Sword of Rome

XLIX

Gaius Valerius Verrens recognized the soot-stained walls of the burned-out villa on the hill and each detail of the defence and fall of the Temple of Claudius returned, as if it was carved on his brain by the point of a dagger. Falco and his militia dying where they stood so that the others could escape. Lunaris, like a hero of old, holding back Boudicca’s horde on the steps of the temple. And Messor, poor Messor, slipping into the dark tunnel that would have been better being his tomb. With a start, he realized he wasn’t alone. The cloaked figure who worked in the gloom by the shuttered window seemed familiar and his heart soared as he realized her identity.

‘Maeve?’

She turned and he reached out to her and it was only then he realized that his arms ended in ragged stumps. Both hands had been chopped off above the wrist. As the first shuddering scream escaped his tortured throat he looked up into a face from the gates of the Otherworld; not his Maeve, not the beautiful Trinovante who had loved and betrayed him, but Claudius Victor, and a Claudius Victor straight from the grave, eyes turned to puddles of white pus, a gaping crater for a nose and a yawning mouth filled with worms and nameless crawling things. Hands like skeletal claws reached for something at his neck. He screamed again. And again.

Rough hands shook his shoulders. ‘Valerius.’

No, they wouldn’t take him.

‘Valerius, open your eyes.’

Reluctantly, he obeyed a voice that had an authority that could not be ignored. Staring at him was another face from Hades; burning eyes glared out from features tanned to the colour of a house tile, the nose narrow with an edge like a woodsman’s well-used axe and below it a razor-lipped rat-trap mouth. Beyond this nightmare the world was the uniform pale blue of a song thrush’s egg.

‘Serpentius?’

The word emerged as a hoarse croak and the Spaniard put a cup to his lips. Valerius gulped down what he discovered was well-watered tavern wine. He choked and Serpentius removed the cup.

‘Don’t talk now. I’ve put your shoulder back in place, the fever’s gone and you’re getting stronger every day. Rest, and we’ll speak later.’

But there was one thing Valerius had to know, and he dared not look himself. ‘My hand?’ Serpentius smiled gently and raised the left arm, so Valerius could see his hand was intact. The Roman allowed his head to fall back and closed his eyes. ‘My worst nightmare,’ he whispered.

‘No,’ he heard the former gladiator say, ‘your worst nightmare is yet to come.’

‘Where are we?’ Valerius surveyed the rough stockade that enclosed the parade ground of beaten earth that was their prison, along with over a hundred other ragged, bearded men.

‘Somewhere outside Cremona. When Otho died …’ The Spaniard hesitated as he saw the question in Valerius’s eyes. Otho had been nowhere near the battle; there was no reason why he shouldn’t have escaped and joined the Eastern legions who had been marching to join him. Serpentius shrugged. ‘They say that the officers who were with him at Brixellum urged him to fight on. Said that when the Seventh and the Fourteenth arrived they’d outnumber Vitellius’s men. But Otho hadn’t just lost the battle, he’d lost his heart. He said he’d killed enough men and went into his tent … well, you can guess the rest.’

Valerius felt a pang of compassion for the man who had been, if not his friend, then at least a colourful and entertaining companion. A man who, against all odds, would have made a fine Emperor, given time. The gods had presented Marcus Salvius Otho with everything he had ever desired, and just as quickly taken it away.

‘Who are these they, so free with their information? Who’s to say it’s true?’

‘The guards.’ Serpentius waved a hand towards the men watching from the perimeter. ‘They’re not bad sorts. Now that the war is over they feel a bit sorry for us. We fought well, but we lost. They’re just glad it’s not them sitting here, so they make sure we’re well fed and let us do pretty much what we please, as long as we don’t cause any trouble.’

Valerius stared suspiciously. This wasn’t the Spaniard he remembered. Perhaps Otho wasn’t the only one who’d lost heart. For the first time he noticed that Serpentius was working on a block of wood with a small fruit knife.

‘Not bad sorts? Fools, surely, to give a man like you a blade. I’ve seen the day you’d have slit half a dozen throats and been halfway to Rome by now, and taken the others with you.’

The Spaniard chewed his lip. ‘Maybe so, but it’s different now. For one thing, as far as they’re concerned every man here is a gladiator, and he’ll be treated as an escaped slave if he runs. You know what that means?’

‘The cross.’

‘That would be the best of it.’

‘And the other reason?’

Serpentius shrugged. ‘They knew I had reasons for staying.’

Valerius snorted and shook his head. ‘Fool. That still doesn’t explain why we’re here.’ Something occurred to him. ‘Gladiators?’

‘It’s the only reason we’re still alive. We were with what was left of the gladiators when you got your second knock. They were about to butcher the lot of us when Caecina rode up and called off his dogs. Turns out he had a better use for us.’

‘What kind of use?’ Valerius didn’t hide his suspicion.

The Spaniard stared at him, the dark eyes deadly serious. ‘We do what gladiators do best. We fight. To the death.’ Valerius’s brain fought against the reality of the final three words. Execution he had expected, exile or imprisonment at best. But not that. Never that. Serpentius explained that Caecina, ever eager to stay one step ahead of his rival Valens, had ordered a great games for the Emperor and the climax would be a hundred and fifty captured gladiators fighting to the death. ‘What do you expect? As far as Vitellius is concerned we’re slaves who rose up against him. No better than Spartacus and his lads.’

They had a month.

‘In a month we’ll get you fit enough to fight.’ He saw the stricken look in Valerius’s eyes. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll think of something.’