Scourge of Rome

XIII

Valerius was still basking in the soft glow left by Tabitha’s presence when the Emesan guard commander appeared at the door with two of his soldiers. The Roman suspected trouble the moment he saw the man’s face.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘I must ask you to accompany me,’ the officer said coldly. ‘I’m sorry, I have my orders.’

A chill ran through Valerius at the tone of the response. Clearly the situation was worse than he’d imagined. ‘Am I under arrest?’

A look of momentary confusion. ‘No … not unless you refuse.’

‘Then let me get my cloak and I will be happy to come.’

Despite the guard commander’s words it felt like an arrest. Valerius expected to be taken to the king’s quarters, but they passed the entrance to the palace and headed towards the citadel’s gates. His mind fought for some explanation that would explain the sudden change in his treatment. Had someone informed Sohaemus about Tabitha’s visit to his room? Or worse, had something happened to her? It could be as simple as a change in the king’s policy towards Rome. Emesan loyalties seemed to fluctuate like the direction of the wind.

He felt the men beside him stiffen as they approached the guardhouse. The commander forged ahead and threw open the door, and Valerius saw an untidy heap of blanket lying on the cobbled floor. An icy dagger of dread pierced his heart. ‘What …?’

A guard drew back the coarse grey cloth and Valerius stifled a gasp. Ariston’s dark eyes bulged from their sockets and a permanent grimace twisted his face as if the ragged wound below his chin had come as an irritating surprise. He held his clawed hands at chest height as if he’d been fending off his attacker, which was odd. Valerius had seen enough wounds on the battlefield to know that whoever killed the Syrian had cut his throat from behind. The question was: where had Serpentius been?

‘Someone reported a brawl in one of the alleys in the tavern district,’ the guard commander explained in a flat voice. ‘When the watch arrived at the scene they found the dead man and his killer.’

Valerius felt a surge of anger. He’d resigned himself to hearing that Ariston’s murderer had escaped, but now a desire to see justice done swelled his heart. ‘What will happen to him?’

‘The penalty for murder is crucifixion.’

Despite his grief for Ariston the dread word sent ice water running down Valerius’s spine. Not six months ago Domitian had sentenced him to be crucified. Still, the man must be punished.

‘Where is the killer now?’

The officer gave him an odd look. ‘He is in the next room. We were holding him here until you could be informed.’ He marched across the floor and pulled back a curtain.

Valerius’s voice almost failed him as he studied the manacled figure seated on a bench with his head in his hands. ‘Serpentius?’

‘What do you mean you don’t know if you killed Ariston?’

The Spaniard shook his head. He was grey-faced and exhausted, with a distant, bewildered look in his eyes. ‘We’d left a tavern a few minutes earlier – Ariston said it was as welcoming as a Portus cesspit, the wine as sweet as the black heart of a Bactrian camel, and the women …’ he shrugged. ‘I think some men followed us.’

‘Think? Mars’ arse, you have to do better than that or they’ll have you hanging from a cross before nightfall.’

‘We were drunk,’ Serpentius said, as if that explained everything. ‘Ariston more than I. We talked; argued, maybe. Then something happened. I remember shouts, the flash of a blade and then it was like falling into a black pit, only the stars were whirling around like fireflies. When my eyes cleared Ariston was lying on the ground leaking blood and the watch had a spear at my throat.’

Valerius considered the story. He wanted to believe that Serpentius hadn’t killed Ariston, but this wasn’t the Serpentius he had known before the head wound. An argument. A fight. A man with a bloodied sword standing over one with his throat torn out. Everything pointed to only one outcome. The Spaniard must die. All except one thing.

‘You saw Ariston’s body?’

Serpentius nodded dumbly.

‘Serpentius,’ Valerius hissed. ‘You have to concentrate. If you give up you’re a dead man.’

The former gladiator looked up and Valerius shivered at the message in his eyes. ‘We’ve been dead men for years, Valerius, only we won’t acknowledge it.’

A bitter laugh escaped Valerius’s lips. ‘If only our friends could see you now. Old Marcus, the lanista, Juva of the Waverider, and all those other men we fought beside. The great Serpentius led unresisting to his slaughter like a sacrificial lamb. Going to a coward’s death without putting up a fight.’

Light flared in the leopard’s eyes at the word coward and Serpentius’s chains rattled as his muscles tensed. His upper lip twisted into its customary sneer. ‘Take these chains away and I’ll show you how to die, Roman.’

‘With a sword in your hand and a friend by your side?’ The Spaniard stared at him for a long time before he nodded. ‘Then help me.’

King Sohaemus sat on his golden throne staring balefully at the chained figure surrounded by his guards. ‘The situation is clear. You killed a man – it matters not whether it was in a drunken brawl or that you have no memory of it – and under Emesan law you must be crucified.’ He turned to Valerius. ‘My respect for you forces me to allow you to speak for your friend, but,’ he shook his great head, ‘you must know it will count for nothing.’

‘What if I can prove he didn’t kill Ariston?’

‘All the evidence says he did.’

‘Even so …’

The king waved a dismissive hand. ‘Speak, then. We are wasting time.’

Valerius marched across the floor so he was standing directly in front of Serpentius. ‘You remember nothing?’

‘I remember a fight, and confusion.’

‘But you saw the wound in Ariston’s throat?’

The Spaniard growled and would have spat, but he remembered where he was. ‘Butcher’s work, and from behind. I know I did not kill the Syrian because I have killed a hundred men and more, and every one of them looked into my eyes as they died.’

