The Great Game (3 page)

Hissing in pain and dropping his dagger from shocked fingers, Rufinus rolled away and came up into a fighting stance, hoping the archer wasn’t ready to put an arrow through his chest. Fortunately, the man had given up on his bow and had drawn a sword, advancing slowly and warily across the clearing.

Rufinus grimaced. His torn arm stung as his ragged breath plumed in the freezing air. The two barbarians shared a quick glance and rumbled something in their horrible tongue before closing in on him from two sides.

If he’d had a shield it would have been a fairer fight, but two healthy, well-armed men arrayed against him with only a gladius to defend himself was not the sort of odds Rufinus would wager on.

Slowly, with dreadful inevitability, the two fur-clad Quadi with swords in hand plodded across the clearing, their footsteps perfectly in time as their eyes remained locked on this foolhardy Roman. Rufinus tensed the muscles in his sword-hand and closed his eyes for a moment, picturing the dell from above and superimposing a mental image of a boxing arena.

It was just like the opening moves of a bout in the inter-century championship. The one on the left who had almost stuck him while he was down was large, yet moved with a certain grace, like Lollius Victor of the Second Cohort. The other was light and reedy… not strong enough for the arena really; an archer by nature. ‘Victor’ was the one to watch. Any moment now, they would break and try to take him simultaneously, but Victor would land the first blow, his companion less sure. The reedy man would pause, looking for an opening, wanting to be sure of his own safety as he struck.

It was all down to speed and planning. If it were two opponents in the ring, something that rarely happened
within
the rules, he would deliver a sharp jab to Victor to keep him busy and off-balance. Then, while the bigger man reeled back, he would slam a quick succession of body blows to the thinner man, ending with an uppercut that would take him out of the running entirely, just in time to return his attention to Victor before the big man swung.

His father had never understood about boxing. Pater considered it mindless thumping and had averted his gaze at the mention of his youngest son’s celebrated achievements for his unit. But then, the day his father shared anything other than cold disapproval would see one of them crossing the Styx. Boxing was a matter of planning, strategy, knowing your opponent and being able
to anticipate moves in advance. In that way, a good boxing match was as tactical and well-thought through as any general’s battle plan.

It had helped Rufinus in many situations to visualise a predicament as a bout in the ring.

Victor first, then, to knock him off balance, while he dealt with the archer quickly, bringing the odds back down in his favour. The only sign of change in him as the two barbarians broke into a run was the whitening of his knuckles on the leather-bound hilt of his gladius.

Predictably, the larger man swung as he reached Rufinus, the other stepping to the side, his eyes narrowing as he searched out a safe opening.

Rufinus, only waiting to see if the attack would be a lunge, a slash or a chop, ducked beneath the swing with prepared grace, coming upright as the Germanic blade whistled through the empty air. Without pause, he stabbed the sword into the only part of the barbarian that readily presented itself, the point driving into the man beneath the collar bone. Not a bad wound, but enough to knock him off-balance.

As Victor fell back in surprise, the reedy man was already coming for him, assured of a safe route of attack, Rufinus’ sword now in the wrong hand and on the wrong side of him.

Letting go of the hilt with his right hand as the shocked brute fell away, Rufinus turned, grasping the gladius with his left and wrenching it back out just in time to parry the smaller man’s lunge.

As the reedy archer fell toward him, putting all his strength behind the failed strike, Rufinus drew his head back, then threw it forward, head-butting the barbarian in the temple. Had he still been wearing his helmet, which lay somewhere on the battlefield, smashed and with a detached cheek piece, the blow would have killed the man outright. Even bare-headed he felt something break beneath his forehead as the man collapsed like a puppet in a children’s show.

Already as he turned, the larger man had recovered and, while his next swing was somewhat lighter than previous ones due to the wound in his shoulder, the barbarian’s face showed only hatred and determination as the blade was knocked easily aside. No fear or pain.

Rufinus quickly reassessed the situation. The remaining man was not going down quickly or easily. A blinding rage seemed to have gripped him and he advanced steadily, swinging again, this time with more force. Rufinus parried while his mind raced.

