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?
Suddenly the Emperor emerged from the passageway. Rufinus could see that golden hair above the crowd, even with the man slightly stooped, laughing with his Praetorian prefect. Commodus was tall and, as he straightened, his handsome bearded face was visible above the mass.
Rufinus shook his head. What could they do?
With an extra shove that almost finished him, he pushed down on a burly, short man with the build of a blacksmith, using his broad shoulders to raise himself so that he was above the crowd, the people at chest height. His head swam and he nearly passed out with the effort. The broad spectator cried out in rage, but Mercator was there, holding him fast so that Rufinus could use him to see clearly, while Icarion had hold of Rufinus’ side, supporting him steadily.
‘What’s happening?’
Rufinus shook his head. ‘I can’t see anything wrong. I can’t…’
But he could. A figure had burst from one of the tunnels, wearing a pristine white toga, gladius raised in his hand. A shocked silence fell on the crowd for a moment as the young man shouted something about the senate, drawing back the sword.
Rufinus shook his head in dismay.
So near, and yet too far.
The Praetorians holding back the crowd were too far away, much like the three friends, though already some of those with freedom of movement were running for the scene, drawing swords. They would never get there in time. Commodus and the prefect were unarmed, reliant on the guard, and the boy was already making to attack, naked blade raised.
Something rough and narrow was pushed into Rufinus’ hand and he glanced round in surprise to see a leather wrapping in his fingers. Long and narrow, the glint of silver was just visible where the leather cover had been tied round it. His hasta pura! That was why Icarion carried two javelins! That was why it wasn’t in his room! The Greek had brought it with him to prevent just such a theft!
Hefting it and grunting, he released without pause, screaming his pain with the act. There was no time to steady for the throw or to unwrap the gleaming silver shaft from its rough cover. Even had there been time, he had little enough strength just to cast it, let along hold and steady it. The leather-cased spear hurtled through the air over the heads of the crowd as a roar of disbelief and anger surged through them.
His training centurion with the Tenth would have given him a sound drubbing for the appalling quality of the throw, the tail end of the missile wavering like a fish tail as it sailed through the air.
But it was enough.
The missile struck the assailant just as he lunged forward with his sword. The point hit him in the left shoulder and spun him round with the force. The leather case ripped as the point tore through it and into the assassin. Both man and missile fell backwards out of sight, the would-be murder weapon spinning up into the air, released from his grip to clatter down onto the flags nearby. A proper throw, had he been well, would have impaled the man through the heart and transfixed him. This was all his body had left.