The Emperor's Knives

9

Velox led the three friends through the Gate of Life, his face still betraying the fury he was feeling at the death of his friend Glaucus. The gate guards on duty did no more than nod respectfully as he escorted the three soldiers out into the open space between the arena and the gladiatorial schools clustered around its eastern side. The square was almost empty, most of the people who had thronged it a few hours before now in their seats high above the arena’s sand, and those few who remained were easily turned away by the pair of ludus guards walking before them with their heavy knobbed wooden clubs.

Leading them across the square, his mood seemed to soften slightly as he pointed out each of the gladiatorial ludi in turn, from the Ludus Gallicus’s comparatively humble establishment, to the Ludus Magnus’s massive square-sided barracks, the height of its walls fully two-thirds of the arena which faced it across the intervening open space.

‘They’ve got a full-sized arena in there to make the training realistic for the horse boys, and big enough that they can stage chariot fights and massed battles when the aristos want to pay for some private bloodshed. It’s always been the same. The Great School turns out most of the mainstream acts, and so it has all the money and all of the power. The rest of us are always running to catch up.’

He led them up a side street and into a huge stone building.

‘But here’s a place where that doesn’t matter, because these boys are managed by the Flavian procurator, and they treat everyone with exactly the same disdain. You’ll be here a lot over the next few years, getting your gear sorted out before a fight.’

If the champion’s reputation had the power to open almost any door, there was little sign of that influence in the dour-faced man who confronted them when they reached the arena’s armoury, protected by three sets of heavy iron-studded oak doors.

‘Equipment for these three? I was told about it less than an hour ago, so you’ll just have to make do with what we’ve got in store. It’s not as if we’ve not already got enough work to keep us busy for the rest of the week!’

The chief armourer waved a hand at the ordered chaos behind him, half a dozen muscular men with their heads down over their work, hammering at armour and sharpening the weapons required to equip the men who would fight in the Flavian arena. The air in the workshop was heavy with the stink of sweat, and the four men were barely spared a second glance by the toiling craftsmen. Velox put a hand on their overseer’s shoulder.

‘Don’t worry about it, I know your store well enough to find what we need. We’ll bring it back to show you before we carry it off, never fear. After all, if we wait for those idiots upstairs to come and sort it out, these lads’ll be going out onto the sand naked.’

The armourer nodded, happy to have the problem taken off his hands, and turned back to his workshop with a final admonishment.

‘Off you go then, but no trying to sneak off with any of the good stuff!’

The store was cooler, if no better lit than the workshop through which they had walked to reach it, and the four men walked down its long central aisle looking at the equipment stacked in both sides with an eye for anything military. Velox picked up a sword, testing its edge with his thumb.

‘Let’s hope this is going to feel the touch of a stone before it’s used in anger. Of course, once a man’s fought and won a few times he gets to use his own gear, since it makes him more recognisable to the crowds and encourages them to gamble on him, with the arena taking a healthy cut of course, but most of the tiros get something from this rather dull collection thrust at them just as they’re about to go out onto the sand, poor bastards. A few practice swings and suddenly you’re out there face-to-face with another man who has to go through you if he wants to make his way back through the Gate of Life. No wonder so many of them don’t survive their first two or three … Ah, here we are then!’ He waved a hand at the racks of gear that ran the length of the storeroom. ‘Designed by veteran soldiers, tested to destruction in foreign wars and then eventually made by the lowest bidder with the cheapest materials possible, so you’d better make sure that anything you choose isn’t ready to fall to pieces!’

The soldiers looked up and down the racks of equipment before them, each of them selecting what they needed in their own size. Horatius paused in the middle of buckling on his armour, realising that the Tungrians had both chosen to wear mail rather than the legion standard-issue body protection.

‘You’re sure you want to wear that stuff? Plate armour’s better protection against a spear point, because the plates are layered two and three thick. And see, the shoulder guards will hold off a sword blade better as well …’

His voice trailed off as Dubnus turned a strained smile on him, fastening a thick leather belt tightly about himself to carry some of the heavy mail shirt’s twenty-pound weight.

‘On the other hand, see how the shirt protects my thighs, nearly as far down as my knees. And I’m used to this, whereas it could take me days of practice to be able to fight as well with that thing on.’

