Behind him, the guardsman, busy swinging the gate closed, yelped and jumped back as Acheron trotted into the fortress, sparing him a baleful look. The guard’s bowels surrendered.
Hurrying as much as his body would allow, Rufinus made his way through the corridors of the building to the room that had been his more than a year since. Icarion had kept the room clean and clear, though he was still using Rufinus’ bunk for extra storage. Rufinus’ kit stood in the corner and he staggered across to it. If he was to get near the emperor armed, he would have to be in Praetorian paraphernalia.
He noticed with some regret that the more valuable of his possessions seemed to have vanished. Even worthy Icarion couldn’t watch his treasured items at all times, and any sneak thief could find access to any room, given enough time. The leather medal-harness still hung on the bedstead, though the phalera from it had gone, probably to some street vendor for a few sesterces. Such decorations fetched a high price in some circles. Besides, no other Praetorian could wear it without being questioned as to its sudden arrival on his chest.
But the phalera was not the saddest thing. His two javelins stood in the corner, but the third spear in its leather wrap – his hasta pura – was also conspicuously absent. He gritted his teeth as he removed his mail shirt, allowing it to drop to the floor and painfully drew on his musty, dusty white Praetorian tunic, hissing and yelping. When this was all over, someone was going to pay for that theft. Melted down, the hasta pura would be worth a fortune in silver.
Would it be worth the unfortunate thief’s punishment? Hardly, he growled to himself.
Grumbling continually, sharp pains and dull aches drawing tears from his eyes, he divested himself of the drab equipment of a private mercenary and kitted himself out as a Praetorian guardsman. He realised with surprise and relief, as he examined his belt buckle, that he was using both eyes. His beaten eye’s swelling appeared to have gone down enough to allow him to open it. The sudden addition of depth perception to his vision made him feel queasy, but it would be most useful if he met any kind of trouble.
It felt odd after all this time to don official vestments, but somehow also right: as though he had merely stepped out of them for a while. For precious moments he considered the armour. The mail shirt he’d dropped to the floor would do the job, but he felt more at home in segmented plate, and his own armour stood there waiting for him expectantly. There was no hope of getting into it on his own. With a cluck of irritation, he gripped the armour and hauled it painfully from the corner onto the bed. He would have to find someone in the compound to help him. The chain shirt would have been easier, but today he was a Praetorian again, and would damn well look like one!
Acheron appeared in the doorway, tongue lolling, wandering over to the rainwater catchment basin near the end of the corridor and lapping water as though he may never stop. Rufinus smiled at the hound as he gingerly slung the gladius and baldric over his shoulder, feeling one of the cuts on his ribs leak into its wrapping.
A distant roar brought him back to focus. Somewhere off in the city, that sound had risen and fallen like a wave of noise.
Thousands of people shouting.
Like a crowd at the games.
His heart jumped as he was forced to consider the possibility that Commodus had just shown up at the amphitheatre. If that was true, then it was all over. Even at the fastest a man could run, he couldn’t be at the amphitheatre in less than quarter of an hour and that would be quarter of an hour too late. The condition he was in, it would be half as long again at best. Had he missed his opportunity by that little?
Acheron continued drinking, unconcerned. Panicked into rushing ever more, Rufinus grasped the helmet from the table in the corner and, jamming it on his head and lifting the plate armour with his good hand and a grunt, turned back to the door, ready to face whatever awaited him in the greatest city in the world. He’d love nothing more than to take his shield, but there would be simply no way of using it with his arm in this state. If it came to a fight, he would just have to rely on the laminated plates of the manica to protect him.
A second distant roar rose and fell, and this time Rufinus could distinctly hear the sound of an elephant trumpeting over the top. His pulse racing, he realised that the wild animals were being led from their places of captivity through the streets in preparation for the day’s events. The most dangerous beasts: the lions and rhinoceros, the bears and wolves, would have been kept in the cells beneath the arena, but for a celebration of this magnitude, even the great amphitheatre of the Flavians did not contain enough cells to hold all the gladiators and animals required. The less dangerous would be kept in the training schools and bestiaries nearby, and paraded to the amphitheatre in time for the show to begin. As long as the beasts and men were still being brought to the arena, he had time, but it was running out rapidly. The presence of such a large crowd in one place pointed to the imminence of the event.
‘Come on, lad.’
Ruffling Acheron’s ears as he left the room, he staggered and almost fell sideways against the wall. Worried for a moment that he had overdosed on the painkiller again, he pulled himself straight. Hopefully it was just a combination of the extra weight of the helmet on his confused skull and the hour-long breakneck ride that had given him unsteady legs.
Taking a measured breath, he strode along the corridor, ignoring the aches and pains from his body. His mind was so wrapped up in his task that he ran straight into the figure standing outside the barrack block’s door before he even spotted him, dropping the segmented plate armour to the ground. Hissing with pain as various small wounds reopened, he straightened, wishing the painkiller had a quicker effect.
The figure of the Guard’s chief quartermaster straightened scratching his copper-coloured hair. ‘Rufinus?
The young guardsman shook his head and focused on the man in front of him. ‘Allectus? Why aren’t you at the amphitheatre?’
The ruddy quartermaster’s face took on a grumpy aspect.
‘Paternus ran a check on my stores and decided they weren’t up to scratch, so here I am going through everything. Where in God’s name did you spring from, anyway?’
Rufinus shook his head. ‘Sorry… no time. Can you help me into my armour?’
The quartermaster nodded with suppressed interest and stooped to pick up the plated suit, opening it like a clamshell so Rufinus could push his arms through the shoulder holes, with some difficulty where the manica caught, closing it and lacing it up. As he finished, he stepped back and admired his work, noting for the first time the wrappings on Rufinus’ damaged hand.
‘You’ve had trouble, I see?’
‘I’ll manage. There’s trouble heading for the emperor, so I’ve got to run.’
Allectus nodded thoughtfully. ‘If you’re heading for the amphitheatre, Merc and Icarion are assigned to the western side, gates fifty-five and fifty-six. You find them and they’ll be able to help.’
‘Thank you’ Rufinus called over his shoulder, already heading along the barrack block’s wall toward the camp’s main thoroughfare. Another cut opened up on his side as he veered off round the building and hurried toward the western, city-oriented, gate. Once more there appeared to be no guardsmen on duty. Ducking beneath the archway, he moved to lift the pivoting bar, wondering whether he’d have the strength.
‘Oi!’
Rufinus turned at the shout. A Praetorian stepped out of the chamber in the flanking tower, pointing at Rufinus. ‘Where in Hades do you think you’re going?’
Rufinus turned to him, rolling his eyes. ‘Duty. What do…?’
But Rufinus’ voice trailed off as he narrowed his eyes. The man was familiar. He looked the guardsman up and down as the man limped out of the doorway. Something had happened to his leg that kept him in hospital. The tell-tale bulk of a bandage was just visible under the man’s white full-length trousers.