The Great Game (56 page)

He was surrounded and weakening with every moment. With all his training and experience and all the medicus’ drugs, he still doubted he could successfully take on one man in a fair fight, let alone three.

Swishing his gladius threateningly though the air, tears issuing at the strain, he turned to see Phaestor’s face emerge into the light, head shaking in disbelief.

‘I saw you die.’

‘Then I must be a ghost,’ he replied in a pained, hollow whisper. He certainly
sounded
like one. Gritting his teeth against anticipated pain, Rufinus swiped at him and Phaestor ducked back. A dagger from one of the men behind him clattered off his shoulder plate, then there was a snarl of animal rage and a snap, followed by a scream.

‘Good boy,’ he said without looking round.

The sound of desperate human and animal struggling raged behind him as Rufinus narrowed his eyes and stepped to the side, watching Phaestor warily.

‘Fortuna’s with me today, boy,’ the captain said with a dark smile. ‘Eighty arches and you find me straight away.’

‘I could say that was
my
luck rather than yours, captain.’

‘Look at you: you’re a mess. There’ll be no resurrection this time!’ the ex-gladiator snarled, and swung his blade, angling it down at the last moment, changing his apparent neck blow to target the groin.

Rufinus ducked back from the strike, but he was slowed by his painful wounds, and the captain was fast! The blade carved a shrieking dent down the bottom two plates of his armour. Behind him he heard an animal yelp of pain and spared only a moment’s thought for Acheron. The wound had clearly not been terminal, as
another roar of bestial fury rang out, followed by a snap and a blood curdling scream.

The sound of running feet echoed around the passageways, but Rufinus couldn’t pay any attention to it. Circling once more, he watched Phaestor, checking for a ‘tell’. He couldn’t win this on fighting ability; he had neither the strength nor the speed. Only anticipation, surprise and trickery could save him now. A distant roar rose like a tide.

‘Hear that?’ Phaestor grinned. ‘That’s Commodus on his glorious, glittering journey round the outer square, making for the entrance. You’re too late. You couldn’t save him now, even if you lived… which you won’t.’

Rufinus’ eyes narrowed at the tensing of the captain’s left thigh muscle, and he prepared himself for the lunge, his grip on the blade changing slightly so that he would easily knock the thrusting gladius out of the way. And suddenly Phaestor was at him, though not with the expected lunge. As he stepped forward, the crafty captain pivoted and swung the blade in an unanticipated slash at Rufinus’ side. It was masterful.

Rufinus was wrong-footed instantly by the captain’s feint and felt the blade, perfectly-aimed, slash into his side just at the point where his segmented armour ended. He yelped with the pain, though his last-moment staggering and graceless step away from the blow took most of the force from it. A flesh wound, no worse than many of the others already bound beneath his tunic. In fact it helped; one fresh wound occupied all his screaming nerves and dulled the cries of the older ones.

Again, he circled painfully, leaning slightly with the wound and feeling the blossoming wetness on his tunic, watching the captain with a new wariness. The man was playing with him as though they were fighting on the sand of the arena itself. This was no military fight and no boxing match. This was a gladiatorial bout, pure and simple.

Out of the corner of his better eye, he could see another four men rushing into view, their tunics plain and drab, daggers in their hands ready to join the fray. Acheron was still audible behind him, dealing with the last feeble resistance of the other two men. The poor beast was wounded, though, and couldn’t be expected to handle another four attackers on his own and, if one thing was certain, it was that Rufinus had his hands full with just one.

Phaestor’s sword lanced out with an astonishing speed and Rufinus, his gladius ill-positioned, raised his battered left arm and caught the blow on the manica, the blade sliding along the steel plates and raising sparks as it was pushed away from its target. The sheer force of the blow, combined with Rufinus’ increasing weakness forced him two steps back and one sideways, where he had to stagger to avoid falling to his knees. If he fell now it would all be over very quickly. His trademark clumsiness would have deadly consequences.

Before Rufinus could react further, the sword whipped away again, and the captain spun back into the dark of the passage from which he had originally emerged. Gingerly, Rufinus staggered toward the shadow, trying to move into a position where he could see the shape of Phaestor in the dim light that shone past the crowds back among the entranceways.

