The bully yelped at the sudden and unexpected double-handed blow, his bare foot slipping on the slimy step, right hand still gripping the knife tightly as his left grasped desperately, seeking something to hold on to that might prevent his fall. One naked leg flailed out over the dark abyss, the churning water far below perhaps a foot deep now. His groping hand fastened on the wool of Rufinus’ cloak and he clung tight. Rufinus felt the sudden yank of the man’s desperate weight almost pull him off his feet, threatening to cast the pair of them into the hole together.
‘Always be prepared to lose a little ground’, his boxing mentor had drilled into him time and again. You can afford to give a little in order to gain the upper hand. Officers said it too: sometimes you had to lose a battle to win the war. Give and take.
Reaching out quietly in the darkness, he grasped the flailing, knife-wielding hand and guided it towards his own face and down a few finger-widths. Scopius was so distracted, single-mindedly concentrating on holding on and not falling away, that he barely fought the enforced movement of his knife-hand. In fact, having it grasped helped, allowing him to start pulling his feet back in.
Rufinus flicked with the knife, just enough to sever the tie that held the cloak closed round his neck, and then let go of the knife hand.
He couldn’t see Scopius’ face, but he could imagine the look as the bully suddenly lurched back, a ragged handful of useless cloak ripping away in his hand. His foot skittered a moment and he fell.
There was a brief clonk as part of the falling man struck the staircase on the way out into the open abyss. If he was lucky, it was his head.
Rufinus stood for a moment, heaving in ragged breaths, his shoulder twitching and spasming with the pain. From twenty feet
below there was a splash and a crunch. The water was perhaps three feet deep now; not deep enough to cushion Scopius’ fall.
Rufinus shook his head to divest himself of some of the water that coated his face and hair, wincing at the pain in his shoulder as he did so. The only noise was the thunderous roar of the water. Scopius had gone, whether during the fall, on impact, or beneath the rising water it didn’t matter.
What
mattered
was that, despite all his plans and his resolve, when it came down to it, he had proved to be a better person that he’d expected, choosing a higher path. And still the bastard had gone, done away through his own anger and unwillingness to let it go. It was hard to deny the workings of Nemesis. He would have to raise an altar to her with next month’s pay.
Wearily, and with a great sense of relief, Rufinus pushed the slab at the top of the steps, next to the aqueduct channel that poured gallon after gallon of water into the tank. He felt a brief pang of guilt that the poisonous bastard floating in the gloom might foul the water supply to the palace for a time, but there was only so much a man could do.
The air outside was so fresh after the wet, mouldy miasma of the huge basin, that it tasted sweet. The sun was shining bright, following the brutal thunder storm earlier in the week. With a smile, Rufinus clambered out onto the basin’s roof and looked at the covered aqueduct channel that ran past the temple of Claudius towards the Palatine.
It was a good day to be alive.
Dabbing gently at the deep wound on his shoulder, Rufinus winced and made for the set of iron rungs driven into the outer edge of the structure that served as access for workmen. The people in the street rushing about their business barely gave him a second glance. A scruffy, muck-covered man clambering down the works access for the aqueduct would hardly be an unusual sight, despite the once-white tunic, stained with green mould and spattered with blood.
Dropping the last six feet to the pavement, Rufinus paused and looked up at the sun. Still plenty of time. He had an hour before he was due back at the Castra Praetoria, and he could be there in half an hour at a steady pace. Had he had a little longer, he’d have gone to use the baths on the way back.
Hurrying quickly beneath the arches of the aqueduct, he looked up with a quirky smile as he heard the gentle rumble of the
water now flowing freely along the channel. His mind furnished him with a vivid image of a bloated, white Scopius wedged up against the entrance of the channel, buffeted by the current rushing around him.
He sighed with relief as he realised he was only able to feel happy with the day because he had let go of vengeance, and culpability had passed to Scopius with the lunatic’s final, fatal attempt at murder. He suspected that, had he gone through with his plan as intended, that bloated, white image would float before his eyes every night until the day he died.
Thank you, Nemesis.
