The Emperor's Knives (43 page)

Marcus’s captor sneered over his victim’s shoulder, pushing the sword’s point up into the Roman’s throat until the skin around it was white.

‘All in good time. First I have a score to settle with this bastard!’

A tiny movement to Dubnus’s left caught his eye, an almost imperceptible movement by the guardsman closest to him. He caught the man’s eye, frowning as he realised that the soldier was smiling faintly as he edged away from his fellows. Flamma raised his sword, clearly calculating whether he could kill Marcus’s captor without condemning his friend to death as well.

‘What score would that be, Horatius?’

Horatius snarled at Cleander’s question.

‘I think you know, Chamberlain! It was you who ordered the murder of Legatus Perennis!’

The older man nodded.

‘In point of fact, it was the emperor who ordered your commanding officer’s execution, but yes, I gave the detailed orders. It comes as something of a disappointment to discover that you managed to make it all the way to Rome, despite my having ordered that you were to be hunted down and killed.’

Horatius laughed tersely.

‘Your men were looking for a military officer, not a shit-encrusted farm worker. I stole a horse and took my chances, riding by night for the most part, and then when I was close enough to Rome I swapped it for a ride into the city with a farmer delivering his crop. Just another thick bastard brought along for his muscle, or at least that’s what the men on duty at the gate saw.’

The praetorian to Dubnus’s left took another slow, sliding step, his movement barely discernible, reversing his hold on the spear at his side from the underhanded carry to an awkward overhanded grip. Cleander shook his head, waving a hand at Marcus.

‘And now you intend to murder this man, for no apparent reason?’

‘I heard what you said! It was this man that condemned my legatus to death!’

Horatius bristled, scowling at the chamberlain and, with another slow, stealthy movement, the praetorian next to Dubnus slid his booted foot forward, easing his body back and tensing the muscles of his shoulder in readiness to throw the spear. The soldier tightened his grip on the helpless Marcus’s throat, his scowl daring any of the men around him to make a move. Dubnus stepped forward, crossing his meaty arms.

‘Before you kill my friend, know two things. Your legatus wasn’t the first of Perennis’s sons to die at our hands. His older brother was a fucking traitor too, he betrayed an entire legion in Britannia and we made him pay the price. I put an axe through his spine, and stamped on his head while I tore it free. I left him twitching and drooling blood, so I doubt his death was a quick one. And when you’ve killed my brother, I’m going to do the same to you, only this time I’ll do the job with my bare fucking hands!’

In the instant that Horatius turned to snarl defiance at the big Briton, Cleander nodded smartly at the praetorian, and the soldier took one quick pace forward to hurl his spear at Horatius with nerveless accuracy. The weapon’s long iron shaft penetrated the soldier’s neck right up to the point where it flared to join with the thick wooden shaft, its impact snapping him away from Marcus with the abrupt force of a brutally delivered punch. Choking and spitting blood he sank to the floor, dragged down by the spear’s weight and his grievous wound.

The Roman turned to see the agent of his delivery, as the praetorian stared at the dying man with a look of satisfaction, recognising his face immediately despite the helmet’s disguise.

‘Yes, it’s the retarius who made such short work of Glaucus yesterday.’ Cleander had stepped forward and was standing beside him, looking down at Horatius’s twitching body. ‘When I see the very highest skills on display I’m quick to recruit them to my service.’

He looked down at the dying man with a dispassionate expression.

‘Irony stacked upon irony, it seems. Centurion Aquila looks for revenge on the last of the Knives only to discover that he’s killed the wrong brother. And you, the only man left alive who gives a damn about the fate of the Perennis family, put your sword to a man who has suffered exactly the same loss and wasn’t even the one who killed your sponsor the legatus. And as a consequence for that act of stupidity you end up with a spear through your neck and your existence receding down life’s drain hole. It just goes to show that the thirst for revenge can lead a man to drink some bitter potions, doesn’t it?’

11

The next morning Morban and his barbers opened up soon after dawn, as usual, and if some of them looked a little bleary-eyed it had no effect on the usual swift-forming queue of men who had decided to take advantage of their continuing generosity. Morban strolled out to address them, shaking his head sadly.