Velox reappeared from the back of the store with three helmets piled in his arms.

‘Here you go, these look like they’ll do the job.’ He passed one to each of them, watching as they pulled on arming caps to pad out the space between head and helmet, then dropped the heavy iron headgear into place. ‘Now you look like soldiers, and not just particularly well-muscled tourists. Find yourselves some military-looking shields and I think that’ll more or less be you three ready for the sand.’

Picking out a sword and spear for each of them, he led them back into the workshop. The armourer stared at the three men as they walked through his toiling men, his head shaking slowly from side to side as they stopped in front of him for inspection.

‘First time?’

Marcus nodded, frowning down at the man.

‘Yes, but-’

‘How could I tell? It’s in the eyes, lad, in the eyes. You lot are looking about you as if this is some sort of big adventure, rather than the never-ending bloodbath that it really is.’ Having noted the equipment they were wearing and made each of them sign for it, he detailed a slave to carry their spears and swords. ‘If you walk out into the streets carrying that lot you’ll start a bloody panic.’

He turned back to his work, leaving Velox to lead them out of the workshop and back into the sunlight. Their appearance excited somewhat more comment than had been the case earlier, and a small crowd quickly gathered about them as they strode back towards the arena. Their guards pushed through the gathering throng, reinforced by a half-dozen men sent out from the Gate of Life to escort them in, and Velox grinned broadly at Marcus as they pushed and shoved their way to the gate, his previous dark mood forgotten.

‘If you’ve ever wondered what keeps men who’ve won their wooden sword coming back, other than they don’t have any other skills, this is it. They love us, these poor bastards with little else to brighten their lives, they worship us and they adore us. And soon enough they’ll be chanting your names … if you win this afternoon.’

The gate supervisor hurried up to him with a look of near-panic.

‘Thank the gods you’re back! One of the men who was scheduled to fight this afternoon has fallen down the steps and broken three fingers of his sword hand and the others aren’t here yet. Once this fight’s finished we’ve got no one else to put onto the sand, so you’ve been moved up the order. Get your lads ready to fight!’

Velox led them down into the tunnels beneath the arena floor, grinning at the cacophony that reverberated around the dark, enclosed space.

‘Just be grateful you’re not down here when the place is packed with animals. All that grunting and roaring, not to mention the stink of their shit …’

He delivered them to their holding cell with a smile of reassurance. Waiting until they were inside the iron-barred cage whose stone back wall had a succession of heavy wooden beams set into it to form a stairway, he pointed at the spot where the roughly formed stair met the cell’s stone roof.

‘When that trapdoor opens, climb the steps and you’ll find yourselves in the sunlight. Take a moment to adjust your eyes to the light before moving forward, or they’ll release the Dacians before you’ve got your bearings. The announcer will probably want to tell the story of what’s going on before you get started in any case, so just stand there looking tough until he’s finished spouting whatever nonsense they’ve made up to justify the three of you facing a bunch of barbarians. Now, when they attack you they’ll come out of the ground just like you will. Let them get out of their cell and once they’re all above ground, anything goes.’

He paused and looked at them, opening his arms wide and tilting his head with his eyebrows raised for emphasis.

‘Anything. All the rules that we follow when it’s gladiator versus gladiator? Forget them, if you ever knew them. If you wound a man and you have the time, finish him. All that stuff about stepping back and waiting for the referee to start the fight again is out of the window as well, because for one thing he’s not going to come anywhere near half a dozen blood-crazed Dacians, and for another, these men have been brought here to provide a little entertainment for the rabble as they die. So get it done anyway that works, kill them all and take the adulation of an adoring crowd. Simple, eh?’

He grinned at them again, nodding his head as he turned away.

‘I’ll drink a cup of wine with you when it’s done, eh? Just make sure you do the Dacian school proud!’

Velox strolled easily through the barely illuminated passages beneath the arena’s floor, crossing from one side of the broad oval to the other and looking briefly at each holding cell he passed until he found what he’d been looking for. The Dacian prisoners were being herded disconsolately into a cell which was the identical match for the one in which the three centurions were waiting to fight, and for a moment the gladiator stood and looked at them with appraising eyes, until with a start he realised that there were more men being driven into the cell at spear point than he had expected.

