‘No. It’s them.’
‘Are you sure? They could be other men from Commodava.’
Rufinus was still shaking his head. ‘No. They’re cavalry – legionary cavalry – not auxiliary infantry. It’s Celer and his men. Damn it, but the man is like a bad rash: all over us and never seems to go away.’
‘How could he have found us? His scouts are gone and surely he didn’t even know we were at Commodava yet anyway?’
‘Scoris. The filthy bastard took our money in return for directions, then probably took a hefty reward from the fort for selling us out.’
‘Or maybe Celer beat it out of him.’
‘Possibly. Either way, whether he did it willingly or not, Scoris sold us out. And this time we’re in trouble. It’s the end. Nowhere to run.’
Senova shivered. ‘We could scatter into the woods on foot. They wouldn’t be able to follow us on their horses.’
‘True, but there are a lot more of them than us. And if we move off this trail and get lost we lose any chance of ever leaving here. And Luca can’t outrun them anyway with his little legs. And we know there are bears and wolves and probably boars in this region. No. We’re out of options. I’ve got to face them.’
‘Gnaeus, there are too many. You won’t stand a chance.’
Rufinus was nodding. ‘But possibly, just possibly, Celer will be arrogant enough to face me himself. He’s that kind of man. And if I can kill Celer…’
‘If you can kill Celer, then Daizus will be next.’
Rufinus gave her a nasty, feral smile. ‘Daizus doesn’t worry me. I can kill him.’
‘Then the rest of the riders come at you. It’s stupid, Gnaeus. Fatal.’
‘It’s also the only choice,’ Rufinus sighed. ‘You will take Atalanta and Luca and Acheron…’
Senova was shaking her head. ‘I’m going nowhere without you.’
She jerked with shock as he spun and gripped her by the upper arms, holding her tight and staring into her eyes. ‘You are, Senova. There is no argument to be had here. This is not a democratic decision. I have to face Celer now and there’s no alternative. But by doing it, I can buy you and the boy time. You need Atalanta for the gear, and Acheron is as loyal to you now as he is to me. You need him for protection. Get through Roxolani land to Moesia and the coast. Take a ship back to Rome – there’s more money hidden in my socks. Find Vibius Cestus and tell him everything. Somehow he might be able to use it to save Publius.’
Still she was shaking her head. ‘I can’t do it on my own.’
‘Then you and Luca will die here too, Senova. And Acheron. And Atalanta will be theirs and no one will ever know what we found out, and Publius will languish in Cleander’s care for the rest of his life. Nothing will change and we’ll have lost. Is that what you want?’
There were tears in her eyes now. ‘I can’t leave you.’
‘You have to. I have to do this, and I can only do it if I know you’re getting away.’
Luca was waving at them now, beckoning Senova.
Behind them a number of cries issued from the slope below as the cavalrymen spotted the small party. ‘They’ll be on us in moments. Go.’
He pushed her toward the horse and then followed up behind.
‘We’ll get to the crest. You can see the valley falling away. You and the boy can get down the slope and I’ll be able to hold them there for a while.’
Senova was sobbing now as they hurried toward the escarpment, the blue sky between the trees becoming gradually more visible with each step, the shouts of their hunters becoming louder, closer, clearer.
They almost fell. The track veered left suddenly at the escarpment and in their misery and desperation they had almost walked straight over the edge. Rufinus looked down. It was not a cliff, but a steep, rocky, scree-covered slope, far too sheer for a horse to manage, and probably too much for a man, too. The track ran along the upper lip for a few hundred paces and then descended at the side, a little close to the escarpment for Rufinus’ liking, then descended to the valley below and disappeared off east toward the world of the Sarmatians.
‘Go,’ he said, pointing along the track.
‘Gnaeus…’
‘Go.’
He kissed her once, quickly, then pointed off down the slope and drew his sword. Luca inexpertly began to walk Atalanta forward along the edge, toward the descent, and Senova paused, tears streaming down her face, staring in agony at Rufinus. After what felt like a lifetime, she muttered some prayer to her beloved Brigantia and scurried away.
It took Rufinus precious moments to realise that Acheron was standing nearby.
‘Go,’ he ordered. The dog did not move.
