He would take Acheron with him, of course. Strangely, in the months since the death of Dis of the Frumentarii, he and the dog had forged such a bond that he could no longer imagine life without the hulking Sarmatian hound.
His stomach knotted as another thought occurred to him. How would his disappearance affect Senova? He had not seen her since the jewellery recovery, and even then just momentarily to involve her in his troubles. If only he had time to see her… to perhaps figure out a way to take her with him?
First thing’s first, though: he’d visit Pompeianus and go through everything with him, trying to find an excuse to leave the villa that raised no suspicions. Hurriedly, he turned and, grasping the guttering oil lamp, made for the tunnel. Ahead, he could see the small rectangle of grey light that stood at the end of the tunnel, though his initial destination was the furnace, half way along that length.
Desperate now, knowing his continued secrecy depended on getting that furnace flame relit as fast as possible, Rufinus blundered along the narrow tunnel, his shoulders scraping painfully along the soot-blackened walls, head occasionally connecting agonisingly with the ceiling. A few moments later he burst out into the furnace room, oil lamp in his left hand, his right reaching down for the iron fire-rod before him.
As he rushed from the passageway, a figure stepped directly into his path, and the two went down in a surprised flurry. Rufinus’ mind whirled and panic hit him as his eyes made out two other pairs of legs in the flickering flame of the lamp which fell to the floor on the far side of the furnace fuel.
Not slaves, then. Only one slave would be required to service the furnace; not three. Instinct and his experience in the ring took over and, before he could make a conscious decision, he pounded a flurry of blows on the face of the man who’d tried to intercept him only to end up beneath him on the rough floor. Rufinus felt the nose shatter and heard a crack, a sharp spray of blood slapping across his face.
As he tried to bring his mind into focus, one of the other men made a lunge at him with a blade, and Rufinus rolled just in time, receiving an angry red line down his arm for his efforts. It was all so familiar, as his boxer’s mind began to superimpose a ring over the scene.
Three men in a snow-covered dell in the north – a perpetual barbarian hell of frozen forests and blood-crazed attacks. The first had gone down the same way, in surprise, with a broken head. The second in for a slash, while the third dithered.
He’d lost that fight. Three against one, even with a surprise opening move; the odds were against him. If it hadn’t been for Mercator’s timely intervention, he would have been spitted and bled out on that barren forest floor.
The two remaining guards advanced on him from either side, converging to block the exit, their silhouettes blotting out the rectangle of light. His only advantage was that the man on the left with the gleaming, crimson-edged gladius hardly had room to manoeuvre his weapon, and would be restricted in the fight. The other held only a dagger.
Rufinus was unarmed.
‘Sword’ man was bulky, while ‘Knife’ was reedy and agile. It was so damned familiar. But he’d almost lost last time because of a simple mistake: he had planned it all correctly, but made the potentially fatal error of allowing a fallen opponent the chance to recover and strike him from the floor.
Not this time. His face settling into a furious growl, he beckoned to the two slowly advancing guards as he stamped down hard on the fallen man’s face with his grimy hob-nailed boot, hearing the distinctive sound of a head smashing. He felt the tip of his boot dip into something soft and tried not to think too much about it, turning back to the two, who were approaching warily.
‘Come on, then.’
Big man first. A blow to keep him off-kilter while he dealt with the little one, same as those three barbarians. Sure enough, the bigger of the two lengthened his step suddenly and lunged, stabbing towards Rufinus’ chest while the smaller man ducked to the side, looking for an opportunity. But these were no barbarians in a forest glade. These were gladiators: trained killers, experienced in combat and quick as the blink of an eye.
As the man lunged faster than Rufinus had expected, he ducked to his left just in time, bringing his elbow round in a blow that should have connected with the man’s head. But the brute had already reacted, leaning away as he fell past his intended blow, and ducking Rufinus’ raised elbow. As the man staggered toward the flue passage trying to right himself, the smaller man, with a speed Rufinus would never have anticipated, was suddenly across the room, delivering a scything wound across his right shoulder and ducking back out of reach before Rufinus could respond. They were both quick, adaptable and, worst of all, they worked together. It didn’t matter then which one went first. So long as he evened the odds.
He glanced down at the pile of goods at the centre of the room. The petroleum-soaked logs were still there with their kindling piled atop, ready to be pushed into position with the iron. Nearby, his oil lamp had somehow survived the fall without shattering on the stone floor or being extinguished. The small lamp lay on its side, guttering flame blackening the terracotta spout.
Gingerly, he started to circle into the corridor’s centre, his back to the light, eyes on his foes. The two gladiators watched warily, weighing up the desire to deal with their prey before he could run now against the need to approach carefully without overextending.
Rufinus’ reputation had got around, apparently.
Even in the dim light, he saw the thigh muscles in the bigger man twitch. Preparing, Rufinus put his body weight on his left leg, remaining still as stone. Just because the big man had given away his intention hardly meant that Rufinus should follow suit.
Another twitch, and suddenly the big man leapt for him. As he lunged, Rufinus gave a light jab with his right foot and kicked the oil lamp onto the pile. Just as the bulky gladiator passed across the log pile, the flame of the lamp caught the petroleum oil glistening on the wood and the wadding atop it. The entire heap ignited instantly, dry grass and hemp wadding, soaked with oil, roaring into an inferno, the logs catching immediately.
The big man shrieked as he passed through the flames, the spray of flaming oil droplets spattering his feet and legs as the lamp shattered, orange tendrils of flame roaring up his shins and rippling across breeches and socks.
Rufinus had already moved. His weight had all been on his left foot but, as his right came down, he used it to pivot out of the way of the yelling man, back against the wall as the would-be attacker fell to the floor, patting at his legs, trying to put out the burning, though the oil had soaked into his breeches and the rest of the material was already catching. His patting hands picked up the flaming oil and the fire spread to them.
Across the panicked, shouting form, Rufinus could see the smaller man, eyes narrowed, knife moving from hand to hand as he judged his chances of crossing the fiery gap between them. Keeping his eyes on the smaller man, a nasty smile spreading across his face, Rufinus reached down and retrieved the gladius from the floor, where it had fallen unheeded from the bigger man’s grip as he fought to dampen the flames.
Without even looking, he grasped the hilt in a reverse grip and brought the blade down into the burning gladiator’s neck, feeling the resistance as passed through cartilage and bone, severing the spine. The big man spasmed twice, feet twitching as the torrent of red poured from his opened throat, fountaining up around the blade and then running down to join a growing pool beneath him as his face speedily turned a waxy grey. Despite everything, Rufinus was grateful that his eyes were locked on the smaller Gladiator and that he’d missed once again that intensely private moment of death.