S.J.A. Turney - The Great Game

Moreover she had drawn blood from Lucilla and, given the way the empress was treating him at the moment, he felt more inclined to embrace the clumsy slave than chastise her.

‘What is that ?’ asked Menander, his shrill voice rising with distaste.

Phaestor frowned and turned to see the men who had accompanied him standing quietly in the doorway. In the face of Lucilla’s invective, he’d entirely forgotten about them. The four men bore aloft the messy remains of the former guard, crimson droplets falling to the marble floor.

‘I brought Rustius’ remains for confirmation of my report.’

The chamberlain’s kohl-painted eyes widened and he spluttered. ‘Get that thing out of the empress’ sight, you utter barbarian.’

The four men made to turn, but Lucilla held up one hand, the other dabbing her ear with a linen swatch. ‘Wait.’

Her golden sandals slapping on the marble, she crossed the floor to the grisly corpse. Slowly she circled the body, her eyes drinking in every abrasion, welt, singe, and tear. When she had reached the head end again, she leaned over it and used a perfectly manicured hand to open first his mouth and then his eye, peering into them and nodding to some unheard thought.

Finally, she raised his mangled left hand and examined it closely, ignoring the blood dripping from it onto the marble, except to take a half step back and keep her sandals from the droplets.

‘Your Persian seems to have known his business, whatever he might have done. His work was immaculate; painful but not damaging. It must have been excruciating for the young fool and, had he not been weakened by the Gods, he could have lasted for days. I have only once before seen such a work of beauty.’

She sighed, almost happily, and ran a perfect finger along a particularly messy cut, raising it to examine the blood on her nail. With a smile, she wiped it on the linen swatch she carried.

Phaestor rolled his eyes, grateful that he couldn’t be seen from this angle, as all eyes were on the empress. He turned to face her.

‘A careless prod to the spine with a knife seems to have done for him, ma’am.’

She nodded slowly and patted the corpse on the head. ‘A shame you achieved nothing other than pain. But at least we know he can no longer do any harm. Have him nailed up, but assign it to the six men you’re leaving behind. I want you and the rest of the guards packed for three nights’ stay and ready to leave for Rome within the hour. When we arrive, I have a number of engagements to take care of before we head for the amphitheatre.’

Phaestor bowed.

‘Now get out and take this thing with you.’

Another bow and the captain gestured to his men, who turned with difficulty in the doorway and bore their burden out into the corridor. As the door closed behind them with a click, Phaestor gave a deep sigh. ‘Harpy! If she wasn’t the most powerful woman in the empire, I’d be on my way to find new employment.’

There was a chorus of concurring murmurs and nods from the other four.

‘Hhhhhhuuuuaaaaaarrrrrrr!’

Rufinus awoke with a start, his heart on fire and veins burning. He heaved in a deep breath and his eye snapped open.

‘Shitting shit!’ shouted someone less than a foot in front of him.

‘What?’ snapped another off to his right.

‘He’s alive ! He’s shitting alive !’

Rufinus jerked and struggled, heaving in deep breaths. His body felt as though it was burning from the inside out, and every tense of muscle felt like his skin was tearing from his body. He issued a loud cry of agony. Behind him, a grizzled gladiator fainted.

‘Stick him!’ someone yelled.

‘Fuck that! This one’s of the other world. Even Hades spat him back!’

‘ I’ll do it.’

Finally, Rufinus’ brain lurched into life and his head turned, with screaming pain, to take in the scene. He was lying on a wooden cross. His left wrist was tied to the horizontal beam, and the man who had first spoken held a length of rope, presumably for his other arm.

He was being crucified!

Another man – the one who had demanded they attack – was holding a mallet and a bag of something heavy. He knew damn well what that contained! A third man stood behind him, grasping a spear handle and changing his grip as if for battle. There was a fourth lying unconscious.

Four in all, though only three standing.

Rufinus writhed. His body screamed in agony though everything seemed to work, despite the pain. The man with the rope grasped his hand and pushed it back against the beam, desperately trying to tie the rope.

‘We nail him up, live or dead. Makes no difference.’

‘Dead’ stated the one with the spear flatly, pushing the man with the hammer and nails out of the way and striding forward, pulling his arm back ready to thrust. Rufinus, struggling with feeble strength to fight off the hands of the man tying his arm to the bar, watched with horror as the spear was pulled back. He didn’t have enough strength to fight off one man, let alone three, and his left arm would have been less than useful even if he managed to free it, given the damage to his hand.

‘Wait!’ he yelled.

The man with the rope ignored him, pulling the cord tight and slamming his wrist back against the wood. ‘Bring the nails.’

But the nail-and-hammer bearer was now behind the spear-man, who had manoeuvred closer to the right to gain a clear thrust at Rufinus’ bare chest. The man’s eyes met with his good one and the two stared at each other for a moment. Then the spear-man frowned in suspicion as he saw Rufinus’ eyes slip away from his, looking past him; past his shoulder. He half turned, spear still poised.

Acheron flew through the air like a ballista bolt of black hair, gleaming teeth and flaring eyes, a trail of saliva catching the dawn light behind him. The spear-man’s eyes widened in the moment before one hundred and fifty pounds of snarling muscle hit him square in the back, knocking him flat, the spear falling from his grip. The man struggled beneath that immense weight for a moment before Acheron’s teeth closed on his windpipe and ripped it away in a spray of gore.

The struggling guard in front of Rufinus left off pulling the rope and sat back on his haunches, drawing his curved blade ready to fight off the huge, black beast that was busy tearing pieces off his friend’s shuddering corpse. He straightened.

‘Tuccius! Drop the nails and help me!’

Rufinus’ eyes slipped sideways to the man with the hammer and bag but all he could see was a rapidly diminishing figure as the nail-carrier hurtled off into the trees as fast as his legs could carry him, panic infusing every muscle with the speed born of desperation.

Acheron gave a low, throaty, threatening growl and lifted his head, blood dripping from his teeth. The rope-man held up his sword and scrabbled for the small round shield that lay nearby. Rufinus tried to pull his right arm free. Although the man had not managed to tie the rope, he just didn’t have enough strength to pull his arm free of the wrapping of hemp.

Watching with some trepidation as Acheron advanced on the now armed and shielded gladiator, Rufinus swallowed nervously. Acheron was dangerous, certainly, but against a fully-armed gladiator?

A loud ‘crack’ echoed around the hillside and Rufinus frowned as the gladiator wavered for a moment and toppled onto his side on the ground, his temple red and white, mashed to a pulp. A blood-and-brain coated sling-shot bounced across the grass and came to rest next to Rufinus and his eyes went from the missile, up past the slumped body, to the man emerging from the bushes.

Pompeianus’ medicus had placed another bullet in his sling and begun to whirr it swiftly, his eyes taking in the scene, knowing that at least one more of the crucifixion party was up and about, even if he had fled the scene.