The street ahead sloped down toward the great Flavian amphitheatre, the high arches of the temple of Divine Claudius to the left, rising above the monumental nymphaeum, now bursting into life with the water of which it had so recently been deprived. Rufinus, his imagination charged by recent events and the adrenaline still pumping through his veins, fancied he could see the faintest pink tint to the water as it flowed between the statues and down to the trough below.
With the quirky smile returning, he turned away from the street and strode down a narrow alleyway between two insulae, the owners of a cookware store and a vegetable shop who occupied the frontages watching him with only passing curiosity.
The alleyway was entirely unremarkable, no different from any other urine-soaked passage in the city, marked out only by the sign above for ‘Benitus: Livery’. Behind the insulae that lined the main street, the alleyway opened into a large yard, surrounded by low, wooden structures. The smell of horse manure and sweat was almost overpowering, the sound of snorting beasts and shouting workers rising above the background hubbub of the city. At the far side a pair of wide gates gave cart access out onto a lesser street.
Scouring the yard, Rufinus spotted the young boy of seven or eight years with a gnarled, twisted arm and an eager, bright face framed by wavy white-blond hair.
‘Peteos?’
The boy turned and, catching sight of Rufinus, grinned and ran across to him.
‘Everything set?’
‘Yessir. All ready. You come.’
Smiling benignly at the boy and clutching the cut on his shoulder, Rufinus followed his guide across the yard and into one of
the individual stable buildings reserved for the more discerning customer who did not want their steed quartered with common beasts. Such stalls were cleaned regularly and straw and hay only brought in as required. In the private, enclosed stall, Peteos gestured to the bench as he reached up with a stick and pushed open the narrow shutters high in three walls, allowing light to penetrate the gloom.
Rufinus nodded with satisfaction.
Freshly-purchased and laundered white tunic and breeches lay folded on the bench, his military boots beneath. His armour, helmet, shield and sword stood, polished to mirror brightness, on the hay rack. Even his scarf and cloak appeared to have been laundered - a service he hadn’t even asked for. The boy had done well.
Wandering over, he examined the tunic and breeches. They were not quite of a military cut and not entirely the right shade, but would be more than adequate in the circumstances.
‘I won’t ask how you managed to wash, dry and press the cloak and scarf in a little over an hour.’ He grinned. ‘And the thing I asked you to keep safe?’
Peteos nodded and removed a wax-tablet in its wooden case from the folds of his tunic. The seal bearing the mark of the commander of the Speculatores was intact and unbroken. Having already collected it from the Castra Peregrina, any loss of official documentation between there and the Praetorian barracks would be entirely his problem.
‘You’ve done well, Peteos. Icarion was right about you. Thank you.’
The boy grinned and Rufinus took the purse from his belt, counting out the agreed number of coins and then adding a further half dozen for excellent service.
‘I don’t suppose you have anything I can use to wad this, do you?’
Peteos’ eyes widened as Rufinus lifted his hand away, revealing the bleeding mess on his shoulder.
‘I find cloth. Half moment.’
As the boy scurried off, Rufinus divested himself of the smelly, dirty garments he wore, sighing with disappointment at the thought of losing such good, expensive, soft boots. With a deep breath, he dropped everything but his undergarments into the bag Peteos had left him.
Wandering across the stall, he reached into the water trough, rubbing the slime and blood from his arms and back, leaning forward so that the now-slowed trickle of blood dripped onto the floor. Quickly he dipped his head and face, rubbing off the muck and hissing at the pain the movement brought.
A few moments later he was as clean as he could get. Turning to retrieve the fresh-laundered white clothes, he saw Peteos scurrying back into the room, a wad of linen in his hands. Rufinus frowned as the boy unravelled them.
‘This is good quality stuff; like our medicus uses. Where do you
get
these things?’
The boy grinned lop-sidedly and his hazel eyes twinkled. ‘Peteos know people.’
Knowing better than to press the matter, Rufinus sank to the bench as the Greek lad padded the wound and coiled the dressing around neck, chest and shoulder.
‘You’ve done this before.’
Peteos simply smiled enigmatically and tied off the dressing. ‘You remember Peteos, yes?’
