The Emperor's Knives

10

The imperial chamberlain swept into the ludus’s formal reception hall the next evening at the head of a small party of two praetorian guardsmen and a single slave, looking about him at the mural-decorated walls, the intricate mosaic floor and the statues depicting gladiators in fighting poses. Julianus stood in the hall’s centre ready to greet his emperor, dressed and barbered to perfection, the other ludi’s procurators and Scaurus waiting to one side.

‘Greetings Chamberlain!’

Cleander nodded regally to Julianus’s colleagues, then smiled wryly at Scaurus.

‘I see you’ve persisted with your urge to watch your man Corvus in action, Tribune Scaurus. How fortunate that you’ll be able to witness one of the most interesting gladiatorial contests in the city for many a year.’ He looked about at the lavish decor. ‘Very nice, Julianus. Very nice indeed. You clearly believe in providing your more aristocratic clients with the feel of quality?’

Julianus nodded, gesturing at the walls with an air of self-deprecation.

‘We operate a spartan enough school, staying as close to the traditions of the founders as we can, but we do always try to make our private clients feel at home when they come here. We hope that a little luxury will differentiate our offering from that which they might experience elsewhere, and encourage them to favour us with their presence on future occasions. I presume that you’ve come in advance of the emperor?’

Cleander shook his head, waving a dismissive hand at the question.

‘Regrettably, Tettius Julianus, Caesar won’t be joining us this evening.’

‘There’s probably nothing that I can tell you about my brother that will be of very much use to you. He’s been fighting in the arena for just as long as I have, he’s every bit as good as me, and even with your obvious talents we both know that you’re not going to stand a chance of beating him. After all, you only really fight when your temper’s lit, don’t you?’

Marcus nodded, keeping his eyes averted as Velox paced across the room towards him with a knowing look to Dubnus and Horatius, who were leaning against the far wall watching the impromptu training session.

‘No, you’ll be fighting to minimise the damage he could do to you if you manage to get his back up. Fight defensively, make sure you always have a space to retreat into, and at some point be prepared to take your three cuts and end the fight. Not too quickly, mind you, or Commodus might just order the pair of you to keep going until he’s satisfied that you’ve given your best. Show me your blades …’

He examined the swords, shaking his head in disgust.

‘You’re fighting the Death Bringer, and Sannitus arms you with this rubbish? Fetch my swords!’

One of the junior gladiators ran for the weapons, and while the four men waited, Velox raised the blades he’d taken from Marcus before him, their points inches from the Roman’s face.

‘Now watch carefully. My little brother may be as fast as a striking snake, but he has his habits just like the rest of us, and there are a couple of them that you’ll need to watch out for. Firstly, there’s this …’

He wristed the right-hand blade in a flashing arc, stopping its swing just at the point where it was poised for a chopping blow at Marcus’s head.

‘He threatens your head, you respond with a sword raised to catch the blow and he lunges in …’ He pushed the other sword forward with a swift stamp of his leading foot. ‘And before you know what he’s doing, he’s sliced your forearm open or, if he’s in a really bad mood, he’s cut a chunk out of your armpit and your life’s running down your arm.’

Velox stepped backwards, resuming his previous position.

‘And here’s another little trick he’s particularly fond of.’

He danced back, his eyes taunting Marcus and drawing the Roman forward, as if they were fighting for real, and as his opponent approached, he took another step back. As Marcus raised his foot to step forward again, the other man sprang off his back foot, his blades suddenly in the Roman’s face in a move so fast that Marcus didn’t know if he could have countered it even if he’d had swords of his own.

‘Be ready for that one too. He uses it in most of his fights with men who don’t know his style. Ah, here are my swords …’

The champion gladiator took his weapons, drawing both blades and discarding their elaborately decorated scabbards. He handed them over and then stepped back, making space for the Roman to swing them. Marcus ran through a swift series of practice cuts and lunges, nodding at the weapons’ excellent balance. Looking closely at the blades, he raised an eyebrow at the gladiator, his eyes hard with concentration.

‘These are …’

Velox grinned.