Again, he was too slow. Phaestor’s blade lunged out and flicked twice like a striking snake, cutting a line across his right bicep and then wrist, almost causing him to drop his sword.

Gods, the man was fast!

Rufinus staggered, his leg buckling for a moment before he managed to straighten it again. He was going to lose. He couldn’t beat the lightning-fast ex-gladiator, and he apparently couldn’t even successfully anticipate his moves!

Like a ghost, Phaestor backed into the stygian corridor, his shape becoming indistinct in the gloom. Rufinus concentrated. Moving into the darkness himself would be suicide, but standing here like this he couldn’t hope to counter the next move, and the longer he stood here doing nothing, the more strength sapped from his body and the closer Commodus came to crossing to Hades.

He was irritated at being left no other choice, and the emperor’s too-fast progress around the amphitheatre’s exterior could be tracked from the noise of the crowd. Grinding his teeth, Rufinus stepped back into the larger corridor, where Phaestor would have to come out to him.

He almost expected a blow from behind, and a quick glance told him why the other four new arrivals had not joined the fray and ended it for him quickly: Mercator and Icarion had appeared from a stairwell nearby, javelins discarded and swords out and ready, and had intercepted the thugs. A separate battle now raged in the curved corridor nearby.

Phaestor stepped from the gloom, an evil grin splitting his swarthy features. ‘You’re good, Praetorian, particularly for a man in your state.’ He paced forward menacingly. ‘For all your wounds, for a soldier, you’re
very
good. But you’re too rigid. Legionaries are always taught rigidly, with no attention to the so-many ways you can outmanoeuvre an opponent. You’re predictable and formulaic, because you learned to fight in ranks.’

He spun the sword in his hand with a light, expert grip. ‘Me, on the other hand? I learned my trade in this very building. Winner of twenty two combats. Only ever lost twice, and both times I fought well enough they let me live. Got my rudis and my freedom, but I never lost what this place gave me: a talent for killing. I’m not fettered by the legion’s rules and discipline. A legionary will never beat a gladiator… you’re just too slow and clumsy, and your strength’s wilting like a flower. Look at you: you couldn’t raise an eyebrow, let alone a defensive stroke.’

Rufinus’ mouth curved up into a slight smile as he subtly shifted his grip on the gladius in his hand.

‘You find it amusing? I assure you, you won’t for long. Your time’s running out, little Praetorian. Soon I might decide to stop playing with you and let you die.’

With no warning and no shout, Rufinus threw himself forward and down in a graceless belly-flop, the like of which he had achieved accidentally countless times in his life, tripping or slipping. He landed heavily and painfully on his front beneath and before his enemy.

Phaestor had been prepared for a strike but his blocking blow, already moving out to stop Rufinus’ blade, was at chest height, while Rufinus had fallen gracelessly to the floor, face down, landing with a thud that expelled every last breath from his chest.

Clumsy…

He had always been clumsy. But the one useful thing about such clumsy falls is that they were never expected and couldn’t be anticipated. And this time, his sword had arced out sideways and forward as he fell, the weakened guardsman putting every remaining ounce of his strength into not the dive, but the swing.

Phaestor, stunned by the crazed move, looked down at the idiot he had been facing, now prostrate on the ground in front of him, dazed and with the breath knocked from his chest. The captain
smiled as he decided it was time to end the bout. The young man was clearly mad.

It was as he wondered what the idiot had intended that Phaestor realised just how much agony was racing up his leg and burning along his veins like a petroleum fire. His eyes narrowing in confusion, his gaze left the body of the man on the floor and drew closer until he was looking directly down.

At the sandaled foot and half a shin lying sideways on the floor in a slick of crimson, a jagged nub of white bone visible at the top.

The captain’s eyes widened as he fell, the stump of his severed leg hitting the stonework hard and sending a fresh sheet of agony up though him.

As the man slumped, shock robbing him of his senses, what was left of his left leg bending at the knee so that his remaining half shin sat comically next to the severed section in a lake of blood, Rufinus hauled himself onto his own knees, inexorably slowly and with cries and tears of agony.

‘Gladiators are also trained to show off’ he panted. ‘Legionaries don’t boast when they could be busy fighting.’

