The Emperor's Knives (27 page)

Marcus’s interjection was vehement, his hands held up in a gesture of flat refusal.

‘
No!
You’re not coming anywhere with me! This is my fight, and not worthy of your sacrifice!’

His friend put his hands on his hips.

‘Oh, you think so, do you? You think I’ll stand meekly aside and allow you to march off into the darkness, never to be seen again?’ He leaned forward, putting a broad finger in the Roman’s chest. ‘Well you can think a-fucking-gain, brother, because I’m coming with you whether you like it or not. We can either stand here and discuss the matter until the sun’s up, and Julius finds out about this plan of yours, or we can go to this ludus of yours together now. You can choose.’

Marcus eyed him darkly for a moment.

‘You realise that you’re condemning yourself to almost certain death in the arena?’

The Briton laughed again, but his previously hard-edged jocularity had softened to the fatalistic tone of a man contemplating his own impending demise.

‘I’m a
soldier
, Marcus. I face death every time I line my lads up to take their iron to whichever set of blue-nosed bastards it is we’re fighting. And besides, unlike most of the other men we’ll be fighting with, I’ve killed more times than I can remember. Trust me, you and I will cut a swathe through those fuckers the likes of which will be celebrated for many a year.’

His friend looked hard into the Briton’s eyes.

‘And when the time comes to cut that swathe through prisoners of war who’ve been shipped back to Rome for the purposes of providing the people of the city with a spectacle? Or to kill men condemned to death in the arena?’

Dubnus shrugged.

‘I’ll put their blood on the sand without a second thought. The barbarians should have kept their heads down, and the criminals either shouldn’t have committed their crimes or shouldn’t have got caught. Perhaps I’ll get to gut the bastard who stole my purse at the baths.’

Marcus smiled despite himself.

‘It sounds as if you’ll fit right in. And I’ve no time to be arguing. If you’re set on this?’

His friend slapped a huge hand down onto his shoulder.

‘I’m set, brother. Now let’s get out of here before we’re missed. You know that Julius would have us both chained up if he even suspected you might be stupid enough to go after this Death Bringer.’

Marcus shooed the dog back into the house and closed the door, taking a deep breath as he turned away. Dubnus stepped in close, putting his mouth close to the Roman’s ear.

‘You can still change your mind, Marcus. You’ve taken more revenge for your family than even I ever dreamed might be possible, and all three of the men you’ve killed in return for your own loss have died in agony and humiliation. You have a beautiful wife and child who will miss you every day for the rest of their lives. Is one more death worth that much to you?’

The Roman shook his head.

‘No. How could it be? But to the shades of my family, with only me to deliver the vengeance that they crave? That’s a different question to the one you’re asking. Come on, before my nerve fails me.’

They walked up the hill together in silence, Dubnus swearing under his breath as he stepped in the contents of a toilet bucket that had been tossed out into the street from a high window.

‘So what happens when we get there?’

‘You’re asking the wrong man. All I know is that the Dacian Ludus considers applications from potential candidates in the early morning of each working day. What form that trial takes, or what happens thereafter, I have no idea, other than being made to swear an oath that will reduce us to the status of slaves. Worse than slaves. After that they’ll give us whatever training we need to make us fit to fight in
that
…’

They had reached the hill’s shallow crest, and stood for a moment to stare out across the pink-tinged city to where the massive bulk of the Flavian Arena dwarfed the buildings around it, even taller than the towering Claudian aqueduct to its south.

‘It holds
fifty
thousand people on a games day, all baying for blood. Facing that will be a little different to taking on the barbarians, eh?’

Dubnus snorted.

‘The only difference will be that in there I’ll only have to kill one or two men to survive.’

The two men walked down the Aventine’s northern slope with the first hesitant bird calls echoing off the walls around them.

‘We’re sure that this man Mortiferum still lives in the ludus? It’d be a pity to give up your freedom and condemn us both to a lifetime of fighting only to discover that he’s packed it in and gone to live with some floozy.’

Marcus shook his head.

