Moments later, using two back alleys so that they did not step out into the street near the mansio, the small group returned to the main square, where they made a great show of speaking to one another in Latin. Rufinus consulted their map very visibly, pointing off to the south and loudly speaking the name of Romula, a city back down near the Danuvius. Senova nodded her head, also pointing off south and replied with the name Arutela, also a fort off in the same direction. Fake decision made, they rode out of the town around the edge of the hill, heading south-west, talking loudly as they went.
Once they passed beyond the last few homes and a farm and into the countryside, Rufinus gestured and they moved off the road and began to climb the slope of the hill. Here, away from the town, it was a relatively gentle incline and in half an hour they had reached the crest of the hill, an impressive view to both sides. Now silent and careful, they moved along the ridge, climbing steadily all the time until they reached their goal.
The fort after which Castrum Sex was named was long gone. Likely it had only existed briefly after the conquest, before the more permanent borders were decided. The fort’s defences had been timber and earth, and all the internal buildings also wooden. With more than half a century of neglect, all that timber was gone, reused in local construction or burned in fires on cold winter nights, but the shape of the fort was clear, and the reason for its name came clear with it. Given the terrain on the hilltop, the earth banks had followed available lines, resulting in a fort of a roughly hexagonal shape, with two dips to north-east and south-west where the gates had been.
The four of them walked across the interior of the small camp to the far side and looked down. The town they had left less than an hour ago lay twinkling perhaps a hundred and fifty feet below them. The sun had dipped below the horizon as they climbed the hill and now the evening was turning a darker shade of purple with every heartbeat, those glowing golden lights in the town making it seem so attractive and welcoming to tired travellers stuck on a bare hilltop. Well, not bare as such. As well as the earth banks, there were quite a few trees and a lot of undergrowth, particularly around the periphery and on the slopes.
‘We make camp here, but with no fire. Set up the tent and we’ll have a quick cold dinner and get an early night, setting off straight away in the morning, long before sunup. The horses will be rested enough and we can get away, hopefully without pursuit, given the false trail we’ve laid.’
Senova nodded, then paused thoughtfully. ‘We don’t have all the tent.’
‘What?’
‘We left one piece of it on the hill beyond the woods.’
Rufinus sighed. ‘Use my spare cloak as the front. It’ll do for tonight.’ He turned to Luca. ‘Three shifts on watch. Tonight, you get the first shift. You fall asleep and I will tie your arms and legs together and throw you down the hill for a distraction while we ride off. Got it?’
Luca nodded miserably and Rufinus had to fight down the urge to apologise for shouting. ‘I’ll take the middle shift,’ he went on. ‘Senova, you have the morning one. Two hours each. We’ll be off and moving while it’s still night-time, that way.’
The evening was miserable. The food was good enough, but they were all hungry for something warm and filling, and sitting in the dark to eat it was hardly a heart-warming experience. Moreover, though the day had been warm and clear, the top of a hill at the meeting of four valleys turned out to be a surprisingly windy and chilly place and, even wrapped up, the small party of travellers shivered.
Luca was sent out once they had finished their meal with strict orders to sit at the old ramparts and keep an eye on the town. Every quarter hour or so he was to make a circuit of the old fort defences, keeping a particular watch on the town and on the route they had taken up the hill. And he was not to fall asleep.
As the slave boy went out, miserable but determined to redeem himself, Rufinus and Senova huddled down under their blankets in the part-makeshift tent and stayed close for warmth. Despite sore eyes and tiredness from their very trying day, Rufinus found sleep difficult and interrupted. The knowledge that they might be relying on Luca for their very lives and that the boy could very well be snoring on a rock made him uneasy and he woke periodically in a semi-panic. Thus he was still weary yet half-awake when Luca pushed aside the hanging cloak and gestured for Rufinus roughly two hours later.