‘There should be six of them!’

The arena slave guarding the cell’s door shook his head flatly.

‘I get new order. Another three men put into fight. We only just fetch from cells in time.’

Velox looked at the Dacians for a moment longer, then turned on his heel and ran, hearing the blare of trumpets and the roar of the crowd from the arena above him as the fight in progress came to whatever end the emperor had decreed. Passing a party of arena guards escorting a pair of heavily armoured murmillos to their cell, he recognised one of them and skidded to a halt.

‘Nilo! You still owe me a favour for that tip I gave you on that net man at the last games! Lend me your spear! And you two!’ Seeing the incredulity on their faces he fished out his purse, pulling out a gold aureus and holding it up for them to see. ‘I’ll rent them! An aureus for one fight’s worth of rental! It’s not as if you need them to control this pair of amateurs.’

They dithered for a moment, looking at each other in bemusement while the murmillos bristled at being described in such harsh terms, and with a snort of impatience he tossed the coin at their feet, snatched the weapons from their unresisting fingers and ran, the wooden shafts clattering in his grasp. Skidding round the corner he saw a rectangle of golden sunlight in the holding cell’s farthest corner, and realised with dismay that the cage in which he had expected to find the three soldiers was empty.

The trapdoor had risen from its recess with a slow creak, and after a moment’s pause Horatius had led them up the steps, moving to the opening’s left as Dubnus climbed out behind him, turning to the right and leaving the way clear for Marcus. The three men stood blinking in the sunlight, momentarily stunned by the roar of fifty thousand voices beating down on them as the crowd greeted their appearance with the usual barrage of noise. The arena’s tiered seats towered over them on all sides, the waves of sound from their occupants washing down on the dazzled comrades.

‘Citizens! Citizens!’

A man was bellowing out at the crowd from a place beneath the imperial box, and the crowd swiftly fell silent, accustomed to the arena’s pre-fight ritual. When the announcer spoke again it was into a hushed silence, with only the susurrations of quiet conversation and a few coughs to distract from his portentous announcement.

‘Citizens, the Flavian Arena and the Dacian Gladiatorial School will now bring you a spectacle unlike anything you have ever seen before!’

‘Corvus!’

The Roman turned, looking about him before realising that the urgent voice addressing him was coming from beneath his feet. Peering down into the trapdoor’s black rectangle he realised that Velox was looking up at him.

‘Take these!’ Three spears clattered onto the sand at his feet. ‘You’ve been set up! There aren’t six men coming out to fight you, there are nine of them!’

He vanished into the gloom, and the trapdoor swung shut as the arena slave who had been waiting behind him pulled at the rope and dropped it back into place, leaving the arena’s surface unbroken.

‘For the first time in arena history we bring you not one, not two, but three former centurions from the imperial legions, battle-hardened veterans who have come to test themselves against whatever might be thrown against them! Behold, the finest fighting men of the finest army in the world!’

The crowd erupted in a bellow of delight, forcing the announcer to fall silent for a moment.

‘What did Velox say?’

Marcus looked at the other two men, reaching down to pick up one of the spears before answering Dubnus’s question.

‘The odds against us have been changed. There are nine prisoners waiting to be sent against us.’

Dubnus nodded, passing a spear to Horatius.

‘We’ve fought worse. Here’s your chance to show us whether you could really hit a cat’s arse at twenty paces.’

The legion man grinned back at him.

‘Twenty-five.’

‘Citizens!’ The crowd fell quiet again, although this time they were still buzzing with chatter, speculation as to what might be about to happen before them. ‘We are watching a scene from the divine Emperor Trajan’s war against the Dacians, a piece of history well known to any man who fought in that bitterly fought campaign. We are watching the story of … “The Three Centurions!”’

‘What the fuck is the man prattling on about?’

Horatius raised an amused eyebrow at Dubnus.

‘I suspect we’re about to find out.’

‘The Emperor sent three centurions out with orders to find and kill the general commanding the Dacian forces facing his legions, three men who were the greatest champions in his entire army! Their names were Horatius, a man of Noricum …’

The crowd roared, and Horatius raised his shield and spears in salute, grimacing at the other two.

