Straightening and wondering at the almost instant effect of the drug as he felt a woolly coating flood his mind, he shuddered. Was it stupid? He could simply hurry to Constans the merchant in Tibur and send a message to the Praetorian camp. Then he could find somewhere to hide away while he convalesced. He was in no state to ride to Rome, taking on a conspiracy.
No. He simply couldn’t entrust such a matter to anyone else. Constans might not get a message there in time. Rufinus had to know that the message had reached Rome and Lucilla had failed. He had to do it himself, despite everything. Then he could rest, when it was all done.
With as deep a breath as he dared and throwing out his good hand to the wall to steady himself, Rufinus stepped out of the Praetorium and made for the barracks. According to the medicus, no senior slaves or staff other than he remained at the villa, and only six guards. Four were already dealt with, so there were two left before he could depart, confident he’d left no enemy behind, nor anyone who would ride to Rome past him and raise the alarm with Lucilla.
As he approached the entrance to the barracks, he spotted the black shape of Acheron loping over the grass towards him and smiled. The pair converged on the doorway and Rufinus paused to listen.
A gentle patter of rain began to fall on the flags outside. Over the quiet background of the weather, Rufinus could hear two people murmuring in a room to the right. He smiled. Both the remaining guards in one place… that saved time.
Stepping in as quietly as he could, given his military-style boots, he moved along the interior wall until he was next to the door of the occupied room.
‘…back by now. I’m bollocksed if I’m going out for another tour in the rain, just because that lot spent all their time poking the body to see what it does.’
‘Maybe something happened?’
It certainly had. Rufinus nodded, a move that caused a strange flood of fluffy muzziness to fill his brain. Blinking away the mental murk, he concentrated. Edging a little closer, he took a deep breath and slid the gladius from its scabbard quietly as he could. Fortunately the blade and sheath were both new and well oiled. With a quiet hiss the steel came free.
‘I still have trouble believing Rustius was a traitor. He was good to us. Better than Phaestor!’
Rufinus halted as he moved into the doorway. He knew that voice! Glaucus, his long-time roommate. Flatulent and sweaty, but a good man.
‘Screw him’ the other man snapped. ‘He’s dead anyway. The crows will have his eyes by nightfall.’
‘Still. I wish…’
‘Ah shut up, Glaucus, you soft sod. You’re just pissed like the rest of us, ‘cause you got left behind with us and can’t watch the games.’
‘Come on. Let’s go check on the others.’
Footsteps approached the door, and Rufinus pushed himself back against the wall. The two men paused at the threshold. ‘That’s Rustius’ dog. Someone should gut the bloody monster.’
Again, Glaucus’ regretful tone followed: ‘I feel sorry for him. He’s lost two masters in a year. Maybe I can…’
Glaucus took two steps out of the doorway, past Rufinus, his hand reaching out beckoningly to Acheron, before the other guard grabbed his collar and hauled him back. ‘Don’t be daft. He’ll eat you whole. Come on. Just edge round him and let’s get out.’
Rufinus took a deep breath as Glaucus stepped forward once more and turned to move along the wall, only to find Rufinus directly in front of him.
His eyes bulged and his mouth opened to say something, but nothing emerged as the pommel of Rufinus’ gladius connected sharply with his temple and he fell forward onto the floor, eyes rolling up into his head.
There was a squawk of surprise from the second man as he leapt out of the doorway, wrenching his blade from its sheath. It never made it clear, as Rufinus’ gladius lanced out and took him in the gut, with no armour to protect him. The man made a strange clucking noise and looked up into Rufinus’ face, fingers twitching on the hilt of his half-drawn blade as Rufinus quickly turned his own sword left and right, wincing at the effort it took, and withdrew it with a tangle of gut and a wash of blood.
He felt somehow that he owed Glaucus the benefit of the doubt. This man: not so.
Watching as the mortally-wounded gladiator toppled backward, he lunged forward with his sword… and completely missed the prone body, his blade skittering across the stonework.
He straightened and stared at the gladius in surprise. He could barely feel the aches and pains of the many small wounds inflicted upon him now, with the overdose he had taken, but also his judgement and reactions had apparently been adversely affected, and every sharp move flooded his brain with fuzz.
As the man on the floor struggled to hold his ruined stomach together, Rufinus concentrated as hard as he could and lunged forward again, this time driving the point into the man’s chest and on through his heart, his own cry of pain melding with that of his victim. The gladiator stiffened for a moment and began to twitch.
Rufinus slumped against the wall. The effort he’d expended in the short fight had almost drained him. Clearly he wasn’t going to be able to continue on the dosage he‘d self-administered. It was simple: less pain and clarity or more pain and clarity. Horrible choice.
Once his head had settled and stopped swimming quite so much, he crouched and examined Glaucus. The man was out cold and would be for several hours. He was almost certainly no threat. And, despite the nagging thought that he was leaving a man behind him, he couldn’t bring himself to do away with the flatulent old sod who’d shared his room and never done anything wrong to Rufinus’ knowledge other than choosing to serve the wrong mistress.
Wiping his sword clean on the fallen man’s tunic, he replaced it and stood, looking at Acheron.
‘I think you’re going to have to stay here for now, boy.’ The dog padded over to him and nuzzled his hand, leaving sticky, bloody marks. ‘I’m sorry, but even if I thought it was a good idea taking you to Rome, you’d have to run the best part of fifteen miles just to get there. It’s not a good idea. Go back to the room and I’ll come back for you as soon as I can.’
Acheron stayed stock still as Rufinus smiled sadly. ‘Go on. Run along.’ With a last reproachful look at him, the Sarmatian hound slunk away through the doorway and disappeared.
Rufinus took a deep breath, wobbled a little, and righted himself with a hand on the wall. Turning, he hobbled out of the barracks and made his way back past the praetorium, up the hill and toward the Inferi grotto.
A few hundred heartbeats later, he was in the network of access tunnels that threaded the hillside beneath the villa, connecting many of the outlying structures that were no longer used. Cold, wet days patrolling the outer regions of the villa had given him the opportunity to learn the servants’ passages and once or twice he’d been up to these storage corridors near the grotto. The stables were built into one such tunnel, the cold wind that was constantly drawn along the tunnel carrying away the smell of horses and their stalls.
The three slaves who maintained the tunnels, distributed goods and looked after the beasts and vehicles paid no heed to the limping, unsteady guard, armed and armoured and strolling in their midst. It was not the lot of slaves to question the employees of the villa.
‘I need a horse… a fast one.’
‘Of course, Domine.’
The slave bustled around the busy tunnel, gathering saddle and harness, and Rufinus slumped back against the wall, wincing as he felt one of the brand marks rub against the bindings around his chest.
The medicus had been right, of course. There was nothing critical about any of the wounds, even the missing nails. In a few months he would be hale and hearty. And even now, the wounds were small and manageable on their own. It was just the sheer number of cuts and burnings taken all together that was difficult to deal with. Every move brought with it at least half a dozen small pains.