The praetorian nodded with a profound sense of relief and left the boy to climb into his blankets while he stepped out into the chilly night air. The stars above painted a thousand pictures in the night sky, and the landscape took on an eerie, other-wordly feel in the dark. Rufinus trotted off toward the southwest gate from whence they had approached. A careful scanning of the hillside revealed nothing but a lone owl swooping over the grassland and hunting for food.
He stopped by that gate and urinated with a sigh of relief into the undergrowth. A quick circuit of the rampart to both north and south followed, and then he moved to the top of the slope above the town, where he found a piece of broken log that from the footprints Luca had been using for a seat. He sank to it, grunting at the difficulty of the wrappings on his torso. He’d been meaning to change them tonight. They were supposed to be in a comfortable mansio with baths and every amenity. Instead they were on another bare hilltop and he was still wearing the same bandages he’d been bound with for several days. He had to admit he was starting to smell a little pungent. Oddly, though, there was no real pain. It had been four days now and the wounds had become little more than a constant ache, so ever-present that he only really noticed it when he actively thought about it. He decided that when it was time to change shifts, he would ask Senova to help him unwrap and check the wounds. If it was already well on the way to healing, as the medicus had suggested it might be, then he could just re-bind the wounds in a looser, more giving manner. If not, then at least the dressings would be fresh.
He sat on the log, watching the winking lights of the town.
How had he got into this mess, and what in Tartarus was he doing about it? His father was busy selling up the last of the family’s property in Hispania in some crazed attempt to inveigle himself back into imperial circles in Rome. His younger brother was a prisoner – albeit a comfortable one – of the most hated and dangerous man in Rome, and consequently Rufinus was forced to play henchman to Cleander. The emperor seemed to have forgotten about ruling his world and was said to be playing games while his chancellor and praetorian prefects ran everything for him. Provincial governors were cheating the imperial administration while lining up ready for a possible civil war of succession. And, through it all, here he was sitting in a hilltop near the edge of the civilised world, hiding from his own people with a slave and an ex-slave, planning to ride out brazenly into Sarmatian lands.
The situation seemed hopeless, and their current plan insane, but there was truly no alternative. He was sure – absolutely sure – that no matter how rabid and angry Celer and his pet centurion became they would not leave the empire just to follow them. Once they passed that line of forts at Commodava and left Dacia, Rufinus was certain that Celer would give up the chase. They would be free of the threat from the lunatic tribune and his men. Of course, they would be in Roxolani lands for more than a hundred miles with no ability to communicate with probably-hostile natives. That in itself was probably a stupid part of the plan, but again a necessary one because at the end of all this there was a ship which could take them to Rome, and Rufinus would present what he had learned to Cleander and hope it was enough to buy him Publius’ freedom. He would even debase himself if he had to. He would get his brother released.
And then he would find a way to kill the serpent Cleander.
Of course, there was a lot to get through before all that. Tonight, for one thing.
He returned his gaze to the town and then finally, with a sigh, rose and set off around the defences again on a circuit. He had just passed a small, willowy tree when he heard the sound of wood snapping. His heart suddenly raci
ng, he leapt behind that thin bole and peered down the hill. He was close to the south gate again, where they had entered the camp.
The noise could have been anything. Some nocturnal animal on the hunt. Possibly even a bear, his imagination reminded him. But he had spent enough time in the forests of Pannonia listening out for Marcomanni warriors that the sound of a stick breaking underfoot had become unmistakeable.
From this particular vantage point, he could see nothing. Hazarding a guess at the slope of the hill and the height of the remaining ramparts, he ducked low and scurried out from the tree, careful to tread only on the grass. He reached the turf bank swiftly and rose just enough to look over it.
A man was climbing the hill, moving slowly and carefully. Rufinus peered down, pulse thundering, sweat breaking out cold on his brow. Even by just the meagre light of the stars and the narrow moon, he could see that the man was not Roman cavalry. That should have been a relief, especially when more detail made it clear that the fellow was a native, dressed in standard Dacian clothes.