‘Dubnus, a barbarian from the far-off island of Britannia converted to the emperor’s service!’

Again the roar, and Dubnus pulled a wry face as he raised his arms.

‘Fuck me, a man could get used to this.’

‘And Corvus, a citizen of Rome skilled with every weapon and devoted to his emperor!’

Marcus shook his head at the unintentional irony, lifting his shield and spears to acknowledge the crowd’s roar of approval.

‘Together, these three brave men journeyed deep into the heart of the enemy’s territory, unaware that they were in their turn being hunted by the enemy!’

The announcer fell silent, and Horatius looked at the other two with a grim smile.

‘I suspect that it’s time to journey deep into the heart of the enemy’s territory. Heads up! And since the rules seem to have gone out of the window, I suggest we strike first!’

They stepped forward, pacing towards the arena’s centre with their shields raised, each with a single spear ready to throw and the spare held in their shield hands.

‘And then, without warning, the enemy struck!’

With the announcer’s last words, almost shrieked above the crowd’s rising growl of tension, a trapdoor in the sand before them flipped open. Men armed with swords and small round shields started to stream up the steps and out into the light, their bearded faces screwed up against the sunlight, long, dank hair tied back into braids in readiness for the fight. While they were still blinking at the sudden bright daylight, clustered around the trapdoor while more men mounted the steps behind them, Horatius stamped forward and slung his spear into their midst. He clenched his fist as the weapon’s iron head slammed through a man’s shield and gutted him, sending him staggering backwards, the ground beneath his feet dropping away as his third step found the door’s empty space. Chaos reigned in the barbarians’ ranks for a moment, the cries of the men still trying to ascend the steps as their comrade’s spitted body fell into their midst barely audible over the crowd’s roar of delight.

Marcus and Dubnus stepped forward to throw their own spears, and the Dacians’ battle experience showed as three men stepped forward in front of their comrades and raised their small shields to meet the weapons in flight. One threw down his shield, having managed to stop one of the flying spears, holding the board away from him to prevent the protruding blade from striking his body. The other was less fortunate, as a massive throw from Dubnus slammed its iron head through the shield and then, as if the layered wooden boards were no more substantial than smoke, cleaved deep into his face. He staggered backwards to fresh cheering from the crowd around them, and while the barbarians were still attempting to order themselves, Horatius bellowed a single word at his fellow centurions.

‘Phalanx!’

They went forward to meet the Dacians quickly, their paces synchronising as Marcus and Dubnus fell in on either side of the legion man, their shields locking together as they accelerated to a run.

‘Hit them hard, before they can flank us!’

Marcus picked a target as they closed with the milling barbarians, drawing his second spear back as the three men smashed into the Dacians, then snapping it forward to strike at his opponent’s face. The other man managed to deflect the blow over his head with his shield, but the centurions’ charge had blasted through the Dacians’ straggling line, and as his target staggered backwards Marcus struck again, leaping high into the air with practised grace and punching his shield’s iron boss down into the reeling man’s face. As he landed, he stabbed the spear’s iron head into the stunned barbarian’s neck, wrenching it free in a shower of the dying man’s blood as the prisoner slumped to his knees.

The flicker of a shadow made the Roman flinch backward, turning his body to gain some protection from the shield and raising his spear to meet the new threat, but before he could bring the weapon to bear something hit the spear’s shaft hard enough to almost tear it from his hand, the blade hammering at his shield an instant later. Looking down the weapon’s length he realised with a shock that the blade was missing, cleaved away by the blow intended for his head, and he threw it at the man in front of him to make him duck away, springing back to get some space as he drew his own sword. A pair of tribesmen were advancing on him with murder in their eyes, while his friends were deep in their own fights. He hefted the unfamiliar shield momentarily, before shaking his head and throwing its unwieldy weight at them. Stepping back swiftly to the twitching corpse of one of their fellows, he scooped up the dying man’s sword with his left hand and turned to face the pair as they battered the shield aside and came for him.

