S.J.A. Turney - The Great Game

Rufinus slumped against the wall. The effort he’d expended in the short fight had almost drained him. Clearly he wasn’t going to be able to continue on the dosage he‘d self-administered. It was simple: less pain and clarity or more pain and clarity. Horrible choice.

Once his head had settled and stopped swimming quite so much, he crouched and examined Glaucus. The man was out cold and would be for several hours. He was almost certainly no threat. And, despite the nagging thought that he was leaving a man behind him, he couldn’t bring himself to do away with the flatulent old sod who’d shared his room and never done anything wrong to Rufinus’ knowledge other than choosing to serve the wrong mistress.

Wiping his sword clean on the fallen man’s tunic, he replaced it and stood, looking at Acheron.

‘I think you’re going to have to stay here for now, boy.’ The dog padded over to him and nuzzled his hand, leaving sticky, bloody marks. ‘I’m sorry, but even if I thought it was a good idea taking you to Rome, you’d have to run the best part of fifteen miles just to get there. It’s not a good idea. Go back to the room and I’ll come back for you as soon as I can.’

Acheron stayed stock still as Rufinus smiled sadly. ‘Go on. Run along.’ With a last reproachful look at him, the Sarmatian hound slunk away through the doorway and disappeared.

Rufinus took a deep breath, wobbled a little, and righted himself with a hand on the wall. Turning, he hobbled out of the barracks and made his way back past the praetorium, up the hill and toward the Inferi grotto.

A few hundred heartbeats later, he was in the network of access tunnels that threaded the hillside beneath the villa, connecting many of the outlying structures that were no longer used. Cold, wet days patrolling the outer regions of the villa had given him the opportunity to learn the servants’ passages and once or twice he’d been up to these storage corridors near the grotto. The stables were built into one such tunnel, the cold wind that was constantly drawn along the tunnel carrying away the smell of horses and their stalls.

The three slaves who maintained the tunnels, distributed goods and looked after the beasts and vehicles paid no heed to the limping, unsteady guard, armed and armoured and strolling in their midst. It was not the lot of slaves to question the employees of the villa.

‘I need a horse… a fast one.’

‘Of course, Domine.’

The slave bustled around the busy tunnel, gathering saddle and harness, and Rufinus slumped back against the wall, wincing as he felt one of the brand marks rub against the bindings around his chest.

The medicus had been right, of course. There was nothing critical about any of the wounds, even the missing nails. In a few months he would be hale and hearty. And even now, the wounds were small and manageable on their own. It was just the sheer number of cuts and burnings taken all together that was difficult to deal with. Every move brought with it at least half a dozen small pains.

Straightening, he saw the slave leading out a placid-looking bay mare from one of the stalls. He cast an approving eye over her as she walked out into the glow of one of the light-wells. She was sleek and healthy with good muscle tone. Slightly larger than the breeds used by the military, she had a long step and would surely be fast. He watched as patiently as he could manage while the horse was prepared in front of him.

It was perhaps an hour after dawn now, by his estimate. Time was running short. The games in the arena generally started mid-morning. There had to be time to get in a few of the mock fights, martial displays, animal processions and so on before a break for the noon meal. Equally, the games were never begun early enough to disturb the relaxed morning routine of the higher classes. By Rufinus’ estimate he had as little as an hour, or as much as two at most before the games would begin with the Emperor’s arrival… and death if he wasn’t there to stop it.

And here he was watching the slave faff around with tack.

‘She’ll be fine like that. Thank you.’

The slave frowned. ‘But she needs…’

‘She’s fine.’ Gritting his teeth, Rufinus hauled himself into the saddle with no small pain and difficulty, swaying as he sat, tears flooding his eyes, his jaw clenched.

‘Are you alright, sir? Can I help?’

‘Just be about your business’ Rufinus replied irritably, shifting himself into a remote semblance of comfort. As the slave scurried off to his tasks, Rufinus turned the horse and began to walk her down the passage, trying not to yelp with every bump of the saddle… mostly failing. Occasionally he passed other men loading carts or stacking boxes in side rooms, but he paid them no heed, nor they him.

A few moments later, he exited the tunnels with a sigh of relief. He’d only rarely managed to explore the western exits of the corridors, and wasn’t entirely sure of their full layout. And yet, as he rode from the claustrophobic gloom into a small open courtyard, he saw the ivy-clad arcades of the abandoned theatre off to his right.

Painfully kicking the mare into life and regretting not having asked her name, he cantered across the open ground beside the theatre, skirting the glorious curved colonnade and making for the slope. The first few loping steps were agony, but the rhythm quickly settled into a jostling blur of aches.

‘Come on… Atalanta. I shall call you Atalanta.’

As carefully as he could, yet speedily as he dare, he raced down the steep hillside, jumped the stream at the bottom – a move that made him scream aloud on landing and almost unhorsed him – and kicked the beast into an extra turn of speed as he rose up the slope beyond, cresting it and making for the road ahead, where it ran alongside the woodland of the estate.

It felt like an hour had passed when he finally reached the metalled surface and pushed the mare into every ounce of speed she had. He was racing against time itself, with the Emperor’s very life hanging by a thread at the end of the course. Every step of every hoof brought pains that threatened to drive the wits from his head, but he gritted his teeth and gripped the reins for dear life.

Cursing the distance and the many delays he’d been forced to endure, he rode past the edge of the woods that marked the end of Lucilla’s domain, and was almost overcome with emotion when a huge black shape emerged from the undergrowth at a run and fell in alongside the mare, trying to match her pace.

‘Acheron!’

Surprise gave way to relief and gratitude as he watched the huge, muscular hound, pushing itself to the limits of its endurance to keep up. Recognising that the pace he had set in his desperate panic would destroy his mount before he reached the city, Rufinus eased off just a little. Besides, losing consciousness from the pains of the gait and falling from the horse would serve no use at all.

The mare relaxed into her gallop, and Acheron began to match her pace for pace, pink tongue lolling from the side of his mouth as the three of them pitted themselves against the passage of time to save Commodus from disaster.

The exhilaration of the ride almost made him forget his pains.

RUFINUS slowed Atalanta to a walk. Despite the tortuous pace he’d set since leaving the villa three quarters of an hour earlier, he had slowed twice already to allow the magnificent bay mare, as well as his screaming flesh, a rest. Acheron had kept up remarkably well, and Rufinus had felt the bond he shared with the great black hound strengthen with every mile.

Now, the Castra Praetoria’s eastern gate stood impassable before him. Approaching the gate at a walk, he came to a halt.