‘For the love of Jove, dog, go. Protect them.’ He gestured off after the disappearing party with his sword, and Acheron turned his head, looking at the sobbing woman and the terrified boy beginning the descent. Still, he didn’t move. Rufinus took a deep breath, then stamped a foot close to Acheron, menacingly, pointing again with his sword and commanding the animal to go.
There was a long and painful moment, and then Acheron turned and trotted off along the slope in the wake of the others. Rufinus watched them for a moment until he was sure they were safely descending and then turned toward the approaching babble of their pursuers. He drew his pugio dagger and held it in his other hand. He took a couple of experimental swings with each, every movement tracing pains across his back and bringing a stinging tear to his eye. Who was he kidding? He couldn’t even beat Daizus in this state, let alone Celer.
Still, he had to try. Every heartbeat he held them back was a few paces extra toward freedom for the others. He stood still, weapons unsheathed by his side, waiting.
Was this how it felt to face death? He’d never really done so consciously. He’d always been too busy fighting for his life to think philosophically about it, or on one notable occasion had been in such agony that simple thought had been far beyond him. But this was probably it. He was alone to face death. Everyone’s alone in the end, he thought. Right at the end. And the only worthwhile death was one that saved someone else. He hardened himself. He would save Senova and Luca.
There was a crack of branches and the thudding of hooves and figures emerged up the slope.
Rufinus turned and glanced back down the escarpment over his shoulder. Senova was already perhaps a quarter, even a third, of the way down.
Celer looked smug and self-important. Rufinus realised in that moment that he hated the tribune almost as much as he hated Cleander. Both were cheating, devious bastards. Both were traitors in their own way, he knew. The worst thing about Celer, though, was that he truly believed that what he was doing was right. In Rufinus’ experience if you had to hide what you were doing and kill to keep it secret, then it probably wasn’t right. Albinus was a thief and an abuser of position at best, at worst a traitor and conspirator. And Celer was his attack dog.
Daizus, who crested the rise next, leered like a cat cornering a mouse. Daizus wasn’t worthy of hate. He was just an arsehole.
More cavalrymen, then. Several of them. A dozen or so. The riders fanned out in an arc near the top of the escarpment and Rufinus was struck by how between them and the edge of the drop they had formed a makeshift arena. Still, that was hardly a surprise. He knew what was coming next.
Daizus slid from his saddle and drew his sword with a feral grin, but Celer waved the man back. ‘This is my fight, Centurion.’
The tribune vaulted easily from his steed and landed with catlike grace, handing his reins to the nearest trooper. He stretched and rolled his shoulders, shaking out his arms and stamping his feet, then drew his sword. He turned to Rufinus, his face an immobile mask of confidence.
‘You brought this on yourself, Rufinus. You could have joined us, but instead you kept digging away for your weasel of a master in Rome and defying us. Yet I have a certain grudging respect for you in a way, for your tenacity and invention, if nothing else.’
‘You’re all heart,�
� spat Rufinus.
‘I would offer you a soldier’s death,’ Celer sighed. ‘Quick and neat. As painless as I could make it. You probably deserve it, despite everything.’
‘All heart,’ repeated Rufinus.
‘But the sad fact is that you’ve caused me no end of trouble. Upset everything at Alburnus Maior Caused trouble between the two legates with your impressive subversion of Niger. The dog will bow his head to Albinus in the end, but they will never quite see eye to eye again and you’re a large part of that. And above all else you dragged me and my men across the province at endless expense and discomfort, right to the edge of the empire. I had important things to do without chasing halfway across the world to snick off a loose end.
‘Are you trying to bore me to death?’ Rufinus grunted.
Celer sighed. ‘What a waste. And now I’ll make you hurt all the way into the netherworld for the trouble you’ve put us all through.’
‘Talk, talk, talk,’ the young praetorian said in a bored voice, though he treasured every moment of the tribune’s diatribe. Every sentence bought extra time for Senova. He almost looked back over his shoulder again, but decided not to. No point in drawing attention to the others unless he had to. He stretched his neck and rolled his head, loosening the muscles.
