S.J.A. Turney - The Great Game

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 turned 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.’