S.J.A. Turney - The Great Game

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.