Suddenly the Emperor emerged from the passageway. Rufinus could see that golden hair above the crowd, even with the man slightly stooped, laughing with his Praetorian prefect. Commodus was tall and, as he straightened, his handsome bearded face was visible above the mass.
Rufinus shook his head. What could they do?
With an extra shove that almost finished him, he pushed down on a burly, short man with the build of a blacksmith, using his broad shoulders to raise himself so that he was above the crowd, the people at chest height. His head swam and he nearly passed out with the effort. The broad spectator cried out in rage, but Mercator was there,
holding him fast so that Rufinus could use him to see clearly, while Icarion had hold of Rufinus’ side, supporting him steadily.
‘What’s happening?’
Rufinus shook his head. ‘I can’t see anything wrong. I can’t…’
But he could. A figure had burst from one of the tunnels, wearing a pristine white toga, gladius raised in his hand. A shocked silence fell on the crowd for a moment as the young man shouted something about the senate, drawing back the sword.
Rufinus shook his head in dismay.
So near, and yet too far.
The Praetorians holding back the crowd were too far away, much like the three friends, though already some of those with freedom of movement were running for the scene, drawing swords. They would never get there in time. Commodus and the prefect were unarmed, reliant on the guard, and the boy was already making to attack, naked blade raised.
Something rough and narrow was pushed into Rufinus’ hand and he glanced round in surprise to see a leather wrapping in his fingers. Long and narrow, the glint of silver was just visible where the leather cover had been tied round it. His hasta pura!
That
was why Icarion carried two javelins! That was why it wasn’t in his room! The Greek had brought it with him to prevent just such a theft!
Hefting it and grunting, he released without pause, screaming his pain with the act. There was no time to steady for the throw or to unwrap the gleaming silver shaft from its rough cover. Even had there been time, he had little enough strength just to cast it, let along hold and steady it. The leather-cased spear hurtled through the air over the heads of the crowd as a roar of disbelief and anger surged through them.
His training centurion with the Tenth would have given him a sound drubbing for the appalling quality of the throw, the tail end of the missile wavering like a fish tail as it sailed through the air.
But it was enough.
The missile struck the assailant just as he lunged forward with his sword. The point hit him in the left shoulder and spun him round with the force. The leather case ripped as the point tore through it and into the assassin. Both man and missile fell backwards out of sight, the would-be murder weapon spinning up into the air, released from his grip to clatter down onto the flags nearby. A proper throw,
had he been well, would have impaled the man through the heart and transfixed him. This was all his body had left.
Rufinus slumped with exhaustion and pain, whimpering as Icarion held him up.
Commodus, stunned into disbelief, spun this way and that, trying to ascertain the source of the sudden life-saving missile, while Perennis was immediately leaping into action, shouting commands to clear the nearby corridors and for his men to seal every exit. Half a dozen white-clad guardsmen were suddenly around their commander and emperor, swords drawn, watching for any further attempt.
Rufinus almost fell back to the ground as the terrified man he had used as a platform shrank away from him, only Icarion’s support keeping him upright. Irrespective of the shouted commands of the Praetorians and their commander ahead, the crowd nearby were already moving out of the way as the battered guardsman and his two blood-spattered companions shuffled through towards the scene, the central one sagging between the solid grip of his friends.
Rufinus, his mind already fuzzy with painkiller and effort, his last dregs of strength ebbing with every passing step, groaned and closed his eyes. Mercator shook his head in amazement and looked across the barely-conscious young guardsman to his fellow veteran.
‘The hasta pura?’ he said to Icarion. ‘Some sort of statement?’
The other man grinned. ‘Not quite. Other javelin was on the floor with my shield so that I could hold him. His silver spear was in my free hand.’
A moment later, the three were at the front of the crowd, other guardsmen pushing the mass back out of the way with forceful shoves and threats of violence. Perennis, eyes wild, turned to look at the three blood-soaked soldiers bearing down on them.