‘Lord, this means nothing,’ the guard commander interrupted. Valerius turned to stare at him and he lapsed into silence.

‘The king needs proof that Ariston’s death was not your work. Can you give him it?’

Serpentius turned to the king and bowed low. When his head rose there was a gleam in his eye that contained a warning to any man who knew him. ‘Lord king, place a sword in my hand and six of your best men in front of me in full armour. Then you will see that the wound that killed the Syrian could not have been placed there by Serpentius of Avala.’ He shrugged, and a mirthless smile appeared on the ravaged face. ‘You see, I am an expert at my trade and this was the work of an amateur.’

Valerius shook his head. ‘I don’t think King Sohaemus can spare six men.’ He nodded towards the doorway and Tabitha ushered in the display Valerius had requested. Slaves carried six spear shafts with the butts fixed into square wooden blocks for stability. Each shaft was topped with a water melon the size of a man’s head. A murmur of bemusement ran through the courtiers seated below the golden throne as the slaves placed them carefully in a circle five sword lengths in diameter. ‘Now, unshackle him.’ The request prompted an audible gasp and the beginning of a protest from the guard commander, but Sohaemus raised a hand for silence.

‘You will take responsibility for his actions?’

Valerius felt Tabitha’s eyes on his back, but there was no way out now. ‘If he spills one drop of Emesan blood I am prepared to die for it.’

‘Very well,’ the king said. ‘Release him.’

Two guards strode forward and removed the Spaniard’s chains. He rubbed his wrists where the iron rings had rubbed raw spots on his skin and flexed his shoulders. With a glare at the men guarding him he stepped forward into the circle of spears.

‘Your sword,’ Valerius ordered the nearest guard. The man looked towards his commander who gave the briefest nod of consent. He slipped the long blade from its scabbard and handed it hilt first to Valerius. ‘Are you ready?’ he asked Serpentius.

‘This is nothing but a child’s game!’ The impatient cry came from one of the Emesan aristocrats.

‘I’m ready,’ the Spaniard said. ‘Give me your knife.’ Valerius handed him the ornate dagger and he took it in his left hand. ‘Let’s get this done.’ He studied each of the melon-topped spears in turn as if he were trying to squeeze every detail from them, then closed his eyes. After a moment he repeated the operation.

The men around the king sneered, and Sohaemus said: ‘In truth, Gaius Valerius Verrens, I do not see what cutting up a few melons is going to achieve.’

‘If you will give me a moment, lord.’ He turned to the nearest guard. ‘Blindfold him. Make sure he cannot see anything.’

Now he had the attention of the entire room. Necks craned to gain a view as the guard removed his sash and tied it around Serpentius’s eyes. Even the king leaned forward for a better view. Valerius obliged him by walking silently across the circle and moving the melon-topped spear in front of him a foot to the left.

‘Are you certain he cannot see?’

‘Certain, lord.’

‘Good.’ He moved out of the circle. ‘Begin.’

Valerius had witnessed Serpentius in action a thousand times, yet each time he found himself awed by the incredible swiftness and precision of the former gladiator’s sword work. The Spaniard had been born with a natural aptitude for killing, but his skills had been honed to a razor’s edge in the arena, where only speed, accuracy and an appetite for extreme violence kept a man alive. Serpentius must have marked his surroundings with the accuracy of a hawk fixing its target below. His feet never faltered and he was so quick none of the watchers registered a single stroke. A blur of movement. The sightless progress round the inner circle a continuous twirling dance. The path of the sword blade marked by a single gleam as it carved unerringly through the melon targets in a series of curving arcs, turning the air red with the sweet juice of the opened fruit. In what seemed less than a heartbeat only one melon remained. A groan went up from the spectators as they realized Serpentius was on the opposite side of the circle from the melon in front of the king, but the Spaniard didn’t hesitate. The eyes behind the blindfold homed in on their unseen target. His arm drew back and, with a flick of his left wrist, he sent Valerius’s dagger spinning towards the target the Roman had moved.

‘No!’ Sohaemus cried out as he saw death fly towards him, only for the dagger to pierce the green and gold outer skin of the melon, an inch from the edge.

A collective sigh went up from the men in the room and Valerius went to his friend. As he took the sword from the former gladiator’s hand, he noticed that Serpentius’s ribs were heaving and sweat glistened on the hairs of his chest. The Spaniard reached up to unwind the sash from his face and Valerius found himself the focus of the piercing gaze he knew so well. Gradually the fire faded from the dark eyes and Serpentius let out a long breath. Valerius turned to face the king. Sohaemus stared at the dagger that had been kept from his heart by an inch of over-ripe fruit.

‘Does any man here still think that Serpentius of Avala killed my servant Ariston in such a crude fashion?’ Valerius’s eyes searched the room for any sign of dissent, but they were all looking to the king for their lead. Sohaemus pushed himself up from his throne and marched down the steps. He studied the melon that had been pierced by Valerius’s knife before reaching to pull the blade free.

‘I declare Serpentius of Avala innocent of this crime.’ He swept from the room followed by a crowd of his courtiers. Tabitha left with them and when he met her eyes Valerius was sure he saw her lips twitch in a smile.

‘Come,’ he said to Serpentius. ‘We have much to do.’

They left the throne room side by side and the Spaniard turned to Valerius. ‘I thought you said you’d move the shaft a handspan to the left. That must have been a good foot. What would you have done if I’d missed?’

‘You never miss.’