‘Oh yes.’ With a grateful smile, Rufinus counted him out another half dozen coins. People like the boy were worth keeping sweet, lest he be needed again.
Rising, Rufinus dressed in the refreshingly clean and dry white clothing and then struggled into his armour with Peteos’ help, buckling on his weapons and plopping the helm on his head.
‘Thank you again, my young friend.’
As the boy bowed, he retrieved his shield and the wax tablet, which he tucked into his tunic.
With a relaxed smile, he strode out into the city, returning on schedule from his courier job.
Yes… it was definitely a good day to be alive.
XI – Consequences
RUFINUS stood nervously, feet shuffling on the dusty ground of the courtyard. The two guardsmen on duty by the entrance to the basilica watched him with vague interest. Almost an hour he had now been waiting in the heat and blinding sun. At least he was only in tunic and breeches and not fully armed and equipped.
Over that time, clerks had come and gone from the many offices around the periphery and the main portals to the north and south, guardsmen had gone about their business, deliveries had been made. And all the time, the lone white-tunic’d Rufinus had stood and sweltered as he watched them.
He had kept his thoughts as carefully blank as his face, not prepared to consider the possible repercussions of his actions. Brooding on things never helped. A movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention. Yet again a clerk had left the basilica, but this one was making directly for him. He swallowed, his throat dry and scratchy.
‘Guardsman Rustius Rufinus? Follow me.’
Turning without further comment, the man strode back the way he’d come, leaving Rufinus to hurry across the dusty ground and catch up. He fell in line at the man’s heel as they passed under the great ornate pediment and into the blessed shade and cool of the hall with its high windows and marble floor.
Across the basilica they strode, past the chapel of the standards and to the office next to it. Without needing instruction, Rufinus stopped at the doorway, the clerk motioning him to wait as he entered.
‘Guardsman Rustius Rufinus, sir.’
There was a murmur of assent and the clerk reappeared, gesturing to Rufinus to enter before rushing off about his own business. Rufinus took a deep breath, adjusted his tunic, and entered.
His heart sank. In the best of possible worlds, the coming interview would be carried out by Paternus with Mercator or Icarion present to give some level of support.
Instead, the sour-faced, monobrowed form of Perennis sat behind the desk, his fingers steepled on the oak surface, alone in the room.
‘Rufinus. Good.’ His tone suggested that it was anything
but
good.
Aware of what could be riding on the next quarter of an hour, Rufinus strode to the centre of the room, as full of confidence and innocent respectability as he could manage, came to attention and snapped off the sharpest salute of his life, marred only slightly by the hiss of pain and the tensing as his neck and shoulder twinged.
‘Very smart. I suppose you expect me to be impressed and swayed by your military precision, your stance and the clear nobility of your line? Is that it, Rufinus?’
Carefully maintaining his blank expression and keeping his eyes straight, locked on a point half way up the wall behind the prefect’s left shoulder, Rufinus cleared his throat. ‘No sir.’
Perennis leaned back in his chair, cupping his chin with a hand while the forefinger of the other drummed out a military beat on the desk’s edge. ‘I am unimpressed. You will be well aware, I have no doubt, that I opposed your raising to the guard when I served beneath Paternus, though I relented when he asked me to indulge his foibles.’
Rufinus remained still, though the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach only deepened. Perennis was no friend of his and the prefect may well use this as an opportunity to undo the actions of his counterpart. A return to legionary life seemed unthinkable now. Strange how things had changed so much in seven months.
‘However,’ Perennis said, the beat of his tapping finger changing slightly to a more insistent thump, ‘it is not fitting for a senior officer in the service of the emperor to let his personal feelings cloud his judgement in a situation that would, in civilian life, warrant a trial.’
The cold ball of worry in Rufinus’ stomach juddered. Was that a hint of hope? It seemed too unlikely to reach for.
‘Some investigation has turned up a long-standing feud between yourself and a guardsman named Scopius. I am led to believe that this ‘trouble’ has been going on since the day you were reassigned in Vindobona. As such, it is hard to believe that you have absolutely no connection to the man’s disappearance?’