‘I think the word you’re looking for is incomparable. And you’d be right. They’re a pound lighter apiece than the usual weapons we’re issued with, and they’re edged with some special iron that stays sharp longer in a fight. They’re my arena swords, saved for occasions when I need to put on a bit of a show, but perhaps they’ll help to even up the advantage my brother will have over you.’

Edius appeared in the training room’s doorway and beckoned to Marcus.

‘Time to fight.’

In the ludus’s arena, Cleander was putting on a show of apology for Julianus and his guests, but if his words were those of a contrite man, neither his tone nor his expression were doing very much to support them.

‘My apologies, Julianus. What can I say? When I left him the emperor was somewhat … preoccupied, shall we say? I felt it best not to interrupt the important matters that were demanding of his full attention.’

Julianus nodded, knowing all too well the sort of ‘matters’ that the chamberlain was describing, but any distaste he might have been feeling was submerged in a deep-seated sense of relief so profound that it was all he could do not to sigh.

‘I completely understand, Chamberlain. And, under the circumstances, I’m sure the emperor will be happy to save his money, given that he’s not here to see the-’

Cleander shook his head briskly, with a smile that made it all too clear how well he understood Julianus’s short-lived relief.

‘Far from it, Procurator. Far from it! Knowing that I am possessed of an excellent recollective skill, Caesar simply implored me to bring him back the most precise account of the fight possible. I shall therefore take a seat here …’ Cleander pointed to the ornately gilded wooden seat that had been positioned ready for the ludus’s exalted guest. ‘And attempt to do such a titanic bout some small degree of honour with my description.’

Julianus’s mouth opened in consternation.

‘We’re to continue without the emperor?’

Cleander’s response was delivered in a cheery tone, but there was no mistaking the command implicit in his words.

‘Indeed we are, Procurator! After all, the price for the bout has been set and paid, and the fees that will be owing in the event of either the serious wounding or indeed the death of either participant are equally clear and, I should add, ready to pay out.’

He glanced behind him at the shaven-headed slave, still flanked by a pair of praetorians, at whose belt a good-sized pouch bulged with coin.

‘Dacian gold, Procurator, freshly minted. And after all, Julianus, who are either of us to risk the wrath of our emperor by disregarding his instructions? Bring on the contestants, and let us see what it was that Caesar had in mind when he commanded this match, shall we?’

Marcus was led into the arena first, looking around the surprisingly small fighting space with an expression of wary appraisal. Finding Scaurus in the group of imperial officials, he nodded his recognition, then stared back at the gladiators who were standing behind the ludus’s guests. Hermes was one of the men favoured with the opportunity to watch the bout, and he grinned at Marcus without any trace of humour in the expression.

‘Not quite what you were expecting, eh Centurion?’

He turned to the small group of men gathered at the opposite end of the room, recognising the chamberlain’s urbane tones. Walking towards them, he stopped ten paces short and bowed as he had been instructed by Edius, digging his toes into the sand.

‘It’s not as grand as some other places I’ve fought, Chamberlain, that’s true, but it makes a pleasant change to have clean sand underfoot rather than what I’m rather more accustomed to.’

‘And what would that be?’

He smiled bleakly.

‘Mud that’s been stamped into foam so deep that a man who falls wounded is likely to drown before he bleeds to death, stinking with the blood, piss and shit of the men who are fighting and dying around me. This is a holiday, by comparison.’

A door in the arena’s wall opened, and Mortiferum stepped out onto the sand, walking easily across the fighting surface until he was standing half a dozen paces from where Marcus stood waiting for him. A mirror image of his brother in both height and musculature, his hair had been greased back to give him a sleek, deadly appearance. Sannitus stepped forward with a forbidding look, his usual rough tunic replaced by the white garb of a referee and the customary long stick held in one big hand.

‘Gladiators, this bout has been commanded to be a blood match, with the first man to cut his opponent and draw blood three times being named as the winner. The prize is one thousand sestertii, ten gold aurei donated by the emperor himself. When a cut is inflicted you will step apart and allow me the time to make an examination of the wound. If I deem the wound to be too serious for the fight to continue then I will declare the wounded man to be the loser, and the fight will be over. However, in the event of such a serious wound being inflicted, the winner’s prize will be retained by the ludus, as his punishment for damaging valuable property. This is to be a display of gladiatorial skill, not a fight to the death. Do you both understand?’