The man to his right was leading his comrade by a pace, having deflected the flying shield into his path, and the Roman met him blade to blade, allowing the Dacian’s long sword to skate harmlessly out to his left while the barbarian shaped to smash his small shield into the Roman’s face. As he punched the shield forward, Marcus pivoted backwards on his right foot and leaned back to allow the blow to spend itself on empty air, as he wristed the sword in his right hand high into the air above his shoulder. Hacking it down at the hapless Dacian’s extended shield arm, he severed the limb cleanly below the elbow, tearing a bloodthirsty roar from the crowd.

The maimed tribesman staggered backwards, dropping his sword and cupping the brutal wound with his right hand in a futile attempt to stop the blood that was pouring from the stump. His comrade quailed at the look on Marcus’s face as the Roman pushed the helpless man aside, tearing his throat out with a swift thrust and twist of his left-hand sword without ever taking his narrowed eyes off the surviving Dacian. Stalking forward, Marcus barely broke his stride as the prisoner charged forward with an incoherent scream, smashing away the Dacian’s sword and hacking a lump out of the rim of the terrified man’s shield, sending him backwards with blood leaking from a cut down the front of his rough prisoner’s tunic where the sword’s point had torn his flesh as it ripped through the layered wood of his tattered shield.

Their eyes met again in that instant before Marcus struck again, the Dacian’s gaze suddenly calm as if he knew for a certainty that he was facing his death. The Roman’s long sword swept out again, cleaving the shield almost in two, while the prisoner’s attempt to counter-attack was child’s play to parry. He stepped back and raised the shield’s boss and the remnant of board clinging to it with a look of terrified resignation, his sword’s blade barely level with the ground, and Marcus knew his opponent would not survive another attack.

His anger abruptly burned out, he reached out with his left-hand sword and tapped hard at the prisoner’s weapon, jerking his own blade to one side to indicate that the other man should discard it. For a moment the Dacian was confused, but then a look of understanding crept onto his face, his eyebrows rising in puzzlement as he looked back at Marcus. Before he could comply with the Roman’s silent instruction, the hapless prisoner staggered forward a pace, his face contorting in agony as Horatius dropped him to the ground with the blade of his spear buried in the prisoner’s lower back. He stared at the Roman for a moment before speaking, his words almost inaudible over the crowd’s roar.

‘Hasn’t anyone told you it’s not right to play with a man you’re about to kill?’

Marcus looked back at him with an expression of mystification, but before he could reply the crowd’s tumult coalesced into a one-word chant that had them staring at each other in surprise.

‘Corvus! Corvus! Corvus!’

Horatius raised an eyebrow, looking up at the mob of humanity bellowing out Marcus’s name.

‘I was wrong, it seems. Apparently playing with the man you’re about to kill is exactly what these bastards want from us.’

The three centurions turned as they were hailed by the referee, who was careful to stay outside the reach of their weapons.

‘Sheathe your swords and drop your spears!’

They did as they were bidden, arena slaves hurrying past them with buckets of white sand and scattering it across the blood that had been spilled during the fight. Other men were dragging the dead Dacians away towards the Gate of Death, each of the corpses receiving a shattering blow to the head from Charun’s hammer before they were carried away towards the tunnel that led to the spolarium. Relaxing a little, the man in white stepped closer, pointing with his hand to direct their steps.

‘Now go and make your bow to the imperial box. And don’t be fooled by the archers. They may look bored, but they’ll turn you into pin cushions if you give them the slightest excuse.’ He pointed up to the spot where Commodus stood, having risen from his seat to applaud when the last of the barbarians had fallen to Horatius’s spear thrust. ‘Bow nice and deep and wait for him to signal for you to leave, then walk to the Gate of Life. You’ll be disarmed by the guards and then someone from your school will take you back there. Move.’

Obeying the commanding note in his voice, the three men walked across the sand until they were close enough to the imperial box to make their bows, seeing the threat implicit in the archers who were staring at them from openings in the arena wall below the box with arrows nocked to their half-drawn bows. Bowing deeply, they waited until Commodus raised a hand in recognition, turning to speak to the man at his side who Marcus instantly recognised as his chamberlain Cleander, before raising their heads. The chamberlain looked down with a knowing smile, and Marcus knew immediately that the man who guided the emperor’s every decision had without any shadow of doubt identified him despite the heavy iron helmet’s partial disguise.

