Rufinus shook his head, wincing at the pains it brought. ‘I’m in agony. I can hardly move.’
‘These things can be managed. The stiffness is the result of four hours of immobility. Once you’ve spent quarter of an hour moving, you’ll loosen up and the difference will surprise you. Your strength will return soon, and I’ll give it a little help. There are numerous compounds I can administer that will supply you with the energy of a fit and healthy man, though when they wear off, you will suffer. As for your wounds: well, they are superficial.’
‘Superficial?’ Rufinus was aware that he’d just shouted angrily at the man who had saved his life, but the calmness of the man in the face of what he’d endured seemed insane.
‘Of course. Minor cuts, burns and a broken finger. In time your hand will heal fine, though I will have to splint your finger. You can easily live without fingernails. They serve no specific purpose unless you have a lot of pins to pick up. We managed to see you out of their clutches before anything permanent was done. All your wounds will heal soon enough.’
Rufinus shook his head again and narrowed his eyes. ‘What’s happening? What time is it?’
‘The sun’s up, but only enough to show her light over the horizon. The villa is almost deserted, apart from the lowest of the staff; the lady and her entourage left before dawn’s glow. All her personal servants and slaves and most of the guards went with her. She took master Pompeianus too, for the look of things.’
‘Then there’s no time. The attack will take place this morning in the arena. I’m too late.’
The medicus rolled his eyes. ‘Rome is only an hour away on a fast horse. There’s time.’
Rufinus winced and sucked in painful breaths between his teeth as the medicus gently helped him to his feet.
‘I can’t ride. I can barely contemplate walking!’
‘Take this. Drink it now.’
‘What is it?’ Rufinus asked, peering at the vial the man proffered, and noting what had happened the last time this man had given him a drink.
‘Pain-suppressant: henbane, mandragora and poppy juice. It’s strong, so take just a sip now and repeat any time the pain becomes too intrusive. If you use too much, it’ll lead to insensibility and you will lose control and eventually consciousness, so just take enough to keep the pain down, yes?’
Rufinus nodded, grasping the vial with his good hand and tipping a few drips into his mouth. His face wrinkled in disgust. ‘Couldn’t you make it taste better?’
The medicus smiled. ‘You’re obviously getting better. Come on… I need to find something to lend you a little extra energy and to tend and bind your wounds before you leave. I’ll be fast as I can.’
‘In a moment’ Rufinus said quietly. Staggering, he crouched, wincing, next to Acheron, who lay patiently nearby. ‘Come on, boy.’
Leading the hunting beast across the grass, he located the bag of nails and hammer, discarded as the guard had run off into the trees. With an involuntary whimper as two cuts reopened, he lifted the leather bag and held it before Acheron, who snuffled around it, pushing his nose inside.
‘Go get him.’
Born to the hunt and the chase, Acheron needed no further encouragement, loping off into the trees nearby. Rufinus returned to the medicus by the cross. ‘I hope the bastard got himself a long head start and didn’t just hide.’
The medicus gave him a wry smile as they gathered their things, the older man helping Rufinus slowly back up the hill toward the villa. Somewhere off in the woods, a blood-curdling scream echoed among the trees. Rufinus smiled.
The sun had risen fully before Rufinus emerged again from Pompeianus’ palace, now dressed in tunic and breeches, most of his wounds hidden beneath plain material and acres of linen wraps, lips tingling with the strange elixir the medicus had fed him and which now coursed through his blood with the vitality of a running stag. He felt as though he could run a thousand miles. His first move – to stand up suddenly and turn – had proved otherwise. It gave him energy, certainly, but he would still be reliant on his damaged body and screaming muscles.
‘You say there are only two other guards on the grounds?’
The medicus nodded. ‘They should be patrolling, but we both know how such men work when their employer is absent.’
‘Will you be safe here?’
‘No one pays a servant any attention, especially one of master Pompeianus’. I will await news of your success.’
With an uncertain smile, Rufinus reached out and gripped the medicus’ shoulder, wincing a little at the pains it brought. His left hand was bound with linen wraps, covering salves for the damaged fingers and a splint for the broken one. ‘Thank you.’ It seemed so insufficient.
Turning away, Rufinus walked, stiffly and carefully, to the praetorium. Time was of the essence. He could not have more than a couple of hours left, and yet some things needed to be done before he could leave the villa. Reaching the door to the building that had been his home for many weeks, he pushed through, still hurting with every movement, though the medicus’ concoction had transmuted the myriad sharp pains to a dull all-over ache that itself was buried beneath the coursing power of the second elixir.
A few moments later he reached his room. Just as he’d expected, the chamber had been ransacked and most things of value had gone. Not everything, though. Phaestor had only searched for anything personal, valuable or incriminating. He had ignored the standard kit issued to the villa’s staff, even specific items for an officer.
He had ignored the key ring on the window sill.
Grasping the ring, Rufinus shuffled back out, along the corridor, and to the storeroom that was kept secure at all times. A quick twist of the key and the lock snicked open, allowing Rufinus to open the door with his good hand. The medicus had told him that he could use his left hand for simple light tasks without any damage. Rufinus was not yet willing to put that to the test, given the residual ache that underlay the man’s concoction.
Phaestor’s master storeroom was a treasure trove of high quality goods, not like the cheap kit in the villa’s armoury. Rufinus nodded professionally as he perused the shelves. Time was of the essence and he had to leave the villa forthwith, but it would not do to march into battle unprepared.
His eyes lit on a suit of segmented plate armour of military manufacture and apparently never worn, but he couldn’t take it. It would be impossible to don on his own, especially with only one working hand. Besides, it was truly uncomfortable to ride in.
Instead, he selected a shirt of extremely high quality mail, slipping it over his head with some difficulty, yelping as the dull ache turned into a thousand sharp needles pricking his skin, and struggling to fasten the straps. A few moments later, suitably armoured and huffing with the pain and effort, he returned to the shelves, eyes alighting on a manica, a sleeve of segmented plates to cover a sword arm. Not in this case, though. He couldn’t grip a shield, but he could do the next best thing.
Wincing and gritting his teeth, he used his good hand to pull the sleeve over the bad arm and laced it tight. Momentarily, he considered drawing the fancy eagle-hilted spatha: a cavalry sword with a good foot on a standard legionary blade. In the end, he decided against it. The reach could be helpful, but he was trained and experienced with the shorter blade, and that counted for a lot more than a foot of steel. Grasping a gladius from the shelf, he slung the baldric over his shoulder and grasped a dagger for the other side.
With a nod of satisfaction, he turned and shuffled out of the stores, aware of how much such simple tasks had hurt. Could he really do this? It had been less than quarter of an hour since his wounds had been bound and already the ache was becoming unbearable, the sore burned patches and knife cuts firing his nerves. Hurriedly removing the vial of painkiller from his belt pouch, he took a small swig; more than the medicus had told him to, but clearly he needed a higher dose or he’d suffer too much to manage what lay ahead.