The pugio failed to connect with his face as intended, but left a long score of angry red across his forearm and the blood ran free.
Rufinus felt panic begin to rise as the two barbarians were on him, grappling and punching, grasping and ripping. He felt his helmet wrenched back, the vertebrae in his neck crunching worryingly at the pressure.
His sword arm was pinned to his side by one man while the other, the dagger drawn back for another blow, moved in with more care and accuracy this time, making for the gap between his helmet and the collar of his armour. One blow there would end it all.
Two things made Rufinus successful as a boxer.
Firstly: his skill. He knew exactly how to make his plays, how to react to almost any move the opposition might try, even how to plan a bout so that he could see ten moves ahead how to finish the man off. A great ability to have, for sure, though of very little use when faced with a sudden and brutal surprise attack that left him no time to plan.
Secondly: the fact that, despite his family’s lofty origins, Rufinus had grown up one of three brothers in a provincial town, had developed on his own merits, largely due to a father’s declining interest in him that followed swiftly upon the death of Lucius, and had joined the army as a low-ranker. All these things had conspired to make Rufinus a dirty fighter with an easily-salved conscience.
His left foot stamped down hard, the hob-nails breaking most of the bones in the slave’s foot. The barbarian screamed and released his grip on Rufinus’ arm and, in that tiniest sliver of time, Rufinus’ hand grasped the man’s groin and used it as a handle to haul him round and use him to block the pugio strike.
The military knife, so accurately on line for his windpipe, now plunged deep into the other slave’s back between the shoulder blades: a killing blow which would likely now be a mercy for the dirty man with the smashed foot and the ruined groin.
Rufinus the boxer had control again.
But just as he let the screaming, dying barbarian, who was convulsing in agony, fall away in order to face the second, knife-wielding slave, the other guardsmen on slave duty were finally pitching in, two of them grabbing the knifeman and snapping his neck back, killing him instantly.
The pugio fell away from a spasming hand and was kicked somewhere unseen in the scuffle of multiple feet.
Rufinus’ mind whirled. Why were they so suddenly getting involved when a moment earlier they had been happy to watch him decapitated?
The answer swam into focus as it cast a shadow across him. A decurion, an officer of the Praetorian cavalry in full dress uniform, with a chest covered in decorations, reined in his horse. ‘What is the meaning for this disruption?’ he snarled at them.
The column had stopped now. Though brief, the scuffle had caused a blockage in the route, and the column ahead had begun to separate from the rear section at the point of the fight. Rufinus, his neck aching unbearably, lifted his arm, blood streaming from the knife cut and dripping from his fingers, and pointed at the two men on the ground.
‘They had a knife, sir! A Roman knife!’
The officer narrowed his eyes. ‘What’s your name, soldier?’
‘Gnaeus Marcius Rustius Rufinus, sir. Of the First cohort.’
‘Well, Gnaeus whatever-your-name-is Rufinus: report to the prefect’s office as soon as we return to barracks tonight!’
Rufinus sagged as he saluted, the blood running down his raised arm and into his armpit.
‘You two!’ the decurion snapped at the guardsmen who had finally come to his aid. ‘Bind these two and tie the rope to my saddle.’
Rufinus, bleeding, tired and not a little angry, watched as the two bodies were tied to the decurion’s saddle horn. As soon as the knot was tightened, the officer barked orders for them all to fall back into position and gave an arm signal back to the imperial party. Horns sounded and the column began to move again, little more than a couple of dozen heartbeats after it had stopped.
Rather than re-joining his unit, the decurion rode slowly alongside the slave group, the corpses of the two would-be assassins bouncing across the flags and cobbles, teeth breaking free and pinging away across the road from ruined faces, limbs snapping and stretching as they made their grisly way, even in death, to the triumph’s conclusion, a long trail of blood winding out behind them.
Rufinus took the opportunity, as the decurion looked away for a moment, to peer at his companion guardsmen. Not one would meet his gaze. Somehow, the incident had failed to perturb the crowd. Indeed, they had cheered all the louder as the scuffle concluded and jeered and mocked the slaves as the two dead men were re-tied, mutilated and dishonoured. A good fight would always be popular, as Rufinus knew from his lucrative little side-line, and one where enemies of the state died? Perfect.
Rufinus swallowed nervously as the column wound on into the great square. This was no unhappy accident. A slave, who should have been safely roped up, had instead been armed with a Roman weapon and left to cut his own bonds. The notion that he had somehow acquired the knife during the march was simply ludicrous. And the other guardsmen had simply watched, waiting for him to die, and had only acted in his defence when suddenly in danger of discovery by an officer. Convenient how they had managed to both instantly kill the would-be assassin, and to lose the only evidence.
Corruption among the Guard! He had somehow been saddled with seven accompanying soldiers who were either deeply involved in a plot to do away with him, or had been persuaded to distance themselves and fail to come to his aid.
Given the lack of questionable witnesses and the absence of the dagger, it would likely be assumed by his superiors that his attention to the slaves that were his duty had been too lax and that he was therefore at least indirectly responsible for the escape and the attack. He would be made the scapegoat for the whole affair, as sure as blood was red. Not even his decorations, his record, or his passing acquaintance with men of power would help him there.
He could hardly imagine what the punishment might be for holding up an imperial triumph, even for only a moment. It wouldn’t be light. Almost certainly the emperor had been told the name of Rufinus. Would that help, or would it make things yet worse? With a sigh, Rufinus held his arm a little further out as he walked, allowing the slow drip of blood to smack onto the paving stones rather than further soaking his already blood-stained white tunic.
He’d meant what he said in the midst of the fight, though: Scopius.
There was no way to link him to the incident. The man had clearly planned well. Even if the seven apparently deaf-and-blind bastards who had left him to his fate could be persuaded to talk, the chances were Scopius had used someone else as a go-between. And their testimony would hardly be listened to by the officers anyway if they had a comfortable scapegoat.
Rufinus ground his teeth. Scopius had upped the stakes now.
Bullying was one thing. Petty theft, tricks and trouble and even the attempts at irregular beatings were almost to be expected; certainly, he could deal with them. This, though, was an entirely different matter. Scopius had plainly had in mind no goal other than simple murder. And even though that murder had been thwarted and Rufinus lived on, the punishment he would face tomorrow would be severe.
Hopefully not fatal, he suddenly thought with a start.
Dark thoughts continued to assail him as he marched on past the circus maximus, a wonder he had waited a lifetime to set eyes upon; now all but forgotten.