Rufinus opened his eyes with painful tiredness and looked from the emperor, who appeared distinctly uncomfortable at having a wall of bristling Praetorians surrounding his person, across to the would-be assassin. The swarthy young man, not much more than eighteen years of age, nephew of Pompeianus and weak-chinned senator, was squirming on the floor, clutching at the gaping wound in his shoulder. Two Praetorians reached down and grasped him firmly, roughly hauling him to his feet and ignoring the screech of pain as his rent shoulder was manhandled.
Another guardsman had retrieved the silver shaft with its torn leather cover.
‘Rufinus?’ the prefect said in surprise.
The muzzy fog was beginning to fill his mind now, and the adrenaline that had carried him through the last quarter hour had all-but drained from his system. He half-saluted prefect Perennis and the extra effort over-balanced him, causing him to slump. He would have fallen altogether had Mercator not dropped his shield and reached out to steady him along with Icarion. Releasing their young friend to Mercator’s care, Icarion saluted and rushed over to retrieve the hasta pura from the guardsman who was holding it admiringly, unwrapping the cover.
‘Sir,’ Rufinus managed before exploding into a fit of coughing.
‘What happened to you three?’ Perennis asked quietly, looking the blood-slicked trio up and down.
Mercator gently patted Rufinus on the back and shrugged. ‘We met with a little resistance.’
‘From whom?’
Rufinus, heaving in deep breaths, wiped his drooling mouth with the back of his hand and cleared his throat. ‘Lucilla’s men, sir. There are lots more of them among the crowd, all with knives. You’ll find the real conspirators all sitting with the lady herself. Except Pompeianus’ he added carefully. ‘He’s there, but he’s not one of them.’
The corridors were clearing rapidly, and no members of the public were now visible from this point, just several dozen Praetorians carrying out their orders efficiently. The immediate danger having passed, Commodus exited the encircling wall of white-clad men and strode over towards them.
‘How did you know?’
Rufinus turned to the golden-haired emperor and opened his mouth to answer just as he finally succumbed to the aches and pains and the warm fuzz of the painkiller, slumping back unconscious into Mercator’s grasp.
‘Majesty?’
Prefect Paternus appeared at a jog from one of the side corridors, his gaze taking in the scene instantly. He nodded approvingly at the slumped figure of Rufinus in his friend’s arms.
‘I see my man came through. I beg to report this confirms a suspicion we have had concerning the possibility of a plot hatched by your sister and a number of her acquaintances. This young man was
supposed to report all the details back to us so that this could have been prevented, but at least he managed to complete his mission, after a fashion.’
Perennis rolled his eyes at this smooth claim to success by his counterpart at the expense of Rufinus’ reputation.
Commodus frowned. ‘I know this man from somewhere.’
‘Guardsman Rustius Rufinus, your majesty’ Paternus said, slickly. ‘You may remember I raised him from the legions in Marcomannia.’
‘Because he saved your life’ retorted Perennis with a sneer. A quick glance from Commodus at the two prefects made them cast their eyes down respectfully.
‘I remember him, yes. And his silver spear. It would appear that your man truly does have the stuff of a Praetorian. Saving lives seems to be habit-forming.’ He straightened and took a deep breath, eyes flicking to the wounded assailant. Lips pursed, he strode forward, crouching halfway to collect the blade that had so recently been levelled at his own chest.
‘A legionary sword,’ he said, conversationally, turning the weapon over in his hand. ‘Functional and plain. One has to wonder how such a martial weapon would find its way into the hand of a young senator of Rome with only a year’s experience as a tribune. Surely a weapon meant for the heart of an emperor should be grander, somehow?’
The young man winced as the two soldiers holding him pulled him up straighter. ‘The blade is symbolic. It represents the empire you’re ruining.’
Commodus nodded slowly as he turned the blade over once more and then jabbed out with it, driving it into the young assassin’s sternum, pushing with a good deal of force until the bone shattered and the sword plunged deep into the chest to find his heart and impale it. The young man’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open in a soundless ‘O’.
With a curious look as though figuring out how it worked, Commodus twisted the blade first left and then right, and then released his grip, leaving the hilt protruding from the chest.
‘It would appear that justice has been served.’
