S.J.A. Turney - The Great Game

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 thudding 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.