captain. He swayed dangerously and watched, bemused, as Phaestor picked up his own foot, staring at it as though he had no idea what it was for.
Suddenly, Rufinus felt a presence close to him and started, turning and entirely failing to raise his sword defensively. Mercator and Icarion stood a few feet away, covered in blood and nursing a couple of small cuts.
‘Say goodbye to boredom, Icarion’ Mercator grinned. ‘Our Rufinus is back.’
The two men chuckled.
‘Who’s the cripple?’ Icarion asked with a furrowed brow.
Rufinus turned to look at Lucilla’s guard captain, the movement almost spinning him back to the ground. He would have to be so careful now. His body felt heavy and weary and his mind was struggling, as though trying to think through concrete.
‘He’s no-one.’ Turning to the scene around him, he was relieved to see Acheron sitting on his haunches waiting patiently, pink tongue lolling between crimson-coated teeth, a gash in his shoulder. He tried not to pay too much attention to what was left of the two men the hound had dispatched.
‘Acheron?’
The dog stood and padded across to him. Mercator and Icarion’s eyes widened. ‘That thing’s yours?’
Rufinus nodded. ‘He’s a big softie.’ With a grin, he pointed at Phaestor, still sitting in his own blood, looking rather pale as he turned his severed foot over and over, staring at it.
‘Acheron? Kill.’
Rufinus turned to his friends and nodded toward the tunnels as the sickening noises began behind him, signalling the demise of his enemy and former commander. Mercator and Icarion’s eyes widened for a moment before they tore their gaze from the grisly scene and paid attention to the young man standing next to them.
Icarion shook his head. ‘What in the name of Athena’s arse is going on, Rufinus? Who are these thugs?’
As if the question snapped him out of a dream, Rufinus’ mind cleared and he grasped his bunk-mate by the shoulder, urgency returning to his tone as he spoke. ‘Where’s the emperor?’
They paused. The silence in the corridors was marred only by the occasional crunch and gurgle nearby. Over the top of it, they could hear the distant roar outside the amphitheatre as the crowd cheered Commodus on his procession.
Mercator frowned. ‘He’s approaching the north entrance by the sound of it. Why?’
Rufinus took a deep breath. ‘Because there’s a drawn blade waiting for him in the tunnels. Come on!’
The two other men exchanged a look as Rufinus staggered forwards painfully, reaching out to support himself on the wall.
‘Hang on.’
As Rufinus blinked in surprise at the unwelcome delay, the two men dashed over to the scene of their recent fight, four bodies lying in the dim corridor, bearing efficient looking wounds. The two guardsmen collected their shields and the three javelins that leaned against the wall where they left them.
‘Alright, Rufinus. Let’s go.’
As the veterans re-joined their young friend, Rufinus drew a small glass vial from a pouch at his belt and, staring at it as he staggered, upended it into his mouth and drained it. The pain was becoming too much. Better at this point to be able to move fast than think straight.
‘You alright, Rufinus?’
‘I’ll… live. Tell you… later’ the young man panted. ‘Help me run.’
The corridors of the amphitheatre echoed to the sound of their thu
dding footsteps as Rufinus hurried forward, his friends half-carrying him with every step, lifting him almost off the floor. Each pace brought them closer to the imperial entrance as the gradual rise in volume of the spectators told them. Then they found the crowd.
The mass of public filled the curved passageway, crowding forward to get a sight of their emperor as he arrived. They were easily held back by two Praetorians in gleaming white and silver, but there was simply no way the three blood-slicked guardsmen could get near enough to see round the corner and into the empty passageway that Commodus would even now be approaching.
The roar of the crowd rose and fell. Commodus had entered the amphitheatre.
Rufinus, ignoring the shouts and flapping arms, half-pushed, half fell into the mass, knocking people out of the way, whimpering and yelping as cuts and burns opened up and oozed into their dressings with the effort. But Icarion and Mercator were with him, forging a path through the tide of human life and supporting his failing knees.