Both men nodded, and the lanista turned to look to his master.

‘If you and our guests are ready, Procurator?’

Julianus nodded tersely, still preoccupied with the potential for needless injury to either man.

‘Continue!’

Sannitus stepped backwards, smartly waving his hands for the gladiators to close on each other.

‘Fight!’

The two men eyed each other over the blades of their levelled swords, Mortiferum raising an amused eyebrow as he slid his feet across the sand, crabbing round to his right and eliciting a matching response from Marcus.

‘So, Corvus, how does it feel to be blade to blade with the most famous gladiator in Rome? How long do you think you can stand against me?’

Marcus stared back, his face expressionless as he matched the other man step for step, the two of them slowly circling, watching each other with eyes narrowed in concentration.

‘I thought your brother was the most famous gladiator in Rome?’

The champion opened his mouth as if to speak but leapt forward instead, wristing his right-hand weapon in a savage arc aimed at his opponent’s head, just as his brother had predicted. Rather than lifting his own blade to parry, Marcus spun to his right, slicing his right-hand sword at the other man’s thigh, forcing Mortiferum to hop neatly backwards with a delighted laugh.

‘Nicely done! Perhaps this won’t be quite as boring as I’d exp-’

Something in his complacent smile triggered a response in Marcus, a sudden kick in the pit of his stomach, and he found himself going forward with a growl of anger, meeting his opponent’s waiting blades and driving him backwards in a flurry of cuts and parries. Staring into the other man’s eyes, his swords seeming to move of their own volition as he hammered at the retreating gladiator’s defences, he saw the first hint of concern in the other man’s face. And then, as if his opponent had simply decided enough was enough, he glared at Marcus and stopped retreating, fighting back with a speed and skill the Roman had rarely experienced.

Cleander clenched his fist as the fight’s tempo escalated, banging a palm on his chair’s arm in approval.

‘Now we can see what these men are made of! This is a fight!’

As they watched, Mortiferum parried a flurry of blows and then, in the brief moment when Marcus’s defence was opened by his ferocious attack, sprang forward in a straining lunge and jabbed the very tip of one of his blades into his opponent’s leg just below the knee. The gladiators lining the walls cheered loudly at the first blood, and Sannitus stepped forward, bellowing a command at the two men.

‘Stop fighting!’

At the ludus’s main door a heavy fist banged twice on the woodwork, jolting the slave on duty out of his comfortable reverie. He slid open the thin vision slit carved into the thick beams, speaking though it without even bothering to see who it was that had disturbed his doze.

‘Fuck off and bother someone else. The ludus is closed to the likes of you for the night.’

‘Really, Piro? Closed to the likes of me?’

The doorman started, half recognising the voice from a memory that he hadn’t revisited for years. It was deep and commanding, filled with an arrogant disregard for anyone else, the voice of a man who had faced death a hundred times and walked away unharmed.

‘It’s not …’

‘It is.’

‘Fuck me …’

‘Not while there are dogs on the street. Now open this door and let me in, unless you’re keen to see the colour of your own liver before you go to the underworld.’

Sannitus stepped in between the fighters, prodding at Mortiferum with his long stick to push him out of sword reach before bending to examine the wound. A slow seeping runnel of blood was oozing down Marcus’s leg, and the lanista nodded with a look that spoke volumes as to his desire to get the fight finished before one of them badly hurt the other.

‘Blood! One to Mortiferum!’

He stepped back, waving the two men together.

‘Fight!’

‘Go on Death Bringer, put the tyro in his place!’

The veteran gladiator nodded at Hermes’s shout and stormed into the fight, his face set in determination at the realisation that nothing other than the best of his skills and commitment would be enough to defeat this new and unexpectedly effective opponent. Their swords flickered and clashed with such speed that the watching audience could scarcely follow the fight’s progress, but it seemed to Velox’s trained eye that while his brother was attacking with all of his ability, Marcus had retreated back into himself again, and was fighting on the defensive without any sign of the necessary impetus to go forward and take down his enemy.