Berserk, the warrior grunted as Rufinus’ gladius again turned the blow, and brought his sword round for another swing with surprising speed. The man’s arm swung left and right, slashing and swiping with the sword, a pendulum of glinting iron as Rufinus lightly back-stepped with each swing, knocking the blows aside. Slowly he retreated across the clearing, parrying and buying himself time.

The barbarian would wear himself out in good time. The repeated swinging of the heavy blade with the wound in his shoulder would tire him and very soon one of those blows would be badly executed: he would overextend.

It was all about timing. As soon as the man opened up, Rufinus would have him. It…

The back-stepping Roman’s world turned upside down.

As he landed heavily on his back on the hard ground, a knobbly root digging into his ribs, he knew the first moment of panic.

The reedy man he had felled with a head-butt was remarkably still conscious. Battered and agonised, he’d been unable to help his companion, but fortune had swung his way as the wretched Roman had backed straight past him. It had been simple - the work of but a moment to grasp Rufinus’ ankle as he passed.

The legionary stared as the man before him lifted his long, Germanic sword in two hands, ready to bring it down and send him to the afterlife. Rufinus’ fingers closed on empty air; the fall had knocked the gladius from his grip.

Desperately, he watched the blade descend and, as soon as he judged it had reached the point of no return, rolled to his right, gratefully taking the opportunity to elbow the reedy archer in the face, smashing more bones.

The warrior’s long sword crashed into the ground but did not bite deep as it might have done another time. The icy hardness of the dirt sent a shockwave up the blade that the warrior, enraged and roaring, entirely ignored. The barbarian easily drew the sword back and raised it for a repeat overhead blow.

He would not fall for the same easy move twice. Indeed, as Rufinus tried desperately to think of a way out of the predicament in which he now found himself, the barbarian placed a heavy boot on Rufinus’ stomach and pressed down with agonising force, holding
him in place so that the legionary’s head was in perfect position for a skull-splitting strike.

Rufinus’ mind raced through every trick he knew. Nothing would help now, though, pinned to the ground under the full weight of a man and watching his death descend with dreadful certainty.

Not even time for a prayer. He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. No retribution for the Rustii now; no tearful reconciliation with his estranged father. No glory. Just his head on a Quadi spike.

Something wet spattered across his face.

Rufinus opened his eyes in surprise and was blinked repeatedly as a slick of blood filled his vision. His heart pounding in his chest, he lifted his hand and wiped away the bulk of the liquid. A second spray splashed across him as the blade that had protruded from the surprised barbarian’s chest was withdrawn.

He blinked again as the berserk, enraged barbarian, sword still gripped in his hands as he stared down at the gaping hole in his chest, toppled to the hard ground to the side.

In his place stood a Praetorian guardsman, white tunic under glinting mail spattered with droplets of blood, snowy cloak billowing impressively despite the lack of a breeze. The man’s crest bobbed as he turned and shouted something to a friend; something Rufinus could not quite hear over the thudding of his veins.

Hands reached down for him, helping him up.

Rufinus shook his head and wiped his eyes again. Half a dozen Praetorians had entered the clearing and were making sure the warriors were deceased, driving their daggers into the back of the barbarians’ necks, severing the spines.

‘You alright?’

Rufinus blinked, shaking his head, blinked more and then nodded.

‘Thank you.’

The guardsman grinned. ‘That hairy son of a German whore nearly had you’ he said as he looked around the depression. ‘Mind you, looks like you made good account for yourself first.’

‘That’s what we’re paid for’ Rufinus shrugged.

The guardsman wiped his blade on the barbarian’s fur, then took a small linen rag from his belt and carefully cleaned the sword to a metallic shine before sliding it back into its scabbard.

‘You’re the one who pulled the vulture off his horse?’

It was phrased as a question, though there could hardly be any doubt. ‘Yes sir. Couldn’t think of another way of preventing the attack without warning them all in the process.’

‘Swift thinking. He wasn’t best pleased until he realised what had happened. The horse is probably done for, if we ever find it.’

Rufinus took a deep breath. ‘The vulture?’

The Praetorian laughed. ‘Tarrutenius Paternus: the prefect.’