‘It’s not allowed. No matter how exalted a gladiator becomes, until he’s freed or buys himself out of his contract, he belongs to the school that pays and feeds him. Besides, why would he want to give up such cosy protection? I doubt he lacks anything …’

Staying in the deeper shadows as much as they could, the two men were soon walking past the eastern end of the Circus Maximus, the racecourse’s long run of grandstands stretching away to their left into the dawn gloom. Beyond the tiered ranks of seats rose the looming bulk of the Palatine Hill, crowned by the imperial palaces where Marcus had so recently witnessed the death of the man responsible for his father’s murder. Dubnus raised a hand, pointing at a sudden flurry of activity in their path.

‘Looks like some poor bastard’s fallen foul of thieves.’

A hundred paces or so further on, in the light of the torches which illuminated the eastern end of the Palatine Hill, a single man stood in the middle of a group of half a dozen figures, a tight knot of men who were hemming their victim in ever closer and allowing him no chance of escape. As the two friends watched, still advancing unnoticed, the scene exploded into sudden violence, as the gang’s intended victim decided that attack was his best form of defence, screaming what sounded like a military battle cry as he sprang forward.

‘
Gemina!
’

Lunging at the closest of his would-be assailants, he snatched at the man’s arm, neutralising the threat of the blade gleaming dully in the hand at its end, twisting the arm and tearing the ligaments that secured it to his assailant’s shoulder.

With a piercing shriek the stricken robber fell to the ground with his arm flopping, writhing in agony with the pain so unexpectedly visited upon him. The men gathering about their intended victim paused in their advance, their apparent leader brandishing his knife in fury, his words clear in the silent street.

‘You’ve fucking maimed him, you cunt! We was just going to rob you, but now you’re going to die slowly with your guts wrapped round your neck. We’re going to—’

Dubnus coughed ostentatiously, and the nearest of the robbers turned to find the big man standing less than a dozen paces from them. The gang leader stared incredulously at him for a moment before speaking.

‘Who the
fuck
are you?’

The Briton stepped forward another pace, his big hands hanging easily at his sides.

‘A soldier, friend. And this morning, it has to be said, a very generous soldier, because right now I’m willing to allow you to walk away from here with nothing worse than one maimed man. Raise a finger against me and you’ll all end your days begging for bread because you’ll be fit for nothing else.’

‘
Take him!
’

If the other gang members heard the shouted command they certainly didn’t spring to obey it, and Dubnus raised an amused eyebrow at the furious robber.

‘See, here’s the thing. You’ve already picked on the wrong man once this morning, and lost one of your number with an injury that’ll never heal, not that
you’ll
be feeding him, will you? And there are only six of you now.’

‘Six against two. We’ll take you down easily enough!’

Marcus stepped out of the shadows of the towering Claudian aqueduct behind the gang leader, having quietly paced around them while everyone’s attention was locked on Dubnus. He spoke, his voice hard as he stared at the men before him in disgust.

‘Six against
three.
And from the look of it any of us could deal with a pair of you in the time it would take me to scrape a piece of shit off my shoe.’ He took a step closer, his eyes roaming across the closest of the robbers, and more than one man took an involuntary pace backwards at the look of hatred that he was playing across their wavering ranks. ‘Run now, or you’ll have to drag yourselves away with your elbows by the time we’re done with you.’

For a moment it looked as if the robbers might still put up a fight, but Dubnus settled the matter by stamping forward with a roar of anger, and in an instant their resolve disintegrated into a panic-stricken rout. Their intended victim looked about him for a moment with the expression of a man who had been cheated of something before turning to the Tungrians with a rueful smile.

‘It seems I owe you my life, gentlemen. I doubt that I could have seen them all off …’

Dubnus laughed, holding out a meaty hand in greeting.

‘You looked sharp enough to have made them work for it alright. Legion man, are you?’

The other man tilted his head, his eyes narrowing.

‘Why do you ask?’

The Briton shrugged easily.

‘Professional curiosity. I’m Dubnus, and this is Marcus, and we’re both …’ He grimaced at the sudden realisation of their changed circumstances. ‘Or rather we were, centurions with an auxiliary cohort in Britannia.’

‘
Were?
’

Marcus stepped forward and offered his hand in turn.

‘We’re on our way to the Dacian Ludus, to sign up as gladiators.’