The ferocious duel continued, the two men entirely focused on each other’s faces as Mortiferum constantly probed for an opening, Marcus comfortably parrying his blows without any sign of taking the fight back to him. Procurator Novius pulled a disparaging expression, shaking his head slightly.

‘Your man Corvus seems to have rather lost interest since taking that cut. I must profess myself a little disappointed. I thought your new boy had a little more in him …’

‘Oh, I’m not so sure …’ They looked around at the seated Cleander, his eyes still intent on the fight. ‘This looks more like strategy than tactics to me.’

He waved away their bafflement, watching as Marcus allowed himself to be manoeuvred around the small arena. At length Mortiferum managed to lever an opening in the Roman’s defence, more by brute force than any subtlety with his blades, whipping a blade in under Marcus’s defence to prick a skilful cut into the top of his thigh to the renewed cheers of the gladiators lining the walls.

‘Stop fighting!’

‘Well now, Edius.’

The assistant lanista whipped round, his eyes narrowed at the sound of his challenger’s voice. He stepped closer to the newcomer, screwing up his eyes and staring hard at him in the corridor’s gloom. The ludus slave standing behind him put a startled hand to the hilt of his sword, then froze at the look of wolfish anticipation on the stranger’s hard, scarred face as he wagged a forbidding finger.

‘If you air that iron, one of us will die before your next breath is expelled. Do you choose to die, here and now?’

The terrified man eased his hand away from the weapon’s hilt, swallowing audibly.

‘Wise. And you, Edius? Do you and I have to fight?’

The lanista shook his head, raising his empty hands before him.

‘I’m no more of a fool than I was the last time we met.’

The big man nodded, putting out a hand.

‘I’ll be needing weapons, Edius. I’ll make a start with your man here’s blade, and I’m sure you can find me another quickly enough, eh?’

The lanista turned, taking the sword from the guard’s scabbard and pointing down the corridor.

‘Fetch him another. Quickly. And tell no one else.’ He turned back to the big man. ‘I’ll not get in your way. But why come back now?’

The newcomer’s answer was accompanied by a shake of the big man’s head.

‘I’ve been asking myself the same question.’

Sannitus put himself between the two men for a second time, examining the puncture with swift professionalism.

‘Blood! Two to Mortiferum!’ He looked at Marcus, perturbed at the unconcerned look on the Roman’s face. ‘Nearly there. Just behave yourself and take the third cut and we’ll have this done.’

He stepped back from them.

‘Fight!’

Mortiferum, smugly secure in the certainty of his impending victory, frowned as Marcus held his hands up to raise his swords until they were level with his face, forcing the other man to look him in the eye. The gladiator shook his head in bemusement, his lips twisting in the grin of a man who knew he already had the fight in the bag.

‘You’re good, Corvus. Very good. You’re the only man I’ve ever met, other than my brother, who can watch his opponent’s eyes and leave his swords to their own devices. But you’re not quite good enough to stop me, are you? No one’s ever come back against me in a blood match once the first hit was called, never mind two. So be a good boy and-’

Marcus cut him off, his voice hard with hatred and disgust.

‘Do you recognise these? You should.’

Mortiferum shook his head.

‘Why should I recognise some pair of swords I’ve never seen before?’

‘Because they used to be the property of one of the first families you and your fellow murderers destroyed in the name of imperial justice. And now here they are, hungry for your blood.’

Sannitus stalked up to the two men with a look of anger clouding his face.

‘Get on with the fight, or I’ll-’

Marcus’s voice was suddenly as cold as stone, as he overrode the lanista’s warning without turning his gaze from his opponent.

‘Get off the sand, Sannitus, or I’ll cut you down alongside this piece of shit.’

Julianus took one look at the Roman’s face and took a pace backwards with an eye on the door. He stopped abruptly as it opened in his face and a massive figure squeezed through the gap with a sword held in each hand.

