Praetorian: The Great Game

by S. J. A. Turney

  A path through the forest, and wide enough that such light was visible, the weak sun reflecting off the snowy ground.

  The steady drip of thawing snow?

  His heart skipping a beat, Rufinus lunged across the dip and threw himself into the undergrowth, the twigs and leaves crunching and snapping beneath him. A struggle as he pushed branches aside with his elbows and forced himself forward, tearing his tunic on brambles and scratching his skin, and suddenly he was afforded a clear view of the track.

  Perhaps five feet across, the path was little more than a game trail through the woodlands.

  Not wide enough for horses, certainly.

  He shook his head at the idiocy of the Romans who were riding down such a narrow track; the perfect spot for an ambush.

  The men wore glittering mail shirts over tunics of white wool with crests, plumes and feathers rising from their decorative helms, riding without a care in the world, as though taking an afternoon trot across a family’s estate.

  Praetorians… cavalry, too. It was hard to tell which unit without seeing insignia. They could be ordinary Praetorians, or possibly the Imperial cavalry guard, or even a unit of Speculatores. That would be the most likely reason for them being out here.

  The creaking came again, and with echoes. Rufinus’ head snapped back to face directly ahead. There were more archers, lurking in the undergrowth at the far side of the track and poised ready to strike. A target of chance? Circumstances suggested otherwise.

  His heart racing, Rufinus tried to settle on a course of action. To charge across the path at them was plainly suicide; their bows were already trained on the open ground, waiting for their mounted targets, and it would take little effort for them to drop their aim and turn him into a hedgepig. No heroics, then.

  His glance returned to the riders, perhaps a dozen in single file. The one at the front was clearly an officer, his cuirass of burnished bronze bearing intricate designs, the white and purple pteruges hanging in twin rows at shoulders and waist, purple-bordered white cloak draped across the horse’s rump behind.

  He could shout a warning, but that was a gamble in itself. If there were more hidden groups of archers it could cause them to act precipitously, and who knew what might happen then.

  Taking a deep breath, his plan forming in his mind, Rufinus sheathed his gladius and shuffled as quietly as he could through the undergrowth to his right. Judging his position carefully, he pushed forward until he was almost at the track, offering up silent prayers to Fortuna that he was still sufficiently concealed. The archers were some five feet off to the left now, on the far side. The riders, led by the officer were less than ten feet away.

  He took a deep breath, the clopping of the hooves on the frozen ground muted by the ever-present snow and the oppressive bulk of the forest, yet echoing round his head like the clanging of a warning bell.

  The officer was almost here now. His boots were magnificent, enclosed and stitched with a wide tongue that bore a Medusa-head. His full-length Gallic-style trousers, unfashionable among officers but eminently practical for these conditions, were of pristine white wool. The scabbard hanging at his side was of purple leather and decorative silver with intricate designs.

  From his low viewpoint, that was all Rufinus could see of the man, but also all he had time to see. Across the path a muted creaking told him that several bows had just reached full tension.

  Now or never.

  Taking a deep breath, Rufinus lunged from his hiding place and grabbed a tight hold of the officer’s leg just above the boot’s lolling tongue, the medusa flapping in distress. The Praetorian officer barely had time to register his surprise and glance downwards before Rufinus hauled, putting all of his considerable strength into the action. With an undignified squawk, the officer was wrenched from the saddle, collapsing in a crashing, metallic heap on top of his blood-soaked assailant.

  As the man landed, driving the wind from Rufinus, arrows thrummed from the trees opposite, two driving deep into the horse’s rump, one thumping into the leather saddle, and two more hissing through the empty air where a moment before the Praetorian had proudly rode.

  The officer’s helmet had slipped down over his eyes, the white plume muddied and wet, slapping and sticking to the steel of the cheek piece. As the man bellowed something unintelligible and muffled in a raging voice, Rufinus heaved him over onto his back, releasing himself from the dead-weight.

  Suddenly the column was all activity. The nearest guardsman had been struck in the side by another arrow, the point smashing through the mail and ripping into flesh and organs within. The soldier stared down at the shaft in apparently mild surprise. Even as the men behind him were vaulting from their horses and drawing weapons, unslinging the shields from their backs, the dying guard slid slowly sideways and plummeted to the snow with a sigh.

  Leaving the furious, bellowing officer floundering in the snow, wrapped in his cloak and with his helmet over his eyes, Rufinus leapt to his feet. The officer’s horse had bucked and reared in pain but as it dropped back to the ground Rufinus ran across, using it as cover and ducking beneath the frightened, injured animal, running low toward the undergrowth opposite, drawing both his blades.

  As he tore into the frozen leaves and branches on the far side of the track, two more arrows hissed out, aiming for the white-clad guardsmen. Just two meant that the other archers had either dropped their bows and drawn melee weapons in preparation or, hopefully, had taken the opportunity to flee through the frozen woods as fast as their uncultured legs could carry them.

  Again, brambles tore at his clothes and skin, ripping angry red lines across his face and limbs. Silently condemning the undergrowth that constantly threatened to trip him, and openly cursing the Quadi, the Marcomanni, and any tribe that valued plaited hair and mud over a heated bathroom floor, Rufinus burst through the flora and suddenly found himself on a slope, tumbling forth into a sunken clearing very similar to the one on the far side of the path.

  Three men again, so there had to be more than one group on this side of the track, as there had been at least half a dozen shots in the initial volley but nothing he could do about that now. One man still held his bow, reaching down to the line of arrows jutting from the ground beside him. The others had already discarded theirs and drawn hand weapons.

  A man holding a large axe ready by his side barked with surprise as a crazed, blood-soaked Roman burst out of the undergrowth at the top of the slope and fell directly onto him, knocking him to the ground and driving the air from his lungs.

  Rufinus, instinct combining with training, made the most of his lucky landing, raising himself up from the surprised and winded barbarian and delivering half a dozen powerful punches from fists strengthened by being wrapped around the hilts of blades. The blows would leave bruised knuckles, but he felt the man’s nose and jaw break with the first two punches, the other four delivered for good measure and born from years of prize-fighting burly legionaries and not wanting them to get back up.

  It was over in a few heartbeats, the man beneath him unconscious by the fifth blow, the axe falling away from his fingers. Rufinus looked up just in time to see another warrior, glinting sword in hand, lunging for him. Desperately, prone and at a disadvantage, the legionary tried to roll out of the way and barely made it, the barbarian’s sword carving a red line along his arm.

  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 hims
elf 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 acc
ount 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.