‘Sorry gentlemen, but we won’t be cutting hair today as a mark of respect to Flamma the Great, who fights in the arena this afternoon!’

For a moment the men waiting in line assumed that he was joking, but when the burly soldier remained where he was, arms folded and clearly not for moving, an angry clamour broke out. Morban waited for a moment, then cleared his throat ostentatiously before shouting his next words at the top of his voice.

‘
Shut the FUCK up!
’ His would-be customers stared at him in amazement. ‘That’s better. Now I’ll only say this one more time. We’re. Not. Cutting. Hair. Today. Got it? Now you can either fuck off now quietly or I’ll be forced to tell the lads inside to come out and deal with you. You choose.’

As if on cue, the window shutters were thrown open, and half a dozen irritated Tungrians looked out at the queue, several of them holding heavy wooden clubs. Realising that they weren’t going to be getting a cheap haircut or a shave any time soon, the disgruntled customers dispersed, leaving Morban looking out into the street with a grin.

‘Don’t know what you’ve got to smile at.’

The standard bearer turned to find his neighbour the potter at his side, his expression rather less happy than the last time they’d spoken.

‘Oh, I don’t know. Everyone likes a day off work every now and then.’

The potter shook his head in bemusement.

‘A day off work? You do realise that you’ll have the Hilltop Boys up here within the hour, once the story gets round that you’ve told your customers to piss off?’

Morban’s smile broadened.

‘That’s what I’m counting on. Perhaps you should probably close up your shop and go upstairs for an hour?’

The shopkeeper nodded, his expression telling Morban that had been his intention all along, and the standard bearer glanced along the line of shops to see that his neighbours had all come to the same conclusion, goods hastily withdrawn into their premises and shutters unceremoniously closed to provide the occupants with some semblance of security. Smiling to himself he turned and walked back into the shop.

‘Right then, it’s all gone quieter than a mute with her mouth full out there, so let’s have the weaponry upstairs, shall we?’

He watched impassively as the soldiers lifted the floorboards that covered the stairs down into the cellar, each of them fetching a shield and sword. The last man up the stairs handed him a spear, watching impassively as the standard bearer strolled back out into the afternoon sunshine, propping the weapon up against the wall in the shade of a brick pillar where it was invisible to a cursory glance. A pair of Maximus’s enforcers hurried round the corner, having clearly heard the rumour that the shop had failed to open for business.

‘What the fuck’s going on?’

Morban grinned broadly at the gang member addressing him.

‘A day’s holiday is what’s happening, my old son. We just thought we’d—’

‘Get back to fucking work, you fat bastard!’ The gangster leaned close, putting a finger against Morban’s chest. ‘You’ve got taxes to pay, and if you don—’.

The standard bearer grinned up at him lopsidedly, shaking his head gently as he interrupted.

‘Not really. We’ve decided not to pay any more protection since, to be honest with you, we don’t really need it.’

The man looked at his mate with an amused smile, inviting him to join in the joke.

‘That’s fifteen per cent. Keep talking and I’ll have to go and get One Eye.’

Morban shrugged.

‘You clearly don’t get it. We’re not paying.’

The gangster’s patience snapped, and he jabbed the finger into Morban’s chest with an angry snarl.

‘And you “clearly don’t get it”. We’re the fucking Hilltop Boys. We take whatever we want, and right now what I want most is to stick your fucking head right up your fat arse, smart mouth. So give us the cash or I’ll have to—’

He stopped talking abruptly, as a sliver of cold metal touched the area between his belly and his penis. His comrade was suddenly equally still, his attention fixed on the daggers that had appeared in the hands of the two men behind Morban, their evilly sharp blades glinting in the morning sunlight. Morban pushed the finger away.

‘Yeah, well you may be the Hilltop Boys, but we’re the imperial Roman army. You’ve cut the occasional poor sod that made the mistake of getting in your way, whereas we’ve fought in pitched battles against barbarians who all wanted to skin us alive. So I’d advise you to fuck off, and not come back unless you want to leave with your cocks in your hands.’

The enforcers fled, and Morban turned back to his supporters.

‘Start counting. I’ll give two to one we’re toe to toe with them in less than five hundred. And no gabbling it either, nice measured counts. Those odds working for anyone? Two to one? Five to two?’