It wouldn’t be enough. Rufinus could already hear that voice, golden and smooth, humorous yet commanding, sharing a joke with someone - probably Perennis. He was almost close enough for them to hear the words, but they were still out of sight around the corner. Where would Quintianus the assassin be?
Suddenly the Emperor emerged from the passageway. Rufinus could see that golden hair above the crowd, even with the man slightly stooped, laughing with his Praetorian prefect. Commodus was tall and, as he straightened, his handsome bearded face was visible above the mass.
Rufinus shook his head. What could they do?
With an extra shove that almost finished him, he pushed down on a burly, short man with the build of a blacksmith, using his broad shoulders to raise himself so that he was above the crowd, the people at chest height. His head swam and he nearly passed out with the effort. The broad spectator cried out in rage, but Mercator was there, holding him fast so that Rufinus could use him to see clearly, while Icarion had hold of Rufinus’ side, supporting him steadily.
‘What’s happening?’
Rufinus shook his head. ‘I can’t see anything wrong. I can’t…’
But he could. A figure had burst from one of the tunnels, wearing a pristine white toga, gladius raised in his hand. A shocked silence fell on the crowd for a moment as the young man shouted something about the senate, drawing back the sword.
Rufinus shook his head in dismay.
So near, and yet too far.
The Praetorians holding back the crowd were too far away, much like the three friends, though already some of those with freedom of movement were running for the scene, drawing swords. They would never get there in time. Commodus and the prefect were unarmed, reliant on the guard, and the boy was already making to attack, naked blade raised.
Something rough and narrow was pushed into Rufinus’ hand and he glanced round in surprise to see a leather wrapping in his fingers. Long and narrow, the glint of silver was just visible where the leather cover had been tied round it. His hasta pura! That was why Icarion carried two javelins! That was why it wasn’t in his room! The Greek had brought it with him to prevent just such a theft!
Hefting it and grunting, he released without pause, screaming his pain with the act. There was no time to steady for the throw or to unwrap the gleaming silver shaft from its rough cover. Even had there been time, he had little enough strength just to cast it, let along hold and steady it. The leather-cased spear hurtled through the air over the heads of the crowd as a roar of disbelief and anger surged through them.
His training centurion with the Tenth would have given him a sound drubbing for the appalling quality of the throw, the tail end of the missile wavering like a fish tail as it sailed through the air.
But it was enough.
The missile struck the assailant just as he lunged forward with his sword. The point hit him in the left shoulder and spun him round with the force. The leather case ripped as the point tore through it and into the assassin. Both man and missile fell backwards out of sight, the would-be murder weapon spinning up into the air, released from his grip to clatter down onto the flags nearby. A proper throw, had he been well, would have impaled the man through the heart and transfixed him. This was all his body had left.
Rufinus slumped with exhaustion and pain, whimpering as Icarion held him up.
Commodus, stunned into disbelief, spun this way and that, trying to ascertain the source of the sudden life-saving missile, while Perennis was immediately leaping into action, shouting commands to clear the nearby corridors and for his men to seal every exit. Half a dozen white-clad guardsmen were suddenly around their commander and emperor, swords drawn, watching for any further attempt.
Rufinus almost fell back to the ground as the terrified man he had used as a platform shrank away from him, only Icarion’s support keeping him upright. Irrespective of the shouted commands of the Praetorians and their commander ahead, the crowd nearby were already moving out of the way as the battered guardsman and his two blood-spattered companions shuffled through towards the scene, the central one sagging between the solid grip of his friends.
Rufinus, his mind already fuzzy with painkiller and effort, his last dregs of strength ebbing with every passing step, groaned and closed his eyes. Mercator shook his head in amazement and looked across the barely-conscious young guardsman to his fellow veteran.
‘The hasta pura?’ he said to Icarion. ‘Some sort of statement?’
The other man grinned. ‘Not quite. Other javelin was on the floor with my shield so that I could hold him. His silver spear was in my free hand.’
A moment later, the three were at the front of the crowd, other guardsmen pushing the mass back out of the way with forceful shoves and threats of violence. Perennis, eyes wild, turned to look at the three blood-soaked soldiers bearing down on them.