Rufinus stepped back and blinked again, this time in surprise. The man he had unhorsed was the commander of the Praetorian Guard, trusted general of the Emperor and senior commander of the army in the field. He might as well have grasped the emperor by the boot and yanked him out of the saddle. He swallowed nervously.

‘Is he…?’

The guardsman nodded. ‘Fine. He’ll be interested to meet you. All he saw last time was a crimson blur that burst out of the undergrowth, floored him and then ran off into the woods.’

Rufinus baulked and shook his head, but the Praetorian was already hustling him toward the path, where an opening had been forced through the undergrowth by other guardsmen.

A second white figure appeared as if from nowhere and held out Rufinus’ gladius and pugio, both already cleaned to pristine, glinting steel. Rufinus gave the man a nod of gratitude as he took the blades and sheathed them; he’d already lost a helmet and a shield in this action and would be paying for replacements out of his wages for months.

A moment later, walking as though in a dream, he stepped out onto the track, the snow churned into muddy slush underfoot with hoof-prints and the boot tracks of numerous soldiers. Most of the horses had been moved on, led by a few guardsmen, while the rest were waiting for their journey to resume. The other soldiers had either piled into the woods to deal with the unseen attackers or gathered around their commander.

Paternus, the third most powerful man in the empire, had adjusted his helmet and straightened, regaining his composure and some of the dignity he’d forfeited during his fall. As the guardsmen escorted Rufinus across the crunching white ground toward him, the prefect caught sight of them and raised a quizzical eyebrow.

‘This is the legionary, sir.’

Paternus looked at Rufinus as though he was something that had just plopped out of the cloaca maxima sewer in central Rome
and bobbed away along the Tiber. As the man placed his bony hands on his hips and turned, Rufinus caught something about the way he moved that was distinctly bird-like. His gaunt face and aquiline nose added to the impression and it was instantly clear how the prefect’s nickname had come about.

With a hoarse cough, the prefect pinched the bridge of his impressive nose before returning his hand to his hips.

‘Identify yourself.’

‘Duplicarius Legionary Gnaeus Marcius Rustius Rufinus of the Third Century in the First Cohort of the Tenth Gemina Legion, sir.’

Paternus frowned and walked around him in a circle, giving him an appraising glance that seemed to find him lacking in some way.

‘You are a mess, legionary… though I am aware there are mitigating circumstances.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘A grand name for a common legionary? Patrician blood in that name if I’m not mistaken?’

Rufinus sighed inwardly and tried not to let his shoulders slump. ‘Far enough back, yes sir.’

‘It seems that I owe you a debt of gratitude, legionary Gnaeus Marcius Rustius Rufinus?’

Rufinus shook his head in a self-depreciating manner but Paternus looked up past him at the two Praetorian guardsmen standing at his shoulders.

‘Get him cleaned and reequipped. The guard returns to Vindobona within the hour to report the glorious success of the Emperor’s army. The legions and auxilia can follow on when they’ve finished cleaning up, but this man comes with us. Such reckless bravery is deserving of reward.’

Rufinus stared as the Praetorian prefect turned and gestured for one of the horses. The first flake of a fresh shower of snow landed lightly on his nose. He looked around, bewildered, into the surprisingly sympathetic expression of the guardsman who had escorted him from the woodland. The man gestured for him to face front.

Amid the bustle as the prefect re-mounted, a tribune trotted up from the rear of the gathering - a short, heavy-set man with a dark, curly beard and a single eyebrow that ran the full width of his face. The man spoke briefly to one of the guardsmen and scanned the
gathering until his eyes fell on the crimson cloak among the white. The face he pulled was so like the expression Rufinus’ father usually reserved for him that it took him by surprise and he blinked and averted his gaze. By the time he looked back, the tribune was deep in heated debate with the prefect.

‘Who’s the one with the beetle-brow?’ Rufinus asked, leaning closer to the guardsman. The man looked past him, frowning, and peered at the gathering until he realised who was being indicated.

‘That’s Perennis, tribune commanding the First Cohort. Watch out for him; he’s got a temper and he plays the game just as well as the prefect.’