With a wince of pain, he stepped back and hauled himself painfully to his feet, his eyes never leaving the stunned face of the captain. He swayed dangerously and watched, bemused, as Phaestor picked up his own foot, staring at it as though he had no idea what it was for.

Suddenly, Rufinus felt a presence close to him and started, turning and entirely failing to raise his sword defensively. Mercator and Icarion stood a few feet away, covered in blood and nursing a couple of small cuts.

‘Say goodbye to boredom, Icarion’ Mercator grinned. ‘Our Rufinus is back.’

The two men chuckled.

‘Who’s the cripple?’ Icarion asked with a furrowed brow.

Rufinus turned to look at Lucilla’s guard captain, the movement almost spinning him back to the ground. He would have to be so careful now. His body felt heavy and weary and his mind was struggling, as though trying to think through concrete.

‘He’s no-one.’ Turning to the scene around him, he was relieved to see Acheron sitting on his haunches waiting patiently, pink tongue lolling between crimson-coated teeth, a gash in his
shoulder. He tried not to pay too much attention to what was left of the two men the hound had dispatched.

‘Acheron?’

The dog stood and padded across to him. Mercator and Icarion’s eyes widened. ‘That thing’s yours?’

Rufinus nodded. ‘He’s a big softie.’ With a grin, he pointed at Phaestor, still sitting in his own blood, looking rather pale as he turned his severed foot over and over, staring at it.

‘Acheron? Kill.’

Rufinus turned to his friends and nodded toward the tunnels as the sickening noises began behind him, signalling the demise of his enemy and former commander. Mercator and Icarion’s eyes widened for a moment before they tore their gaze from the grisly scene and paid attention to the young man standing next to them.

Icarion shook his head. ‘What in the name of Athena’s arse is going on, Rufinus? Who are these thugs?’

As if the question snapped him out of a dream, Rufinus’ mind cleared and he grasped his bunk-mate by the shoulder, urgency returning to his tone as he spoke. ‘Where’s the emperor?’

They paused. The silence in the corridors was marred only by the occasional crunch and gurgle nearby. Over the top of it, they could hear the distant roar outside the amphitheatre as the crowd cheered Commodus on his procession.

Mercator frowned. ‘He’s approaching the north entrance by the sound of it. Why?’

Rufinus took a deep breath. ‘Because there’s a drawn blade waiting for him in the tunnels. Come on!’

The two other men exchanged a look as Rufinus staggered forwards painfully, reaching out to support himself on the wall.

‘Hang on.’

As Rufinus blinked in surprise at the unwelcome delay, the two men dashed over to the scene of their recent fight, four bodies lying in the dim corridor, bearing efficient looking wounds. The two guardsmen collected their shields and the three javelins that leaned against the wall where they left them.

‘Alright, Rufinus. Let’s go.’

As the veterans re-joined their young friend, Rufinus drew a small glass vial from a pouch at his belt and, staring at it as he staggered, upended it into his mouth and drained it. The pain was
becoming too much. Better at this point to be able to move fast than think straight.

‘You alright, Rufinus?’

‘I’ll… live. Tell you… later’ the young man panted. ‘Help me run.’

The corridors of the amphitheatre echoed to the sound of their thudding footsteps as Rufinus hurried forward, his friends half-carrying him with every step, lifting him almost off the floor. Each pace brought them closer to the imperial entrance as the gradual rise in volume of the spectators told them. Then they found the crowd.

The mass of public filled the curved passageway, crowding forward to get a sight of their emperor as he arrived. They were easily held back by two Praetorians in gleaming white and silver, but there was simply no way the three blood-slicked guardsmen could get near enough to see round the corner and into the empty passageway that Commodus would even now be approaching.

The roar of the crowd rose and fell. Commodus had entered the amphitheatre.

Rufinus, ignoring the shouts and flapping arms, half-pushed, half fell into the mass, knocking people out of the way, whimpering and yelping as cuts and burns opened up and oozed into their dressings with the effort. But Icarion and Mercator were with him, forging a path through the tide of human life and supporting his failing knees.

It wouldn’t be enough. Rufinus could already hear that voice, golden and smooth, humorous yet commanding, sharing a joke with someone - probably Perennis. He was almost close enough for them to hear the words, but they were still out of sight around the corner. Where would Quintianus the assassin be?