S.J.A. Turney - The Great Game

‘Come on, lad.’

Ruffling Acheron’s ears as he left the room, he staggered and almost fell sideways against the wall. Worried for a moment that he had overdosed on the painkiller again, he pulled himself straight. Hopefully it was just a combination of the extra weight of the helmet on his confused skull and the hour-long breakneck ride that had given him unsteady legs.

Taking a measured breath, he strode along the corridor, ignoring the aches and pains from his body. His mind was so wrapped up in his task that he ran straight into the figure standing outside the barrack block’s door before he even spotted him, dropping the segmented plate armour to the ground. Hissing with pain as various small wounds reopened, he straightened, wishing the painkiller had a quicker effect.

The figure of the Guard’s chief quartermaster straightened scratching his copper-coloured hair. ‘Rufinus?

The young guardsman shook his head and focused on the man in front of him. ‘Allectus? Why aren’t you at the amphitheatre?’

The ruddy quartermaster’s face took on a grumpy aspect.

‘Paternus ran a check on my stores and decided they weren’t up to scratch, so here I am going through everything. Where in God’s name did you spring from, anyway?’

Rufinus shook his head. ‘Sorry… no time. Can you help me into my armour?’

The quartermaster nodded with suppressed interest and stooped to pick up the plated suit, opening it like a clamshell so Rufinus could push his arms through the shoulder holes, with some difficulty where the manica caught, closing it and lacing it up. As he finished, he stepped back and admired his work, noting for the first time the wrappings on Rufinus’ damaged hand.

‘You’ve had trouble, I see?’

‘I’ll manage. There’s trouble heading for the emperor, so I’ve got to run.’

Allectus nodded thoughtfully. ‘If you’re heading for the amphitheatre, Merc and Icarion are assigned to the western side, gates fifty-five and fifty-six. You find them and they’ll be able to help.’

‘Thank you’ Rufinus called over his shoulder, already heading along the barrack block’s wall toward the camp’s main thoroughfare. Another cut opened up on his side as he veered off round the building and hurried toward the western, city-oriented, gate. Once more there appeared to be no guardsmen on duty. Ducking beneath the archway, he moved to lift the pivoting bar, wondering whether he’d have the strength.

‘Oi!’

Rufinus turned at the shout. A Praetorian stepped out of the chamber in the flanking tower, pointing at Rufinus. ‘Where in Hades do you think you’re going?’

Rufinus turned to him, rolling his eyes. ‘Duty. What do…?’

But Rufinus’ voice trailed off as he narrowed his eyes. The man was familiar. He looked the guardsman up and down as the man limped out of the doorway. Something had happened to his leg that kept him in hospital. The tell-tale bulk of a bandage was just visible under the man’s white full-length trousers.

Full length… like the cavalry often wore. The man’s six-sided shield confirmed his status as a Praetorian horseman. And Rufinus knew him from the wayside on the road to Tibur so long ago. He smiled, and the guard frowned at his expression, turning as he heard a low, menacing growl.

Rufinus’ smile widened as the man’s eyes bulged. ‘Where did you get that dog?’

‘He belonged to a friend. He’s a good lad really… unless you cross him.’

The cavalryman backed up to the wall and fumbled for his sword hilt. ‘Bastard thing should be dead! Get him away from me!’

Still smiling, Rufinus turned to the gate, stepped to the bar and lifted it, slowly and carefully, feeling the muscles in his arms burn with every flex, more cuts across his body hissing their agony at him. Concentrating on his task and trying to ignore the pain, he slid back two bolts and lifted others from the indentations in the threshold slab, trying not to listen too closely to the noises behind him, though the initial shriek that was cut short had been tough to ignore.

Finally, he swung open the gate just enough to step through and staggered out into the city. Behind him, Acheron hurried along, the hair of his head glistening wetly. That brief scream that had echoed around the vault of the gateway had turned into low moans of agony, and Rufinus could hear the shouts of other men on duty running across to the cavalryman.

But he and Acheron were now in the city and picking up speed to a fast walk as they made for the great amphitheatre of Vespasianus, with its crowds and delights, its victims and murderers. He would prefer to run, but was well aware of his limitations. Even the slowest jog would likely make him black out. A fast walk was all he could reasonably manage.

There was still time.

And his friends would be there at the western gates to help.

He could make a difference; for the emperor and for Pompeianus; for Saoterus and for… for Perennis. He wondered whether Acheron had killed or wounded the man at the gate but, either way, at least Rufinus wouldn’t be there to look in his eyes as he faded. Whatever the man got, he deserved, for taking part in the brutal murder of a loyal imperial agent.

One day Rufinus would find the other five cavalrymen and administer appropriate justice, as well as to the prefect who had sent them.

One day, but not today.

Today he had other duties…

THE great Vicus Patricius, that began near the Castra Praetoria and ran down to the very heart of the city, was strangely empty and quiet. Scores of times during his months in barracks, Rufinus had walked that street, fighting his way through the crowds and purchasing fruit or bread at the stalls of the street vendors.

Not so today. The street was almost devoid of life, barring the few sellers whose businesses were failing or slow enough that they could not afford to take time off for fear of missing a sale. They looked uniformly hopeless and bored.

Here and there a beggar remained; those who were too immobile to have moved themselves down toward the great amphitheatre and the richer pickings of the crowds gathered there. A few slaves hurried about their business and, once or twice, Rufinus spotted people who were obviously running late for the games, hurrying along their spouses with irritable words.

Yet the quietness, unusual as it was, was of no interest to the Praetorian guardsman staggering deliriously through it at the fastest pace he could safely manage with his myriad injuries, a black dog the size of a wolf at his heel. Rufinus could feel the seeping of a tiny trickle of blood into the linen wraps that bound him from several cuts. He could feel the crack of burned, blistered skin with the movement, the constant throb in his disfigured hand.

He ignored them all.

Because they were simply pain, and pain could be ignored.

Because there were so many things of far greater importance.

He felt panicked. More than ever, this was a race against time. The last surge of noise from the crowd had died away a hundred heartbeats ago and everything had settled. The animals and gladiators would be in position in the arena now, and that meant that everything was ready and awaiting the arrival of the Emperor. Even a moment’s drop in the pace could make him too late to stop the assassin’s blade. He could have been there by now if he could run. If he could even jog, rather than hurrying at an uncomfortable stagger,

He felt the weight of unfathomable responsibility. A million people and more lived and breathed in the city and of that astounding number only he and the conspirators themselves knew what was coming. No one else could possibly help. No one else could do anything . If he failed, there was no second chance, no reserve force of Gallic cavalry waiting in the treeline.