‘Very well. I understand that you were once an excellent fighter. I’m willing to bet that the stripes I put across your back are impeding you somewhat. I’d wager it was an uncomfortable ride from Potaissa.’
Rufinus said nothing, simply standing with blades at the ready.
‘Let me see what you have,’ Celer said. Rufinus stood still. He would not play the tribune’s game. Besides, every moment gained was time for Senova and Luca. Celer frowned. ‘I’m sure it’s not fear or reticence holding you back. Never mind.’
His lunge came so fast that it nearly did for Rufinus there and then. The sword flashed out at neck height and Rufinus was too slow bringing up the blades to block. Instead, at the last moment, he leaned to the side, the sharp edge whispering past his throat, pulled back expertly before the officer opened himself too much to a counter strike.
Rufinus cursed himself. Was it that the tribune was too fast, or that Rufinus was too slow? He should have parried that. He set his expression in a stony snarl and beckoned Celer with his pugio. The tribune snorted a laugh.
‘If that’s all you have then this will be a poor show, praetorian.’
Rufinus prepared himself and this time, when Celer swung, he managed to bring the blade up and turn the blow aside. The result was telling, though. The tribune recovered his swing in a heartbeat and brought the blade back round in another slash from the other side. Rufinus managed to get the pugio in the way, but his back was afire with pain from the sharp movements, and the clash of blades had sent shockwaves up his arms and into his shoulders. He was staggering now, the battle clearly lost in its opening moments.
Celer recovered. ‘I will allow you time to breathe, Rufinus, since this could be over all too quickly.’
The young praetorian grunted and lunged.
A month ago, in full health, Rufinus would have driven home that blow and despatched the tribune, even turning aside any potential parry with the dagger in his left hand. But he was exhausted. He was in pain – so much pain – and he was weak from it all. His lunge was on target but lacked power and drive, and Celer knocked it aside with a disappointed expression.
‘How sad,’ the man sighed, ‘to see a good warrior in such poor condition.’
‘Piss off.’
‘Foul language and invective are redolent of a base mind, Rufinus. This is why you would never make an officer. You are not suited to it.’
He lashed out with astonishing speed, his gladius striking Rufinus’ own sword just below the hilt. The blow was hard and unexpected, and Rufinus almost lost his grip on the weapon, his knuckles vibrating unpleasantly. He tried to bring the sword back for another blow, but the tribune was there again, instantly. Pirouetting like a dancer, Celer brought his gladius round once more and hit the praetorian’s sword again at the hilt. His hand already numb, Rufinus tried to maintain his grip, but the shock was too much and his fingers twitched, the sword falling away from his aching hand.
‘That is a rather poor sight,’ Celer sighed. ‘I think Daizus over there is hoping that I will tire, or that you will win so that he can have a go at you himself.’ The tribune smiled over his shoulder. ‘Apologies, centurion, but I think Rufinus is mine today.’
The young praetorian, desperate now, knowing his main hope had been dashed with the loss of his weapon, held up his dagger defensively, casting his gaze down in search of the fallen sword. He spotted it with dismay just as Celer danced over to it and hooked his foot under it, flicking it away across the dirt towards his cavalrymen.
‘What hurts most, Rufinus? The back or the knowledge that you failed?’
‘Don’t you ever get tired of your own voice?’
Celer gave a weary shrug and leapt forward with a flurry of blows. Rufinus was hit by a wall of panic. His pugio came up and he knocked aside the blade twice in the manic attack, but he felt the blade scoring painful lines across his flesh in half a dozen places before the man ended his assault with a single blow across the back of Rufinus’ hand, cutting to the knuckles. The dagger fell from agonised fingers, and Rufinus staggered back as Celer came to a halt, kicking the pugio away to join the sword.
Rufinus was unarmed and a quick glance down showed that he was also running out of space.
‘To some extent you thoroughly disappoint me, Rufinus. Clever and skilful enough to drag me all the way here from Potaissa and evade capture at every turn. And you killed two scouts. And two of my men are back in Commodava a pale grey colour and unable to stop vomiting. I don’t know how you did it, but that has to have been your doing. And yet here we are at the very end and you have nothing. Even the recruits you trained at Drobeta could put you down now without breaking a sweat.’
