He was accompanied, for the most part, by comrades from the officer corps of the Fourteenth, though neither Antonius nor Frederiko were there, as both apparently had been slain. Trelawna did not consider this a desertion of duty, even though the conflict was still raging. She concluded that Rufio at last had shown good sense. Though such a commodity was in short supply over the next few hours, as they headed away from Sessoine with no apparent plan or direction, having gathered few supplies save those already packed in their saddle-bags. Many of the men were wounded and only crudely bandaged. A number of the horses limped.
They had now been travelling for a week, heading roughly southeast, and Trelawna was bone-weary and agonised from the saddle. She was also famished; the scraps they had brought for rations had served for only a couple of days. Rufio continued to give orders as if he were in charge, and to some extent he was, though Trelawna suspected this was because everyone else was too demoralised to argue with him. Those few occasions when he managed to speak to her privately — for they had no tent and at night slept beside a campfire among the others — he barely mentioned the battle, except to say: “We should have used artillery to bring them down from that high position,” or “blast Lucius and his ego… he sent men to certain death under those hails of arrows.”
Rufio never touched on his own role in the fray, if he’d had one. He was dirty and bloody enough when he’d returned, but Trelawna had not seen him during the actual fight and, on cleansing himself in a stream two days into the escape, she’d noted that his own wounds were few and light. The swaggering, handsome devil she had fallen in love with now looked a shadow of his former self. He shuddered and gnawed upon a knuckle to calm himself. He’d also become ill-tempered, castigating those around him in the foulest language, and when Frankish peasants, having identified their soiled standards as Roman, showered them with stones and dung, he rode among them with sword drawn, ordering their homes burned and livestock slaughtered.
But word had spread that New Rome was beaten, and much to Rufio’s chagrin, the inhospitality continued across the Sequana border in Burgundy, the northern quarter of which they had hoped to traverse en route to the Ligurian foothills.
Duke Draco of Burgundy had remained an independent power during New Rome’s reconquest. He had thirty thousand men at his command, and many well-maintained castles. He had never objected in principle to the return of Roman hegemony, and at one stage had sent ambassadors to Emperor Lucius’s court to name his price for full compliance, but so high had it been that even Emperor Lucius had found it ridiculous. At length terms had been reached to obtain Burgundy’s neutrality. Of course, once Arthur had been defeated, Lucius would have returned to Burgundy with his legions, having found a problem with these terms, at which point Duke Draco would have grandly consented to Roman wishes. It was all a game, in the spirit of which — when Rufio and his party found that they were also being stoned on the outskirts of Burgundian villages — Duke Draco had clearly, yet again, changed his allegiance.
“Gallic bastard!” Rufio spat, feeling this betrayal more than any of the others.
Certain of his lieutenants had mentioned the possibility of their seeking sanctuary in Draco’s ducal palace at Lyon. It was closer than Castello Malconi, but Rufio had judged that Arthur would probably pay Draco more for them than even his mother could afford, and had thus refused. Despite this, it was disconcerting to have any bolt-hole, even an unreliable one, so unceremoniously closed to them.
His anger and frustration finally boiled over after several days climbing into the ever-steepening foothills. They halted to rest on a broad slope where rock-slides had shattered the pine trees, but where dark regions of shadow-filled woodland still beckoned on either side. The sole centurion Rufio had in his company was the veteran, Marius, who, on his own initiative, had posted watchmen at the rear to detect any pursuit. One of these now caught up with the party, shouting that they were in grave danger.
The watchman, a junior officer of the Fourteenth Legion, leapt from his horse and sank to his haunches, gasping. His animal was lathered with sweat. The party circled him, unnerved. Rufio dismounted, handing his reins to a valet.
“Speak, fellow!” he said. “What danger?”
“My lord…” The watchman straightened up, rubbing his aching backside. “I dallied to the rear, in an effort to gather intelligence…”
“Yes, yes,” Rufio said impatiently. “What have you learned?”
“Does anyone have water?”
A water skin was thrown to him. He took several deep draughts before continuing. “I lingered at an inn called the Red Gauntlet. You remember it, my lord?”
“I do. It was some way back, as I recall, but a pleasant enough distraction. Little wonder you chose that as your sentry-point.”
“My lord, I chose it because it’s a popular haunt. I fancied anyone on our tail would call there to refresh themselves. Well… someone did. A knight in black wolf-fur, and a pack of cutthroats. All veterans of the fight at Sessoine — I know this much because they paid for their food and drink in pillaged Roman gold.”
Rufio said nothing. The rest of his band listened intently.
“I managed to sidle close while they were in their cups. It was a risky policy. Had they noticed, it would have been the worse for me…”
“Enough with your heroics!” Rufio snapped. “Get on with it!”
“In short, my lord… they loathe and detest us. Their leader wishes to kill us all.”
“Did they tarry there?”another officer asked, hopefully. “Drinking, making merry?”
“They made merry for one night, sir, but were on the road again by dawn. I had to ride at full gallop to get ahead of them. They are making better time than us; they have brought fit horses, plus water and fodder.”
“We can feed and water our own nags when they get us to Castello Malconi,” Rufio said distractedly.
The watchman looked surprised. “Castello Malconi? But that’s days from here, along terrible roads… and your enemies are closing. Tribune, we’d be better cutting southwest from this point, seeking shelter with Draco of Burgundy.”
“We’ve already had this discussion,” Rufio retorted. “Draco would betray us.”
“Betray us…?”
“Too much jibber-jabber! Mount up. We can’t delay.”
But the watchman did not mount up. Possibly he had been expecting more than this — if not congratulations for his good work, at least some food and rest. When neither of these was forthcoming, and he was presented instead with the reality of ever-harder mountain trails, something inside him snapped.
“Why should Duke Draco betray us?” he asked loudly. “It’s you they want. You’re the one who dishonoured one of their greatest lords.” He turned to the others. “Why should the rest of us suffer for what he did?”
“Hold your tongue!” Centurion Marius hissed.
“And what kind of refuge will we find at Castello Malconi?” the watchman cried. “It’s a pile of rock in a forsaken waste! His mother worships dark gods. She’ll more likely kill us than give us succour…”
“You plebian bastard!” Rufio shrieked, striking hard and unexpectedly with his sabre. The first blow clove the watchman to the teeth. The second struck the joint between his neck and collar-bone, plunging to such depth that it could not be retrieved.
The corpse toppled stiffly over, Rufio’s blade still wedged in place.
“Vermin-ridden scum!” Rufio screamed at the rest of them. “Are you so quick to forget that you are Roman soldiers? This war is not over because we lost one battle. Arthur knows that too. That’s why he hunts us. You wish to go to the Duke of Burgundy, who will do away with you, one way or the other, if for no other reason than to avoid housing and feeding you… then be my guest! Craven-hearted knaves! You would abandon your commander just because times are hard?”