‘Nobody leaves. Not until this fight is done.’

Cleander looked over at him with a beatific smile that made Julianus’s blood run cold.

‘Ah, there you are! There’s a sight to make a man proud to be a citizen of this great city. Greetings, champion, and welcome to the emperor’s blood match! You’re just in time, it seems …’

The big man nodded to him and then turned his attention to the sand.

‘Sannitus.’

The lanista was still staring at him, as if unable to believe the evidence of his eyes as his erstwhile nemesis walked forward, brushing past the gathered procurators as if they weren’t there.

‘Flamma … Of all the men I never expected to see in this ludus again.’

The big man shrugged.

‘Sometimes a man can’t ignore the things that need to be done. Even if I’ve managed to turn a blind eye for the last few years.’

He turned his attention to the two men crouched in their fighting stances.

‘Well then young Marcus, how much longer are you going to play with this fool? Didn’t I always tell you to get the job done as soon as you found your opening?’

Mortiferum shook his head, his eyebrows raised in disbelief.

‘Fuck you old man, whoever it is you think you are! This blood match is over! I’m going to carve this upstart into-’

He staggered backwards as Marcus launched himself bodily into a ferocious attack, frantically defending himself as the Roman remorselessly drove him back with a strength born of the fury that was pulsing through him. The rage that had festered inside him during the years of his exile was abruptly, terrifyingly free, unthinking, unquestioning, raving for the blood of the man who had slaughtered his family.

‘My sisters were raped and murdered, and left for the crows on a rubbish dump!’

He smashed through Mortiferum’s reeling defence, but rather than use his blades on the man he pivoted with the speed of a striking snake, hammering the point of his elbow into the gladiator’s face and punching him backwards.

‘My mother bled to death at the hands of men who called my father their friend until you did their dirty work for them!’

Mortiferum rallied, but his wits had been shaken by the blow, and Marcus’s swords were momentarily too fast for him to counter. He chopped at the gladiator’s sword hand, and Julianus shrieked in horror as three of his champion gladiator’s fingers dropped to the sand. Velox started forward, only to find himself looking down the blade of one of Flamma’s swords, the big man’s attention fixed on the fight but the sword’s point unwaveringly aimed at his throat.

‘One more step …’ He raked his gaze across the men lining the back wall, his face twisted in contempt. ‘Any of you who want to die here, try me!’

Frozen in place by the threat, the champion gladiator watched in horror as his brother, unable to hold the sword in his ruined hand, attempted to hurl it at his tormentor. The blade merely tumbled uselessly to the ground, and Marcus pushed it aside with his foot as he advanced upon his stricken enemy.

‘My brother was sold into slavery!’

He battered aside the remaining blade with one sword, then stabbed the other down into his opponent’s thigh, his long blade skewering through the muscles as it pierced the limb to protrude from between his hamstrings, a thin trickle of blood running from the point onto the sand. Mortiferum stared into Marcus’s face in hollow-eyed disbelief, and the Roman leaned in close, whispering in his ear as he twisted the blade, dragging a groan of agony from the gladiator.

‘My father was tortured until he confessed to a treason he had never committed. But he never gave up the secret of where he’d sent me, to escape you and your fellow scum.’

Pulling the sword from Mortiferum’s leg, he kicked the staggering gladiator’s feet from under him, whipping down the other blade to pin him to the ground and dimpling his bare chest with the weapon’s point.

‘And my name is not Corvus! My name is Marcus!’

He leaned on the blade, sinking the first inch of metal into his helpless opponent’s chest. Mortiferum stiffened, fighting the iron’s cold intrusion.

‘Valerius!’

Slowly, surely, Marcus pushed the sword’s blade deeper until it pierced his opponent’s heart, shouting the last word the doomed gladiator would ever hear.

‘AQUILA!’

The gladiator stiffened, his eyes rolling back as he lost consciousness, his back arching as Marcus thrust the sword through his body. He stared down at the dead man’s corpse for a moment before turning back to face the men staring at him, dropping the other sword.

‘My vengeance is complete.’

