The Great Game (53 page)

The medicus gave him a wry smile as they gathered their things, the older man helping Rufinus slowly back up the hill toward the villa. Somewhere off in the woods, a blood-curdling scream echoed among the trees. Rufinus smiled.

The sun had risen fully before Rufinus emerged again from Pompeianus’ palace, now dressed in tunic and breeches, most of his wounds hidden beneath plain material and acres of linen wraps, lips tingling with the strange elixir the medicus had fed him and which now coursed through his blood with the vitality of a running stag. He felt as though he could run a thousand miles. His first move - to stand up suddenly and turn - had proved otherwise. It gave him energy, certainly, but he would still be reliant on his damaged body and screaming muscles.

‘You say there are only two other guards on the grounds?’

The medicus nodded. ‘They should be patrolling, but we both know how such men work when their employer is absent.’

‘Will you be safe here?’

‘No one pays a servant any attention, especially one of master Pompeianus’. I will await news of your success.’

With an uncertain smile, Rufinus reached out and gripped the medicus’ shoulder, wincing a little at the pains it brought. His left hand was bound with linen wraps, covering salves for the damaged fingers and a splint for the broken one. ‘Thank you.’ It seemed so insufficient.

Turning away, Rufinus walked, stiffly and carefully, to the praetorium. Time was of the essence. He could not have more than a couple of hours left, and yet some things needed to be done before he could leave the villa. Reaching the door to the building that had been his home for many weeks, he pushed through, still hurting with every movement, though the medicus’ concoction had transmuted the myriad sharp pains to a dull all-over ache that itself was buried beneath the coursing power of the second elixir.

A few moments later he reached his room. Just as he’d expected, the chamber had been ransacked and most things of value had gone. Not everything, though. Phaestor had only searched for anything personal, valuable or incriminating. He had ignored the standard kit issued to the villa’s staff, even specific items for an officer.

He had ignored the key ring on the window sill.

Grasping the ring, Rufinus shuffled back out, along the corridor, and to the storeroom that was kept secure at all times. A quick twist of the key and the lock snicked open, allowing Rufinus to open the door with his good hand. The medicus had told him that he could use his left hand for simple light tasks without any damage. Rufinus was not yet willing to put that to the test, given the residual ache that underlay the man’s concoction.

Phaestor’s master storeroom was a treasure trove of high quality goods, not like the cheap kit in the villa’s armoury. Rufinus nodded professionally as he perused the shelves. Time was of the essence and he had to leave the villa forthwith, but it would not do to march into battle unprepared.

His eyes lit on a suit of segmented plate armour of military manufacture and apparently never worn, but he couldn’t take it. It would be impossible to don on his own, especially with only one working hand. Besides, it was truly uncomfortable to ride in.

Instead, he selected a shirt of extremely high quality mail, slipping it over his head with some difficulty, yelping as the dull ache turned into a thousand sharp needles pricking his skin, and struggling to fasten the straps. A few moments later, suitably armoured and huffing with the pain and effort, he returned to the shelves, eyes alighting on a manica, a sleeve of segmented plates to cover a sword arm. Not in this case, though. He couldn’t grip a shield, but he could do the next best thing.

Wincing and gritting his teeth, he used his good hand to pull the sleeve over the bad arm and laced it tight. Momentarily, he considered drawing the fancy eagle-hilted spatha: a cavalry sword with a good foot on a standard legionary blade. In the end, he decided against it. The reach could be helpful, but he was trained and experienced with the shorter blade, and that counted for a lot more than a foot of steel. Grasping a gladius from the shelf, he slung the baldric over his shoulder and grasped a dagger for the other side.

With a nod of satisfaction, he turned and shuffled out of the stores, aware of how much such simple tasks had hurt. Could he really do this? It had been less than quarter of an hour since his wounds had been bound and already the ache was becoming unbearable, the sore burned patches and knife cuts firing his nerves. Hurriedly removing the vial of painkiller from his belt pouch, he took a small swig; more than the medicus had told him to, but clearly he needed a higher dose or he’d suffer too much to manage what lay ahead.

Straightening and wondering at the almost instant effect of the drug as he felt a woolly coating flood his mind, he shuddered. Was it stupid? He could simply hurry to Constans the merchant in Tibur and send a message to the Praetorian camp. Then he could find somewhere to hide away while he convalesced. He was in no state to ride to Rome, taking on a conspiracy.

No. He simply couldn’t entrust such a matter to anyone else. Constans might not get a message there in time. Rufinus had to know that the message had reached Rome and Lucilla had failed. He had to do it himself, despite everything.
Then
he could rest, when it was all done.

With as deep a breath as he dared and throwing out his good hand to the wall to steady himself, Rufinus stepped out of the Praetorium and made for the barracks. According to the medicus, no senior slaves or staff other than he remained at the villa, and only six guards. Four were already dealt with, so there were two left before he could depart, confident he’d left no enemy behind, nor anyone who would ride to Rome past him and raise the alarm with Lucilla.

