‘Begin!’ Paternus’ voice.
Five more drips of rain and another rumble: slightly closer. The grey, roiling clouds flashed white for a moment some way to the north of the city.
Despite his being prepared, Rufinus still bit down hard on the leather strap as the first blow landed. A centurion’s cane was carefully sized and weighted. It was never meant for use as a weapon. It was a goad: a switch with which to smack the legs of recalcitrant legionaries as they marched into battle. An irritant that left a sting. Far from strong enough to break bones, though it would certainly bruise and might break the skin if wielded with enough force. The centurion behind him was clearly applying all of his muscle.
Rufinus’ knuckles whitened where they gripped the wooden crossbar on the punishment post. He forced himself to relax and breathe for a moment and then tensed, just in time for the second blow. This time, he was better prepared and simply winced through the pain.
With a crash, the clouds finally opened and poured their contents on the city. The preceding night had been sticky and muggy and had left everyone out of sorts. It was commonly assumed that this morning would bring a storm that would clear the air again. It seemed the common assumers were correct.
The third blow landed painfully, Rufinus once more unprepared as his thoughts had turned idiotically to the weather. Rain began to bounce from the flagged floor of the courtyard, battering at the stone as though in an effort to break through it.
The fourth blow broke the skin, though the pain was still easily manageable. The trickle of blood running down his back would be lost among rivulets of fresh rainwater.
Five.
Rufinus found himself playing a little game as he bit down hard, preparing for the next blow. Five. Five? Fifth legion Alaudae? They had gone when the Flavians came to power, one of the last supporters of that idiot Nero. Five. Five miles from the family villa perched above the blue sea on a rocky headland to the triumphal arch of Licinius Sura that marked the boundary of Tarraco’s urban region. Five? Five turns of the glass was how long his first inter-century match had lasted, when he had first had his nose broken. Five…
The sixth blow took him by surprise again and he realised with irritation that he had grunted in pain.
The game continued. Sixth legion. They were up in Britannia somewhere, enduring the Gods-awful cold and damp that was said to be worse even than Marcomannia. Six years he had been serving with the legions. Sextilis: the sixth month as it had once been. Officially it was now ‘Augustus’, of course, renamed in honour of the great man himself.
He gritted his teeth on the strap.
Seven.
And so the game went on for another twenty or so heartbeats, his mind filling in the space between blows with numerical minutiae. His skin had been split perhaps four or five times, and there would be a heavy discolouration of his back. The twelfth blow dealt, the officers waited until he rose with a creak, straightening, and saluted him. He returned the salute, drawing in a sharp breath against the pain as he did so.
The observers dispersed and hurried in out of the rain. Rufinus dawdled, despite the obvious discomfort of the medics, the feel of the spattering rain drops massaging his beaten back surprisingly pleasant. With a sigh, he strode over to the bench where his equipment rested, his tunic already sodden and dripping.
‘We must tend to the wounds.’
Rufinus shook his head, reaching out and retrieving the soaked garment. ‘It’s just a few small cuts. I’ve had a lot worse.’
The medicus restrained his hand as he tried to lift the tunic over his head. ‘I frankly don’t give a shit what you think. I need to salve and bind your back; even if you don’t want it, it’s my bloody duty and I won’t have anyone accusing me of abusing a patient after punishment. Now get inside and lie face down on the surgery table.’
Rufinus noted the flinty eyed glare, shrugged painfully and followed the medicus inside. The tending of his wounds was a quick job and, less than quarter of an hour later, the bruised guardsman walked out from the shelter of the hospital doorway and into the wide street. The freshly laundered tunic the medicus had arranged for him began to darken as the rain soaked into it. The thunder had passed overhead a moment ago and now grumbled over the palatine as if to admonish the emperor. The rain, however, was far from past.
Opposite, under the colonnade of a large building, two men stood, sheltering from the weather. As Rufinus emerged, they waved at him and he hurried across to join Mercator and Icarion beneath the columned frontage. Every step brought fresh aches and pains. He had suffered beating and attacks in one form or another so many times recently that one set of wounds had not had the chance to recover before the next lot superimposed itself. Though none of the injuries he’d suffered were dangerous or life-threatening, he would dearly love a few weeks’ breather to recover.
‘You alright?’
Rufinus nodded. ‘No thanks to the ‘emperor’s largess’.’
He frowned as he saw his two friends’ faces contort in an effort to prevent breaking into a smile.
‘What?’
‘You’re not going to like it.’
‘Like what?’ Rufinus hissed irritably.
‘Word sort of leaked out and people are calling officer’s canes the ‘emperor’s largess’. Sorry, but it is funny.’
‘Piss off.’ Rufinus levelled an evil glare at the pair, which failed to have the desired effect as their smiles broke out.
‘Come on. Let’s go get some food.’
Rufinus shook his head. ‘I’ve got other things to attend to. Need to check something, then think on my next move.’
Icarion furrowed his brow. ‘Don’t do anything stupid.’
‘I’ve no intention of doing. What I do will be very well planned and far from stupid. Best the pair of you know nothing about it.’
Icarion opened his mouth to speak, a look of concern on his face, but Mercator nodded emphatically and grasped the small Greek by the shoulder. ‘We’ll be in the cohort’s mess hall when you’re done with your plotting. Neither of us is on duty ‘til late afternoon, so come find us.’ Rufinus nodded and smiled weakly. Mercator touched his shoulder gingerly, taking care not to apply any pressure just in case. ‘Glad you’re alright, anyway.’
Rufinus took a deep breath and waved farewell as the pair strode off before turning and making for the headquarters building. The ornamental, pedimented entrance provided a brief respite from the pounding rain, and inside he kept to the surrounding portico until he found the door he sought.
The quartermaster’s office stood welcoming with glowing light and open door, and Rufinus made his way inside, grateful to be in the dry. The office was small and tightly packed with scroll racks and shelves, the latter stacked neatly with wax tablets. A short man with reddish hair sat scratching hurriedly at a fresh wax sheet. He looked up as Rufinus entered.
‘Can I be of assistance, soldier?’
‘Armicustos Allectus? Mercator said you might be able to help me?’ Rufinus said quietly.
The man narrowed his eyes. ‘You’d be the new lad Merc’s spoken of, then. Spot of bother you landed yourself in, eh?’ He pursed his lips at the soldier’s sour expression and shrugged. ‘What do you need?’
‘I think someone had to replace a missing dagger in the past week or so. Can you check?’
Allectus nodded, and Rufinus waited patiently as the red-haired quartermaster dug through piles of pressed-wood pages in a large cabinet. As the man scoured the racks, he murmured ‘It’s a little irregular. I don’t usually give out such details, but Merc’s told me of your predicament, so I think we can brush this under the mat so to speak. You can owe me a favour. Have to be quick, though… I was just on my way out.’
A few more clunks and shuffling of piles, and he straightened. ‘Here we go’ he said, retrieving one sheet and dropping it on to the desk between two lamps. Rufinus squinted at the page. The small, spidery script was almost illegible to him in this light.