‘No. It isn’t …’

Velox stepped forward, glaring at Flamma as if daring him to use the swords that were still pointing at him. His voice was thick with hatred, his stare loaded with menace as Marcus turned to face him.

‘You’ve killed the wrong man, Marcus Valerius Aquila.’

Marcus shook his head.

‘Mortiferum was the last of the Emperor’s Knives, the men who destroyed my family. I have taken vengeance …’

Velox shook his head, his face contorted by a savage, distraught rictus of a grin.

‘Yes. You have your revenge. On the brother of the man who carried out the deeds you just described.’

Cleander stood, his voice matter of fact as he looked across the sand at Mortiferum’s blood-spattered corpse.

‘It’s true. I had the records of the whole matter of your family’s liquidation retrieved from Perennis’s private files, after your revelation with that stolen gold led the emperor to put the butt spike of a spear through the praetorian prefect’s guts, and ordered his sons to be murdered before they could mobilise their legions. It seems that on the night in question, Mortiferum was somewhat preoccupied with a more than usually shapely boy. He persuaded his brother here to take his place, and, it has to be said, the stand-in seems to have performed his duties with commendable vigour.’

He waved a finger, and the praetorians waiting behind him stepped forward, levelling their spears at Marcus and Flamma.

‘And now, I suppose you might be tempted to do something heroic, given that your revenge has been a little flawed in its execution, but I’d advise against it. I’m happy enough to pay Julianus here the blood price for Mortiferum, but his brother was never part of my plans …’ He smiled at the expression on Marcus’s face, as the realisation of exactly what it was that he was saying sank in. ‘When the Knives started dying, apparently for no reason other than either their own stupidity or weariness with the life that they had chosen, I thought it sensible to undertake a little recruitment of my own. These men may wear the praetorian uniform, but they’re mine, bought and paid for. And who knows, with the demise of the last of the originals, I may find it necessary to make use of them to fill the gap that’s been left by their loss. The only question now is what to do with you, now that your usefulness to me seems to have run to a natural conclusion?’

Velox stepped forward, growling out a response to the question.

‘I treated this man as an arena brother, and he has repaid me with the death of all that was left of my family! Give him to me. I’ll rip out his spine and hang it from the ludus gates!’ He looked at Flamma with disdain. ‘Think you can get in my way, old man? One word from me and you’ll be arse-deep in gladiators, all of whom will be vying to be the man who kills you.’

Cleander pulled a thoughtful face.

‘It would make for a nice tidy end to this whole thing …’

Flamma shook his head and leaned closer to the chamberlain.

‘I’ll tell you what would be even neater. Imagine a fight between this boy and myself, eh? The reigning champion against a man who retired unbeaten as the darling of the crowd? Imagine being able to tell your gladiator-obsessed emperor that you’ve procured Flamma the Great for one last fight.’ He winked conspiratorially at Julianus. ‘And to sweeten the cake, what if I guarantee to take the fall? There’ll be a lot of money washing around for a fight like that, and there’ll be a lot of it on me, retired or not. I’ll even stay here in the ludus until the fight if you like, so that you’ll have no fear of me backing out. What do you say?’

‘No!’

He turned and looked at Marcus, who was staring at him with a look of desolation, then back at Cleander.

‘Do we have a deal?’

The chamberlain nodded, his eyes alive with the profit to be had from the veteran gladiator’s offer of self-sacrifice. Flamma bowed.

‘Very well. And now if you’ll excuse me for a moment, Chamberlain, I think I can make the lad see sense. It would be better if he were to leave here quietly, I presume?’

He walked slowly across the sand to where the younger man stood shaking his head.

‘There’s no other way, you can see that?’ Marcus opened his mouth to retort, but Flamma shook his head with a sad smile. ‘There’s that look I never thought I’d see again. Every time I used to put you on your arse as a twelve-year-old you’d give me that same stare, as if you were working out how to fuck me up, given half a chance. And look at you now …’ He smiled apologetically at Marcus. ‘I owe you this, Marcus, you, and your family. I should have done something when they were taken, but to my shame I kept my head down. This way I can get you out of here and find some peace for my conscience. And trust me, that little shit Velox won’t be walking out of the arena unscarred.’