There were probably a thousand reasons for a local to climb the hill in the middle of the night. Of course, he couldn’t think of any particular one right now, but he was sure there were. The man stopped suddenly and Rufinus peered down, watching him turn and put his hands to his mouth. There was a very convincing cry of an owl, followed by a similar hooted reply from lower down the slope, and then a second figure emerged from the undergrowth further down. Two men creeping about in the dark, signalling each other carefully.
They might well be poachers or criminals or other townsfolk of Castrum Sex, but if so it was a damned strange coincidence that they climb the hill on which the fugitives were camped. Whatever the men’s intentions, they were clearly coming up to the top and would encounter Rufinus and the tent. Whether they were Celer’s scouts on a mission or just nefarious locals, they almost certainly represented trouble and, if they caused enough of a disturbance, the town below might become aware, and therefore so would anyone suspicious staying in the mansio.
In a moment of irritated realisation, Rufinus stupidly remembered that his sword was lying in the tent, alongside Luca’s axe and Senova’s falx. He’d not even considered bringing a sword on watch. Idiot. He deserved to be slapped every bit as much as Luca for that oversight. Swiftly, he hurried back over to that small tree. The tent was too far away. He’d be there when the men crested the hill. He’d not seen weapons, but there was every chance that one of them had a bow. If Rufinus was over at the tent fetching his sword when the man arrived, he would have the time to get off one, maybe two, arrows before Rufinus could be on him again, and that would be enough to end it all.
He couldn’t risk running back to the tent, then. But he was unarmed and needed to put these men down before there was enough commotion to reach back to the town. Scanning the ground, he spotted a rock the size of his fist protruding from the grass and prised it free with his cold fingers. Clutching it behind his back, he rose once more. He could hear the man closing on the old gate-gap in the turf rampart now. Time was up.
It turned out his instincts were spot on, and he’d been right not to run back to the tent. The man who lurched into view had a bow over one shoulder and a quiver of arrows at his side. A good archer, given the open hilltop, could have put Rufinus down remarkably quickly if he’d been far enough away. Instead, the man stepped into the camp, eyes searching the interior and alighting upon the shabby tent in the middle. He turned and made an odd wildlife-sounding noise back to his friend.
Moments only. Just moments to react.
Rufinus stepped out from behind the tree. Perhaps they were locals hunting nocturnal life, after all.
‘Good evening.’
The man’s reaction put paid to that notion instantly. His eyes widened in surprise and, even as he began to rip his sword from its sheath, he turned and shouted something down to his companion in his native tongue.
At least now there was no doubt or ambiguity. Whether they were Celer’s scouts or not, they were definitely enemies. Rufinus threw his stone. The rock smacked into the man’s forehead as his sword cleared his scabbard and the effect was impressive. The blow sent the man flying back to the grass, arms flailing. His bow string somehow snapped or came loose and the bow fell away. The sword, only half gripped, flew out across the ground and disappeared into a bush. The quiver became entangled with the man’s leg and arrows clattered out to the grass as he landed on his back, winded and with a cry of shock.
The second man, somewhere down the slope, shouted and Rufinus heard him start to run, struggling up the incline. The young praetorian started to think. Two men, one now down temporarily, though the blow had been far from enough to put him out of the fight for good. Rufinus was unarmed. He…
The need for planning evaporated as Acheron, snarling like every malevolent spirit every released, hurtled past like a giant black, hairy ball of death and vanished over the turf rampart. There was a squawk of horror from the slope. Rufinus smiled as he threw himself on the first man, who was beginning to recover and attempt to rise. The man’s breath was knocked from him as the solid-bodied praetorian landed on him, but the move had a very similar effect on the attacker. Even as the Dacian groaned and struggled beneath him, Rufinus was momentarily blinded by the pain in his back. He’d lived with the ache long enough now to forget that it was still a relatively raw wound. He felt two or three of the stitches pop and fiery pain rushed through him. Thank the gods he still wore the original tight bindings, or that stupidity might have opened up the whole lot again.