Turning away as bidden, they marched in step towards the Gate of Life, allowing themselves to be disarmed by the arena guards who, clearly used to men still seething with the potent emotions stirred by combat and bloodshed, kept their spears to hand as they accepted the three men’s bloodied swords and battered shields.

‘Well then, it seems that I had no need to worry on your behalf.’

Velox was waiting for them beyond the guards’ cordon. He gestured to the man in charge of the gate.

‘I’ll take them from here, if your men can just see us through to the tunnel.’

They waited while a party of guards was mustered to get them from the gate to the tunnel’s mouth, and, looking out through the tall, arched opening, Marcus realised that it was going to take more than the half-dozen who had seen them across the gap between amphitheatre and tunnel an hour before. Where there had been no more than twenty fans waiting in the open space previously, there were now more than two hundred, all chanting the same chorus that had greeted the fall of the last prisoner.

‘Corvus! Corvus! Corvus!’

The champion gladiator shook his head at Marcus.

‘They’re strange creatures, the sheep that flock to watch us wolves tear at each other. They’ll pick a man that takes their fancy and turn him into the next best thing to a god. And you Corvus, well you’ve taken their fancy in a big way. They think you were toying with those poor bloody Dacians, when you maimed and then killed one of them, and held the other at sword point so that he could take a spear in the back. They think you’re the next big thing, a man blessed with all the skill and brutality needed to become a hero of the arena. And perhaps you are, except …’

He looked at the three men for a moment, then pointed at Horatius.

‘You, you were born for this. You’re quick, ruthless, skilful … I can see a great future for you, my friend. And you …’ He looked at Dubnus with a smile. ‘What you lack in sophistication you make up for in brute force, and the will to apply it without hesitation.’

He turned back to Marcus with a quizzical expression.

‘But you? You’re something else, Corvus. Fast, blindingly fast, and as good with two swords as my brother, if not quite up to my standard, and yet …’ He shook his head. ‘You’re just not a killer, are you?’

Marcus looked back at him without answering, and Dubnus guffawed quietly.

‘Not a killer? Our boy here’s killed more men in the last three years than you’ll ever fight.’

The gladiator shook his head, holding Marcus’s stare.

‘Not the type of killer that makes for a top-class fighter. You can kill alright, but you can’t do it in cold blood, can you? You have to be angry, or threatened, and if you’re not then the fire that drives you dies out like that.’

He clicked his fingers, raising an eyebrow to elicit some response from the Roman.

‘I saw you with that last Dacian, I was watching your face while you were fighting, and right up until you killed the poor bastard whose arm you’d hacked off, you were terrifying, relentless. Even I’d have been nervous if I’d been facing you. But when the last man pissed himself, you stopped fighting, just like that.’

He pursed his lips and stared at Marcus for a moment.

‘And here’s the thing. Right now, Julianus is up there on the senatorial balcony with the other procurators slapping him on the shoulder and telling him what a find you three are. He’ll be misty-eyed at the thought of a couple of dozen fights from you, with all the opportunities to make a profit every time you set foot on the sand. I just hope that you can deliver on that promise.’

‘Well then, what a show!’

Cleander had crossed the imperial box again, breezing past the guards to plant himself firmly in the middle of the small crowd congratulating Julianus on his men’s seemingly effortless victory. The pleasure of watching his colleague Novius’s face as the tiros had ripped through their hapless opponents was wiped away in an instant by a sinking feeling as the imperial chamberlain inclined his head in a deep bow of respect, his mouth twisted in a half-smile.

‘Quite stunning, Julianus, even by the redoubtable standards your school has set down the years. And the breathtaking cruelty displayed by that man Corvus! The emperor is more than impressed, and you know that’s not something that happens every day, given his titanic prowess with any weapon you care to name.’ He leaned close to Julianus, raising a hand to whisper confidentially in his ear. ‘He’s asked me to convey my congratulations on a superb performance, and to assure you that it hasn’t gone unnoticed.’

Julianus allowed his breath to hiss slowly and almost inaudibly from between his teeth, the tension slowly ebbing from his body as he realised that Cleander was doing no more than passing on the thanks of a delighted patron. But as he tilted his head ready to bow in return, the chamberlain spoke again, his voice edged with the iron that he’d been expecting.