Marcus shook his head in bafflement.

‘But if you think you can beat him, why offer to let him kill you?’

The big man smiled, putting a hand on his former pupil’s shoulder and leaning in close. He spoke into his dejected friend’s ear for a moment or so, until Marcus nodded slowly with a look of resignation on his face. Flamma turned back to Cleander with his hands spread wide.

‘See, I told you I could persuade him. He leaves, with his brothers in arms, and I stay, to fight just as soon as you like. Tomorrow might be best, to give the gamblers the least amount of time to brood on this unexpected match.’

‘Eager to die, are you old man?’

Flamma smiled into the face of Velox’s obduracy.

‘Eager to put your skills to the test, more like. You’re a dancer, boy, I’ve seen you fight, and all you do is jump around and wave your swords about like the womanising lightweight you so clearly are. I come from a different school. And I will educate you, before I die, I promise you that.’

Marcus stalked up to Velox, his body stiff with unresolved rage.

‘You crave revenge for your brother. I will have revenge for my family. We will meet again …’

The gladiator nodded tersely.

‘And when you least expect it.’ He tossed a trinket onto the floor between them, a panther’s tooth on a fine gold chain, pointing to an identical pendant around his own neck. ‘I had that made to offer as some form of consolation for your defeat this evening. Take it, and wear it for the rest of your life, Aquila, to match the one round my neck. Every time you touch it remember that I’ll be hunting you down. You’re marked for death at my hands.’

Marcus knelt, picking up the pendant.

‘I’ll wear it. Feel free to come and test your desire for revenge against mine, if you can get past Flamma.’

Cleander spoke before the gladiator could make any further retort.

‘And if we’re done with these slightly tiresome demonstrations of undying enmity, I think it’s time for the emperor to have an opinion on the matter of this proposed death match. I would ask Procurator Julianus what he thinks, but he is after all an employee of the state, and I can assure you that the state very much likes the sound of what’s on offer. Your proposal is accepted Flamma, and you’ll be accommodated in the imperial palace until the time comes for the fight. I’d imagine that Commodus will be keen to meet you in the morning, given his penchant for your trade. Which means it’s time for us all to be on our way.’

Dubnus and Horatius stepped out of the shadows, and Marcus realised that his fellow Tungrian was wearing a look verging on distress. He turned to the procurator, putting a hint of iron into his voice.

‘Julianus!’

The procurator turned to him, clearly affronted at being addressed in so pre-emptory a manner by a man he had considered to be his property until a moment before.

‘Corv-.’ He corrected himself. ‘Aquila. What more do you want from me, having murdered my champion?’

‘There is a woman, a slave girl, called Calistra, who has formed an association with my brother here. He will not leave her behind to face a life of abuse at the hands of your men.’

Flamma nodded.

‘Call her a down payment on my cooperation if you like.’

Julianus looked at Sannitus, who shrugged, his bafflement with the turn of events evident from his nonplussed expression.

‘She’s no loss.’

The procurator shook his head, then closed his eyes and waved a hand in apparent surrender.

‘Fetch the woman.’

An awkward silence fell on the group, and Horatius walked across the sand to where Marcus had dropped one of his swords. Stooping, he picked the weapon up and stood for a moment looking down at the dead gladiator before turning away with an unreadable expression. As he walked back across the arena Dubnus caught his eye momentarily, frowning at the unexpected look of hatred his comrade shot at him. Opening his mouth to say something, he realised that his friend’s stare was focused on the back of Marcus’s neck as the sword’s blade slowly rose from its place at his side. Before he could react Horatius was upon his erstwhile brother in arms, wrapping his arm around Marcus’s face as he put the sword’s point under his chin, the weapon’s shining iron length laid against the Roman’s chest, ready to thrust up into his jaw.

‘What …?’ Flamma reacted first, raising his own sword to strike at the former centurion, but Horatius swivelled, pulling his helpless victim with him. ‘I’ll have your liver out for this!’

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?’