Rufinus opened his eyes with painful tiredness and looked from the emperor, who appeared distinctly uncomfortable at having a wall of bristling Praetorians surrounding his person, across to the would-be assassin. The swarthy young man, not much more than eighteen years of age, nephew of Pompeianus and weak-chinned senator, was squirming on the floor, clutching at the gaping wound in his shoulder. Two Praetorians reached down and grasped him firmly, roughly hauling him to his feet and ignoring the screech of pain as his rent shoulder was manhandled.
Another guardsman had retrieved the silver shaft with its torn leather cover.
‘Rufinus?’ the prefect said in surprise.
The muzzy fog was beginning to fill his mind now, and the adrenaline that had carried him through the last quarter hour had all-but drained from his system. He half-saluted prefect Perennis and the extra effort over-balanced him, causing him to slump. He would have fallen altogether had Mercator not dropped his shield and reached out to steady him along with Icarion. Releasing their young friend to Mercator’s care, Icarion saluted and rushed over to retrieve the hasta pura from the guardsman who was holding it admiringly, unwrapping the cover.
‘Sir,’ Rufinus managed before exploding into a fit of coughing.
‘What happened to you three?’ Perennis asked quietly, looking the blood-slicked trio up and down.
Mercator gently patted Rufinus on the back and shrugged. ‘We met with a little resistance.’
‘From whom?’
Rufinus, heaving in deep breaths, wiped his drooling mouth with the back of his hand and cleared his throat. ‘Lucilla’s men, sir. There are lots more of them among the crowd, all with knives. You’ll find the real conspirators all sitting with the lady herself. Except Pompeianus’ he added carefully. ‘He’s there, but he’s not one of them.’
The corridors were clearing rapidly, and no members of the public were now visible from this point, just several dozen Praetorians carrying out their orders efficiently. The immediate danger having passed, Commodus exited the encircling wall of white-clad men and strode over towards them.
‘How did you know?’
Rufinus turne
d to the golden-haired emperor and opened his mouth to answer just as he finally succumbed to the aches and pains and the warm fuzz of the painkiller, slumping back unconscious into Mercator’s grasp.
‘Majesty?’
Prefect Paternus appeared at a jog from one of the side corridors, his gaze taking in the scene instantly. He nodded approvingly at the slumped figure of Rufinus in his friend’s arms.
‘I see my man came through. I beg to report this confirms a suspicion we have had concerning the possibility of a plot hatched by your sister and a number of her acquaintances. This young man was supposed to report all the details back to us so that this could have been prevented, but at least he managed to complete his mission, after a fashion.’
Perennis rolled his eyes at this smooth claim to success by his counterpart at the expense of Rufinus’ reputation.
Commodus frowned. ‘I know this man from somewhere.’
‘Guardsman Rustius Rufinus, your majesty’ Paternus said, slickly. ‘You may remember I raised him from the legions in Marcomannia.’
‘Because he saved your life’ retorted Perennis with a sneer. A quick glance from Commodus at the two prefects made them cast their eyes down respectfully.
‘I remember him, yes. And his silver spear. It would appear that your man truly does have the stuff of a Praetorian. Saving lives seems to be habit-forming.’ He straightened and took a deep breath, eyes flicking to the wounded assailant. Lips pursed, he strode forward, crouching halfway to collect the blade that had so recently been levelled at his own chest.
‘A legionary sword,’ he said, conversationally, turning the weapon over in his hand. ‘Functional and plain. One has to wonder how such a martial weapon would find its way into the hand of a young senator of Rome with only a year’s experience as a tribune. Surely a weapon meant for the heart of an emperor should be grander, somehow?’
The young man winced as the two soldiers holding him pulled him up straighter. ‘The blade is symbolic. It represents the empire you’re ruining.’
Commodus nodded slowly as he turned the blade over once more and then jabbed out with it, driving it into the young assassin’s sternum, pushing with a good deal of force until the bone shattered and the sword plunged deep into the chest to find his heart and impale it. The young man’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open in a soundless ‘O’.
Praetorian: The Great Game Page 44