Rufinus lurched up, staggering, wincing and moaning at the now-fresh soreness on his back.
Through the tears, he saw the other man rise, blinking away blood, the wound to his forehead growing into a lump as blood poured down his face. Despite the blow, the man was sneering at him. His bow and sword both gone, the Dacian raised his fists.
Rufinus grinned. Despite the discomfort left as the pain dissipated a little, this was now good, familiar territory. The man flexed his knuckles.
‘Celer,’ Rufinus said quietly. The man’s reaction, narrowed eyes and a slight tensing of all muscles, pretty much answered the praetorian’s unspoken question. There could be no doubt now that these were the tribune’s scouts. Celer and his men had probably settled into the mansio but his scouts, either following orders or on their own initiative, had somehow tracked them to the hill, presumably from sightings in the town and then an exploration of the road they had taken out of the place.
Damn it, but why had he not been more careful with their tracks? Still, these men were professional scouts and hunters. Likely any measure Rufinus had taken would not be enough. An odd realisation thrilled through him at that thought. These were Celer’s professionals. Without them, the tribune would find it much more difficult to track Rufinus and his friends. Here was an opportunity, then.
The man took a step forward and swung. Rufinus ducked easily aside, but the counter-swing he’d intended never happened. The pain that rippled across his back with the sharp movement was too intense. Damn it, but he’d grown so confident he was almost healed even after only four days. Thanks to the excellent wrappings of the medicus, the fact that the most difficult thing he had done was slide off a horse, and Luca’s repeated use as footstool, Rufinus had been lulled into a false sense of recovery. But now he was required to fight, the truth of it came back rather bluntly: he was not well enough to fight. But he had to put this man down.
He straightened, tears blurring his vision, and the man opposite him paused to wipe the blood from his head wound out of his eyes. It might have been comical under other circumstances, two men blinded and floundering. Rufinus took advantage of the pause and threw out a jab. The blow connected but was misplaced and weak, partially through his blurred vision and partially because of the intense pain that had surged through him like a wave as he threw out his arm.
The man staggered back a step, but his vision was clear with a last few blinks and his return p
unch glanced off Rufinus’ shoulder as he tried to back out of the way. Both men winced and gasped and staggered back.
This was no good. It had to end, and if it went on like this, it could go either way. At least from the savage, feral sounds down the slope, the second man was unlikely to be joining them any time soon. Rufinus contemplated his problem. Throwing out right and left arm caused equal pain in his back, and neither was going to land an adequate blow. His head was still good. His legs… well, he didn’t know how much using them might hurt.
The scout stepped forward, wiping away the blood once more, hands coming up ready, menacing. Rufinus settled on his decision. A twin attack that would take the man by surprise. The first might just be too painful to resort to the second, but he’d try anyway.
His own hands came up and he clenched his fists and danced them left and right before him like some exotic Aegyptian dancer. The scout frowned, and Rufinus pulled back one as though making to throw a punch, but then lowered it and pulled back the other. The man’s eyes flicked back and forth between the two hands, attempting to ascertain where the true danger lay.
He failed, as Rufinus’ foot connected with his crotch with a horrible crunching noise. The scout’s face drained of blood in an instant. Rufinus suspected his had done much the same, though. He’d felt another stitch snap with the move and the searing pain was there again. Still, he’d endured worse and so he fought through it, moving to the second blow. Even as the scout gasped and gagged, his ashen face dropping to look in horror at his nethers, Rufinus’ forehead smashed into the man’s scalp.
His head-butt caught a glancing blow on the bloody lump the rock had left, and the man gave a brief gurgle and collapsed back onto the grass again.
Rufinus staggered. He felt sick as though he had drunk a thousand jars of wine on a diet of naught but fish sauce. He lurched back and forth, stepping this way and that, and then spewed forth an impressive fountain of vomit onto the grass.
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