Straightening, he saw the slave leading out a placid-looking bay mare from one of the stalls. He cast an approving eye over her as she walked out into the glow of one of the light-wells. She was sleek and healthy with good muscle tone. Slightly larger than the breeds used by the military, she had a long step and would surely be fast. He watched as patiently as he could manage while the horse was prepared in front of him.
It was perhaps an hour after dawn now, by his estimate. Time was running short. The games in the arena generally started mid-morning. There had to be time to get in a few of the mock fights, martial displays, animal processions and so on before a break for the noon meal. Equally, the games were never begun early enough to disturb the relaxed morning routine of the higher classes. By Rufinus’ estimate he had as little as an hour, or as much as two at most before the games would begin with the Emperor’s arrival… and death if he wasn’t there to stop it.
And here he was watching the slave faff around with tack.
‘She’ll be fine like that. Thank you.’
The slave frowned. ‘But she needs…’
‘She’s fine.’ Gritting his teeth, Rufinus hauled himself into the saddle with no small pain and difficulty, swaying as he sat, tears flooding his eyes, his jaw clenched.
‘Are you alright, sir? Can I help?’
‘Just be about your business’ Rufinus replied irritably, shifting himself into a remote semblance of comfort. As the slave scurried off to his tasks, Rufinus turned the horse and began to walk her down the passage, trying not to yelp with every bump of the saddle… mostly failing. Occasionally he passed other men loading carts or stacking boxes in side rooms, but he paid them no heed, nor they him.
A few moments later, he exited the tunnels with a sigh of relief. He’d only rarely managed to explore the western exits of the corridors, and wasn’t entirely sure of their full layout. And yet, as he rode from the claustrophobic gloom into a small open courtyard, he saw the ivy-clad arcades of the abandoned theatre off to his right.
Painfully kicking the mare into life and regretting not having asked her name, he cantered across the open ground beside the theatre, skirting the glorious curved colonnade and making for the slope. The first few loping steps were agony, but the rhythm quickly settled into a jostling blur of aches.
‘Come on… Atalanta. I shall call you Atalanta.’
As carefully as he could, yet speedily as he dare, he raced down the steep hillside, jumped the stream at the bottom – a move that made him scream aloud on landing and almost unhorsed him – and kicked the beast into an extra turn of speed as he rose up the slope beyond, cresting it and making for the road ahead, where it ran alongside the woodland of the estate.
It felt like an hour had passed when he finally reached the metalled surface and pushed the mare into every ounce of speed she had. He was racing against time itself, with the Emperor’s very life hanging by a thread at the end of the course. Every step of every hoof brought pains that threatened to drive the wits from his head, but he gritted his teeth and gripped the reins for dear life.
Cursing the distance and the many delays he’d been forced to endure, he rode past the edge of the woods that marked the end of Lucilla’s domain, and was almost overcome with emotion when a huge black shape emerged from the undergrowth at a run and fell in alongside the mare, trying to match her pace.
‘Acheron!’
Surprise gave way to relief and gratitude as he watched the huge, muscular hound, pushing itself to the limits of its endurance to keep up. Recognising that the pace he had set in his desperate panic would destroy his mount before he reached the city, Rufinus eased off just a little. Besides, losing consciousness from the pains of the gait and falling from the horse would serve no use at all.
The mare relaxed into her gallop, and Acheron began to match her pace for pace, pink tongue lolling from the side of his mouth as the three of them pitted themselves against the passage of time to save Commodus from disaster.
The exhilaration of the ride almost made him forget his pains.
XXVI – Preparations and reparations
RUFINUS slowed Atalanta to a walk. Despite the tortuous pace he’d set since leaving the villa three quarters of an hour earlier, he had slowed twice already to allow the magnificent bay mare, as well as his screaming flesh, a rest. Acheron had kept up remarkably well, and Rufinus had felt the bond he shared with the great black hound strengthen with every mile.
Now, the Castra Praetoria’s eastern gate stood impassable before him. Approaching the gate at a walk, he came to a halt.
‘Ho there!’ he called.
Strange. The alarm should have been raised before a visitor got this close to the walls. He should have been challenged by now. He paused for a moment.
‘Praetorian?’
A tense moment later, a face appeared above the gate, his white horsehair crest wavering in the wind. A gentle rain had passed an hour ago, but the speed of the clouds scudding across the sky promised further showers for the day, and the gusting wind contained a chill.
‘Who goes there’ said the surprised guard, out of breath.
‘Gnaeus Marcius Rustius Rufinus; guardsman of the first cohort.’
‘Argentulum? Where in the name of Vesta’s tits did you come from?’
‘Let me in. Where is the rest of the guard?’
The face disappeared from the gate and there was silence for a long moment before the sounds of the bolts being withdrawn and the heavy restraining bar lifted. The face of a tired-looking guardsman peered round the edge of the gate.
‘Don’t expect you know the password?’
‘’Course I don’t!’ Rufinus snapped. ‘What is going on?’
The man straightened and stepped aside, swinging the gate a little wider to allow Rufinus entry. ‘I ought to escort you under guard when you approach without the password, but I think we’ll forego formalities.’
Rufinus glared at him as he dismounted painfully and stood, shaking from the pain and discomfort. ‘I asked you what’s happening. Where is everyone?’
The man shrugged. ‘All down in the city. The emperor took the whole guard to secure the palace, the procession route and the amphitheatre. There’s only half a century of us left in the camp as a guard: mostly those of us who were in the hospital and a few malcontents and lazy bastards. Sorry I was a long time answering… suffering something chronic with the shits right now.’
Rufinus gave him a distasteful look. ‘Any of the officers here?’
‘Nah. Just a fat optio lounging around in the headquarters, helping himself to the wine ration, and the quartermaster faffing around somewhere.’
‘So where are the prefects?’
‘Perennis is at the palace, commanding the emperor’s escort. Paternus is at the amphitheatre, securing it.’
‘Not securing it enough.’
He handed the reins of the mare to the surprised guard.
‘Do me a favour: put Atalanta in the stables for me, and make sure she’s fed and watered. I’ve got to kit up and get into town before the world comes crashing down.’
He was already stumbling off toward the barracks, legs wobbling slightly after the ride, when the guard waved at him. ‘But I need to go shit!’
‘Stable the horse. Then shit!’
Ignoring anything further from the unfortunate ill guardsman, Rufinus tried to run but devolved into a painful stagger after a few steps, feeling the aches and pains start to come on again. As he ran, he unstoppered the vial of painkiller and tipped a small measure between his lips, hoping it was enough to take the edge off the rising tide of pain, but not enough to wool-coat his brain.