As he approached the entrance to the barracks, he spotted the black shape of Acheron loping over the grass towards him and smiled. The pair converged on the doorway and Rufinus paused to listen.

A gentle patter of rain began to fall on the flags outside. Over the quiet background of the weather, Rufinus could hear two people murmuring in a room to the right. He smiled. Both the remaining guards in one place… that saved time.

Stepping in as quietly as he could, given his military-style boots, he moved along the interior wall until he was next to the door of the occupied room.

‘…back by now. I’m bollocksed if I’m going out for another tour in the rain, just because that lot spent all their time poking the body to see what it does.’

‘Maybe something happened?’

It certainly had. Rufinus nodded, a move that caused a strange flood of fluffy muzziness to fill his brain. Blinking away the mental murk, he concentrated. Edging a little closer, he took a deep breath and slid the gladius from its scabbard quietly as he could. Fortunately the blade and sheath were both new and well oiled. With a quiet hiss the steel came free.

‘I still have trouble believing Rustius was a traitor. He was good to us. Better than Phaestor!’

Rufinus halted as he moved into the doorway. He knew that voice! Glaucus, his long-time roommate. Flatulent and sweaty, but a good man.

‘Screw him’ the other man snapped. ‘He’s dead anyway. The crows will have his eyes by nightfall.’

‘Still. I wish…’

‘Ah shut up, Glaucus, you soft sod. You’re just pissed like the rest of us, ‘cause you got left behind with us and can’t watch the games.’

‘Come on. Let’s go check on the others.’

Footsteps approached the door, and Rufinus pushed himself back against the wall. The two men paused at the threshold. ‘That’s Rustius’ dog. Someone should gut the bloody monster.’

Again, Glaucus’ regretful tone followed: ‘I feel
sorry
for him. He’s lost two masters in a year. Maybe I can…’

Glaucus took two steps out of the doorway, past Rufinus, his hand reaching out beckoningly to Acheron, before the other guard grabbed his collar and hauled him back. ‘Don’t be daft. He’ll eat you whole. Come on. Just edge round him and let’s get out.’

Rufinus took a deep breath as Glaucus stepped forward once more and turned to move along the wall, only to find Rufinus directly in front of him.

His eyes bulged and his mouth opened to say something, but nothing emerged as the pommel of Rufinus’ gladius connected sharply with his temple and he fell forward onto the floor, eyes rolling up into his head.

There was a squawk of surprise from the second man as he leapt out of the doorway, wrenching his blade from its sheath. It
never made it clear, as Rufinus’ gladius lanced out and took him in the gut, with no armour to protect him. The man made a strange clucking noise and looked up into Rufinus’ face, fingers twitching on the hilt of his half-drawn blade as Rufinus quickly turned his own sword left and right, wincing at the effort it took, and withdrew it with a tangle of gut and a wash of blood.

He felt somehow that he owed Glaucus the benefit of the doubt. This man: not so.

Watching as the mortally-wounded gladiator toppled backward, he lunged forward with his sword… and completely missed the prone body, his blade skittering across the stonework.

He straightened and stared at the gladius in surprise. He could barely feel the aches and pains of the many small wounds inflicted upon him now, with the overdose he had taken, but also his judgement and reactions had apparently been adversely affected, and every sharp move flooded his brain with fuzz.

As the man on the floor struggled to hold his ruined stomach together, Rufinus concentrated as hard as he could and lunged forward again, this time driving the point into the man’s chest and on through his heart, his own cry of pain melding with that of his victim. The gladiator stiffened for a moment and began to twitch.

Rufinus slumped against the wall. The effort he’d expended in the short fight had almost drained him. Clearly he wasn’t going to be able to continue on the dosage he‘d self-administered. It was simple: less pain and clarity or more pain and clarity. Horrible choice.

Once his head had settled and stopped swimming quite so much, he crouched and examined Glaucus. The man was out cold and would be for several hours. He was almost certainly no threat. And, despite the nagging thought that he was leaving a man behind him, he couldn’t bring himself to do away with the flatulent old sod who’d shared his room and never done anything wrong to Rufinus’ knowledge other than choosing to serve the wrong mistress.

Wiping his sword clean on the fallen man’s tunic, he replaced it and stood, looking at Acheron.

‘I think you’re going to have to stay here for now, boy.’ The dog padded over to him and nuzzled his hand, leaving sticky, bloody marks. ‘I’m sorry, but even if I thought it was a good idea taking you to Rome, you’d have to run the best part of fifteen miles just to get there. It’s not a good idea. Go back to the room and I’ll come back for you as soon as I can.’

Acheron stayed stock still as Rufinus smiled sadly. ‘Go on. Run along.’ With a last reproachful look at him, the Sarmatian hound slunk away through the doorway and disappeared.

Rufinus took a deep breath, wobbled a little, and righted himself with a hand on the wall. Turning, he hobbled out of the barracks and made his way back past the praetorium, up the hill and toward the Inferi grotto.

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.