After a few moments of waiting in the morning’s growing heat, they heard the sound of footsteps echoing distantly up the hill, swelling quickly from a mutter to a clamour of leather slapping on stone, and Maximus rounded the corner at the head of a dozen of his men. Seeing Morban waiting for him he spread his arms wide, gesturing to his companions to spread out to either side.

‘Well now,
here’s
Fatty enjoying the sunshine. Isn’t that nice boys? It’s a shame that every fucking shop in the street’s had to close as a result though.’ He stopped in front of Morban, an angry sneer plastered across his face. ‘I ain’t got the heart to slap you about, Fatty, ’cause I reckon if I do you might just burst. I’ll have to make do with a temporary increase in your tax rate to say …’ He made a show of thought. ‘A hundred per cent for the day. If you open that door right now, and put your boys back to work, I’ll settle for a day’s takings as your fine. How’s that, Fatty, or do I have to make my point even clearer? Even the fucking “imperial Roman army” can’t be that stupid.’

Morban nodded slowly, putting a hand on the shop’s door handle, and the enforcer turned to his comrades with a triumphant grin.

‘Like I’ve always said, you let them get out of line and you always end up having to slap them around to compensate for being too lax in the first place!’

He turned back as Morban swung the door open and stepped aside, his eyes widening as he saw the first of the Tungrians come through the opening with his shield raised, the polished tip of his sword’s blade winking in the sunlight, and another man at his heels. In the moment of the gangster’s distraction, Morban reached for the spear propped up beside him and stabbed the weapon’s sharp pointed head down into the gang leader’s sandal-clad foot, feeling the crackle of small bones parting under the iron’s remorseless thrust. Maximus screamed in agony, and while his mouth was hanging open, the standard bearer released his grip on the spear with his right hand and swung a bunched fist into the helpless man’s gaping jaw, hard enough to break the bone with a rending crack.

‘
Hold!
’

The gang members, caught between the obvious need to fight back and the overwhelming urge to flee, froze at Morban’s bellowed command, their eyes fixed on him as he pointed to the soldiers facing them.

‘If you fuckers run, these lads will chase you down and stab you in the back. D’you want that?
Drop
your fucking knives!’

The gangsters looked from the standard bearer’s implacable mask to the writhing body of their leader, then back at the hard faces of the soldiers, clearly ready to spill their blood at the slightest excuse. One weapon fell to the floor, swiftly followed by another, and then the rest of them allowed their iron to drop to the cobbles, their faces red with the shame.

‘On your way then. And no looking back, or you might just find it brings us down on you!’

He waited until the last of them was round the corner and out of sight, then took a firm grip of the spear’s shaft, experimentally tugging at it. Maximus groaned with the pain.

‘No …’

‘Well as it happens …
yes
!’

Morban wrenched the spear from his victim’s foot, tearing a moan of agony from the thug’s shattered mouth, then squatted down to speak conversationally.

‘Well now, One Eye, my old mate. All this time you’ve been calling me nasty names and taking my money, and suddenly here we are with the roles reversed. Now you’re the one with the problem, aren’t you, with one foot all torn up and your face in pieces. I don’t suppose it could get much worse, not unless …’ He put a finger to his chin and adopted a pensive expression. But surely nobody would be
that
inhuman. Would they?’

He levelled the spear at the helpless gang leader, easing it forward until the blade was an inch from his eye.

‘We do get an amazing amount of training in the army, of course, especially with this little beauty. I can hit a man with it at thirty paces, or I can just stick it into him an inch or two and watch him bleed to death. I bet I could pop that other eye of yours without killing you, if I wanted to.’

Maximus moaned again, but this time it was more from fear than pain.

‘And you know what they say, don’t you, about bad things coming in threes?’

Morban looked down, his face wrinkled with sudden disgust. He jerked the spear sharply, driving the point into the good eye. The gangster screamed, his entire body rippling with the pain, while the standard bearer looked down at him dispassionately.

‘Consider that as your payout for all the extortion, and rape, and murder you’ve visited on these people over the years. Let’s see how compassionate they feel towards a crippled, blind beggar who can’t even chew his own food, shall we?’