He turned to the Praetorian prefects, both of whom wore carefully blank expressions. ‘Paternus: have all the known conspirators rounded up and taken into custody. My sister and
extended relations are to be taken to the carcer prison while I decide what’s to be done with them. The rest: the mercenaries and the rabble, deal with as you see fit.’
As Paternus saluted, a grim smile of satisfaction on his face, and turned to carry out his orders, Commodus gestured for the two attendant guardsmen to take the assassin’s body away, then turned to the other prefect and the three blood-spattered soldiers.
‘Perennis: The games must go on. I have promised the people, and a delay cannot be countenanced. As soon as Paternus has the conspirators and their men out of here, open up the corridors to the people again, then come and find me in the imperial box. There will be a seat there for you.’
The prefect bowed as Commodus raised an eyebrow at the three combatants.
‘As for you men, you’re a mess and a brutal reminder to anyone who sees you of what almost happened here. Go back outside to my carriage and get out of sight. Tell them to take you back to the Castra Praetoria and get yourselves seen by a medicus and cleaned up. I shall want to see you all tonight, after the last showing. If you’re adequately cleaned up by this afternoon, I urge you to come back to the amphitheatre. I have arranged some spectacular pairings.’
With a wave of dismissal, the golden haired emperor turned and strode off into the tunnels.
Mercator and Icarion shared a grin. ‘A bath, then a cup of wine, then an afternoon at the games? Don’t know about you, but that sounds fine to me.’
Changing his grip, Mercator slung the limp form of Rufinus over his shoulder, raising an unconscious groan from the young soldier.
‘I’ll take that as agreement.’
XXVIII – Aftermath
RUFINUS sagged. ‘It’s going to take me months to get fit after all this.’
The chief medicus of the Castra Praetoria smiled benignly. ‘That’s some of my best work. You’ll be on light duties within a week and full training in three according to my schedule. The wounds may hurt like Hades’ fork, but they’re all small and fast-healing. The man who initially patched you up did a damn good job. Pity you had to then open it all up again, but you’ll just have a few scars and burn marks to show for it in a month or so.’
Rufinus nodded. Given what he’d been through, it was a better result than he could have hoped. It had been a day and a half since the event that had shaken Rome: the first attempt on an emperor’s life since the days of Domitianus a century ago. Mercator and Icarion had apparently escorted him back to the camp as intended but, while their wounds were dealt with in moments and an hour later they were bathed and ready to return to the games, Rufinus had not surfaced from his drug-induced slumber until dark had fallen.
His apologies had been made to the emperor while Mercator and Icarion had been presented and praised appropriately, if briefly, the emperor extremely weary following the day’s drastic events.
The medicus had worked on Rufinus’ wounds that evening and had checked and rebound them the next morning, nodding with appreciation of his own work. Now, as the sun slid cold and watery toward the western horizon, the man had given him another once-over, cleaning and replacing every wrap.
‘You’ll have to come back every two days for the next week for a change of dressings, then once a week after that for a check and change, until I decide bandages are no longer required. Other than that, I presume your time is your own. I have certainly confirmed with the prefects that you are to be excused all duties this week, but I see no reason to keep you cooped up in the ward during that time.’
‘Thank you.’
With just a sharp breath to tell how the wounds were still pinching and pulling, Rufinus slid off the bench and onto his feet, retrieving the cloak from the desk and fastening it about his shoulders.
‘Don’t forget’ the medicus said, wagging a finger at him ‘the day after tomorrow.’
‘I won’t.’
With a nod of thanks he turned and strode from the room, along the access corridor and out of the hospital block into the chilly air. The weather had remained dry but the temperature had dropped again, and the numerous armoured Praetorians bustling around the fortress did so wrapped in wool cloaks, socks protruding from their boots. Mercator and Icarion lounged outside, blowing on their hands, and looked up as their friend emerged.
‘I thought you two were still on duty?’
Mercator nodded with a smile. ‘Interesting duty, though. You’re overdue a meeting with the emperor, and he still wants to see you. Perennis sent us to get you half an hour ago.’