Rufinus made his last try. It was a feeble attempt, but he was unarmed and desperate. He threw himself at Celer. The tribune stepped out of the way with ease and Rufinus staggered and fell to his knees in the dust, yelping as he felt stitches pulling free again in his back.
‘How sad.’
Celer beckoned to Daizus and handed his sword to the centurion, who passed over his vine staff of office in return. Rufinus, tears in his eyes, back on fire, gasped where he knelt, but a moment later a whole new wave of pain broke over him as Celer drove the point of the iron-hard stick into his spine.
He screamed.
Celer nodded. ‘Had I the time back in Potaissa I would have made your back a work of art, praetorian.’
Rufinus growled and struggled, trying to find his feet.
‘Gods, but there’s fight left in him,’ Celer laughed, clapping his hand on his leg in delight.
The young praetorian, gasping, agonised, pulled himself up straight, though the pain was intense, and he staggered backward some way.
‘Beware, Rufinus,’ the tribune smiled. ‘You’re very close to the drop.’
And he was. He had staggered back to the edge. Rufinus looked around. It took him a moment. Senova and Luca were at the bottom now, with Atalanta and Acheron. They had paused, watching in rapt horror the action on the top of the escarpment.
No. It wasn’t over. Rufinus turned back to the tribune and grinned.
‘You still have some fight in you, praetorian?’ Celer mused. ‘You surprise me. But I’m bored of this now. And I’m sick of the wilderness that you’ve dragged me through. I long for a hot bath and a good wine. What would you prefer: the sword or the cliff?’
But he was smiling and held no sword. Celer took a step forward and Rufinus took a matching step back away from him. The tribune grinned. No more words, though. He stepped forward again and jabbed with the vine staff. Rufinus stepped back out of the way again, right to the lip of the escarpment. He had to be strong. Probably the last of his strength, in fact.
&
nbsp; Celer jabbed, smiling, prodding Rufinus out into space. The praetorians foot slipped on the edge, mud, dust and gravel skittering away behind him down the steep slope. The fall would undoubtedly be fatal. Either he would fall clear out and bounce a few times on the way down, or he would simply slide down the slope, the rocks and gravel tearing the flesh from him on the descent. Either way, in Rufinus’ condition it would be miraculous if he survived it. Better to make it fast and not scrape off his flesh.
He felt himself going, the vine stick coming in for a final prod. As it neared, though, he grabbed it tight. Celer’s eyes narrowed into a frown and then widened in surprised realisation as Rufinus pulled on the stick with all the strength he could muster. As the young praetorian pushed with his left foot and toppled backwards, the tribune, jerked from his feet in shock, came with him.
The two men sailed out over the edge, the vine staff falling away unheeded as Celer shrieked in panic. Rufinus was silent as the grave as he gripped the tribune, wrapping his arms around him as they fell.
He’d not quite achieved his goal. He’d pushed off from the edge with one foot as they fell, trying to launch into a spin. It had partially succeeded, so that when they first hit the jagged slope they did so on their sides, rather than Rufinus being trapped beneath Celer, ruined back exposed to the rocks. Instead, he felt his arm shredded by jagged stones. Celer honked out his panic, struggling, but Rufinus had only one goal now: hold on. His grip tightened.
The second bounce missed Rufinus entirely and instead tore the voice from the tribune as it winded him, breaking ribs and tearing away leather and linen and flesh in equal quantities. Their twisting had almost completed, and Rufinus was now on top.
The next thud tore Rufinus’ leg with sharp rocks but battered Celer beneath him all the more.
They landed at the bottom with an unpleasant and very terminal crunch.
Rufinus wondered if the boatman would come for him without a coin under his tongue. But he felt utterly broken and there was no hope of retrieving a coin. He lay there, breathing in sharp, ragged gasps. Celer was beneath him, and beneath the tribune just hard, unforgiving rocks. Rufinus had heard the breaking of dozens of bones in that massive crunch as they struck, and knew most of them to have been Celer’s. Not all, though. There was a sharp pain in his own ribs. He couldn’t feel either leg. His left arm was definitely broken. His right was numb, and might well be. Those two limbs had hit the rock first, still wrapped around the tribune.
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