The man they had rescued shook his head in dark amusement, holding up his hands in the face of Dubnus’s growing irritation.

‘Forgive me for laughing.’ He bowed to them. ‘I owe you both my life, and I won’t forget that debt. Perhaps I will have the opportunity to pay it off sooner than you think, for I too am bound for the ludus. I had thought to join the Gallic School, but the chance to join alongside two men such as yourselves isn’t one to turn up. I’m Horatius, former centurion with the Tenth Twin Legion and now simply a man seeking his destiny.’

Dubnus looked at Marcus, who nodded slowly.

‘You would be welcome to join us, although I will warn you, Horatius, that we seek the blood of a man who resides within the ludus, and while his death is nothing less than a sacred duty for me it is likely to end in my own demise, and that of any man that stands alongside me.’

Horatius laughed softly.

‘My life is already forfeit. By rights I should have died in Pannonia a month ago, and the gods have doubtless only allowed me to escape for the purpose of revenge. Although how I am ever to achieve that aim is beyond me.’

Marcus nodded.

‘Then we have the same aim, you and I. But I must warn you again, my success is likely to condemn us both to death, and quite possibly yourself by association.’

The former centurion nodded.

‘I’ll take that risk.’

The three men walked in silence beneath the aqueduct’s tiered arches, emerging a moment later into the huge open space that was the setting for the Flavian Arena. The massive structure’s stonework was catching the first light, its gaudy paintwork gleaming in the pale illumination, and to the arena’s left the hundred-foot-high bronze statue of the Sun God that had originally borne the head of the emperor Nero played its blank-eyed gaze down on them. They walked around to the arena’s right, and across the open square that stood between its eastern side and the training schools that fed it with gladiators.

‘The ludus is up here. And it appears that there are already enough applicants to provide the school with any recruits for a month.’

Marcus led the two men up a long flight of steps, at the top of which two dozen or so men were waiting in front of a gate guarded by a pair of burly men. The rearmost of the group of would-be gladiators opened his mouth to speak to the newcomers, only to be interrupted by the creak of the gate opening.

‘Silence! If you want to enter the Dacian Ludus then your first task is to shut up and
listen
!’

A hush fell across the waiting men. Marcus craned his neck, and could just see the stocky man who had planted himself in the gateway. The skin of his shaved head was riven by a long scar that ran from his right eyebrow to his left ear, the top of which was missing.

‘My name is Sannitus, and I am the chief lanista of this ludus. Whatever I say inside these gates is law, with no judge other than me and no right of appeal! If you want the chance to live under my law, you’ll have to convince me that you’re fit to enter these gates. So,
if
you want to enter the ludus, strip! I want to see your muscles, and I don’t have the time for you to undress one at a time!’

He waited for a moment while they pulled off their tunics to reveal bodies of all shapes and sizes, a few preserving their modesty with loincloths while the remainder were naked.

‘Now, one at a time, stand in front of me and show me what you’re made of.’ The men formed a jostling, buzzing queue, presenting themselves to the lanista in turn. ‘No, too fat. No, not enough muscle. Lift some weights at your local bathhouse for a month and come back. Yes, you look right enough.’ He gestured to the successful candidate to move off to one side, turning a forbidding scowl on the next man. ‘No, not you. I told you last time that you’re never going to be strong enough for the arena, although it seems I also underestimated your stupidity. Go back to the farm and stop wasting your time and mine here!’

The judgements continued, swift and merciless, with only three men admitted from the twenty or so who had presented themselves, until the would-be gladiator in front of Horatius was sent away disappointed, and only the three soldiers remained. Sannitus stared at them for a long moment, then shook his head slowly in apparent disbelief.

‘Every now and then, once or twice a year, the gods see fit to send something a little bit different to this gate, something I’ve not seen before. Last time it was a dwarf so vicious that we had to keep him locked in a cell when he wasn’t training, such a little bastard that the boys eventually got tired of his antics and decided that he should have the misfortune to fall on a spear during training. Before that it was a high-class aristocrat who’d decided to slum it for a while, and show off his virtuosity with a sword from behind the anonymity of a mask. He was good too, until he pissed off the wrong fish man and ended up with a foot of sharp iron sticking out of his back. And now …’