‘He also asked me to make a request of you.’ The emphasis was accompanied by a twist of the other man’s lips and a raising of his eyebrows that left the procurator in no doubt as to the binding nature of the request. ‘Caesar was so impressed by these three men, and by Corvus in particular, that he instructed me to request a small favour of you, a chance to see them at work from a slightly closer perspective …’ He paused for a moment, and Julianus realised with a further slump what was coming. ‘A private bout, Procurator, a blood match in the privacy of your school premises. This man Corvus matched against one of your best men to provide Caesar with a more adequate display of the man’s talents.’

Julianus nodded slowly.

‘A blood match? I have just the man, Hermes, a fast and lethal fighter from-’

‘Mortiferum.’

The procurator frowned.

‘I-’

Cleander shook his head, his lips wreathed in a sardonic smile.

‘Caesar was most specific. He wishes to see this new boy’s skills tested against your deadliest fighter, and his instruction was for the match to be fought with your best. With Mortiferum.’

Julianus spread his hands.

‘Not that I have any place arguing with my Caesar …’

Cleander smiled again, but this time the expression was thinly stretched.

‘How very wise of you, Procurator.’

‘But surely Velox must be my deadliest man?’

The chamberlain shrugged.

‘Not in the emperor’s view. So, Corvus and Mortiferum, tomorrow evening.’

‘Tomorrow? Mortiferum fights a pair of fish men the day after!’

Cleander shook his head dismissively.

‘Not any more he doesn’t. That bout’s been rescheduled for next week, plenty of time for him to get over his exertions. It’s amazing how quickly these things can be resolved when an emperor’s wishes are involved, isn’t it?’

Recognising defeat, Julianus bowed again.

‘In which case I will be delighted to host Caesar in the Dacian School tomorrow evening. Please convey my delight and gratitude at having my fighters selected for such an honour.’

Scaurus stepped forwards, nodding his respect to the chamberlain.

‘With your permission, Aurelius Cleander, I’d very much like to see that fight. Might I beg the emperor’s indulgence and be allowed to attend?’

The chamberlain’s mouth twitched into a smile.

‘It seems that you will persist in this habit of putting yourself at risk by interposing yourself into situations where you really have no business. You got away with it the last time by the skin of your teeth, didn’t you?’ He raised an eyebrow at Scaurus, who acknowledged the point with a nod. ‘Indeed. How many men can say that he’s had an emperor’s knifepoint under his chin and escaped without a mark? It’s something of an exclusive club, I can assure you.’ He smirked, his expression taking on a knowing look. ‘Are you sure you want to take the same risk twice?’

‘To see my centurion fight a renowned champion gladiator? Of course …’

Cleander shrugged.

‘Very well, Tribune. After all, it is, as they say, your funeral …’

He turned away with the ghost of a smile playing on his lips, and Scaurus turned to his first spear with a slow exhalation.

‘Every time I deal with that man I have the feeling that I’m teasing a poisonous snake with a very short stick. I think perhaps it’s time to let Cotta do what he’s been suggesting ever since your centurion decided to abandon his new life and go after Mortiferum.’

Julius nodded, watching the chamberlain as he walked through the guards and back into the imperial box.

‘I’ll go with him.’

Scaurus smiled.

‘Curious, First Spear?’

Julius nodded with a snort of suppressed laughter.

‘Curious? Too bloody right I am, Tribune. Aren’t you?’

The slave girl Calistra came to Dubnus again that night, her visit lasting little longer than the first time. Again, having silenced the Briton, she worked his manhood into her, ground herself against his body until he lost the ability to hold himself back and then climbed off his body with a gentle smile.

‘That two time. One more time and thank is done.’

Gripping her hand, he restrained her flight, pulling her close to him.

‘My name is Dubnus. And I will free you Calistra. I promise.’

Her smile broadened, but her head shook emphatically.

‘You never free me. I here all my life.’

He stared up into her eyes.

‘I swear. I will free you. The next time you lie on top of me it won’t be in this place, and you’ll be free to choose whether to lie with me or seek another man. I have sworn this.’