S.J.A. Turney - The Great Game

She had managed to pour so much contempt into the word ‘advisors’ that Rufinus could not help but be impressed with her vehemence. She truly believed that she was doing the right thing, but whether she believed she was in the right or not, it did not excuse treason against the emperor.

Her voice was strong and clear, full of confidence as she went on.

‘There will be two thousand Guardsmen in the amphitheatre, but in those tunnels that lead from the entrance to his seat, Quintianus will have the room he needs.’

Rufinus nodded. Not just a location, but the whole plan laid bare for him. Paternus and Perennis would be able to prevent the attack in plenty of time, arresting those responsible before the games began, but he could also give them complete details of the plot.

Furthermore, he knew who had attended the meeting and was in the room. Their very presence condemned them. It was all rather neatly tied up: he had the conspirators’ names, the time and location of the attempt, and even the method and wielder of the blade.

Rufinus’ mind raced. He was short of time and had to get to the Castra Praetoria to warn them all. He wondered briefly how Pompeianus fitted into Lucilla’s plans? Was he expected to take a back seat, as father of the next emperor, perhaps in voluntary exile on Caprea, or would Lucilla find a way to remove him from the picture as soon as she had power?

A thought struck him, unpleasantly: once Rufinus’ absence was noted they’d be alerted to the fact that their plan had been discovered, and everything would fall apart. He would have to engineer some way to leave the villa overtly. Perhaps Pompeianus would be able to help him? Perhaps he could even get the Syrian to safety. Could they go on a hunting trip? Or visit Tibur? Certainly he would not be expected to accompany Lucilla to the amphitheatre.

He would take Acheron with him, of course. Strangely, in the months since the death of Dis of the Frumentarii, he and the dog had forged such a bond that he could no longer imagine life without the hulking Sarmatian hound.

His stomach knotted as another thought occurred to him. How would his disappearance affect Senova? He had not seen her since the jewellery recovery, and even then just momentarily to involve her in his troubles. If only he had time to see her… to perhaps figure out a way to take her with him?

First thing’s first, though: he’d visit Pompeianus and go through everything with him, trying to find an excuse to leave the villa that raised no suspicions. Hurriedly, he turned and, grasping the guttering oil lamp, made for the tunnel. Ahead, he could see the small rectangle of grey light that stood at the end of the tunnel, though his initial destination was the furnace, half way along that length.

Desperate now, knowing his continued secrecy depended on getting that furnace flame relit as fast as possible, Rufinus blundered along the narrow tunnel, his shoulders scraping painfully along the soot-blackened walls, head occasionally connecting agonisingly with the ceiling. A few moments later he burst out into the furnace room, oil lamp in his left hand, his right reaching down for the iron fire-rod before him.

As he rushed from the passageway, a figure stepped directly into his path, and the two went down in a surprised flurry. Rufinus’ mind whirled and panic hit him as his eyes made out two other pairs of legs in the flickering flame of the lamp which fell to the floor on the far side of the furnace fuel.

Not slaves, then. Only one slave would be required to service the furnace; not three. Instinct and his experience in the ring took over and, before he could make a conscious decision, he pounded a flurry of blows on the face of the man who’d tried to intercept him only to end up beneath him on the rough floor. Rufinus felt the nose shatter and heard a crack, a sharp spray of blood slapping across his face.

As he tried to bring his mind into focus, one of the other men made a lunge at him with a blade, and Rufinus rolled just in time, receiving an angry red line down his arm for his efforts. It was all so familiar, as his boxer’s mind began to superimpose a ring over the scene.

Three men in a snow-covered dell in the north – a perpetual barbarian hell of frozen forests and blood-crazed attacks. The first had gone down the same way, in surprise, with a broken head. The second in for a slash, while the third dithered.

He’d lost that fight. Three against one, even with a surprise opening move; the odds were against him. If it hadn’t been for Mercator’s timely intervention, he would have been spitted and bled out on that barren forest floor.

The two remaining guards advanced on him from either side, converging to block the exit, their silhouettes blotting out the rectangle of light. His only advantage was that the man on the left with the gleaming, crimson-edged gladius hardly had room to manoeuvre his weapon, and would be restricted in the fight. The other held only a dagger.

Rufinus was unarmed.

‘Sword’ man was bulky, while ‘Knife’ was reedy and agile. It was so damned familiar. But he’d almost lost last time because of a simple mistake: he had planned it all correctly, but made the potentially fatal error of allowing a fallen opponent the chance to recover and strike him from the floor.

Not this time. His face settling into a furious growl, he beckoned to the two slowly advancing guards as he stamped down hard on the fallen man’s face with his grimy hob-nailed boot, hearing the distinctive sound of a head smashing. He felt the tip of his boot dip into something soft and tried not to think too much about it, turning back to the two, who were approaching warily.

‘Come on, then.’

Big man first. A blow to keep him off-kilter while he dealt with the little one, same as those three barbarians. Sure enough, the bigger of the two lengthened his step suddenly and lunged, stabbing towards Rufinus’ chest while the smaller man ducked to the side, looking for an opportunity. But these were no barbarians in a forest glade. These were gladiators: trained killers, experienced in combat and quick as the blink of an eye.

As the man lunged faster than Rufinus had expected, he ducked to his left just in time, bringing his elbow round in a blow that should have connected with the man’s head. But the brute had already reacted, leaning away as he fell past his intended blow, and ducking Rufinus’ raised elbow. As the man staggered toward the flue passage trying to right himself, the smaller man, with a speed Rufinus would never have anticipated, was suddenly across the room, delivering a scything wound across his right shoulder and ducking back out of reach before Rufinus could respond. They were both quick, adaptable and, worst of all, they worked together. It didn’t matter then which one went first. So long as he evened the odds.

He glanced down at the pile of goods at the centre of the room. The petroleum-soaked logs were still there with their kindling piled atop, ready to be pushed into position with the iron. Nearby, his oil lamp had somehow survived the fall without shattering on the stone floor or being extinguished. The small lamp lay on its side, guttering flame blackening the terracotta spout.

Gingerly, he started to circle into the corridor’s centre, his back to the light, eyes on his foes. The two gladiators watched warily, weighing up the desire to deal with their prey before he could run now against the need to approach carefully without overextending.

Rufinus’ reputation had got around, apparently.

Even in the dim light, he saw the thigh muscles in the bigger man twitch. Preparing, Rufinus put his body weight on his left leg, remaining still as stone. Just because the big man had given away his intention hardly meant that Rufinus should follow suit.