The Emperor's Knives

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bearer glanced along the line of shops to see that his neighbours had all come to the same conclusion, goods hastily withdrawn into their premises and shutters unceremoniously closed to provide the occupants with some semblance of security.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?’

He gestured to his men.

‘Right then lads, pick up those knives, drop the weapons back into the shop and let’s be away to leave old ‘No Eyes’ to consider the error of his ways!’

He turned to find the potter standing close behind him.

‘You’re going to leave all those swords in the shop?’

Morban nodded.

‘They’ll be safe enough until someone comes to collect them. I’ll lock the place up and I can’t see anyone being brave enough to break in given the obvious penalty for crossing me and my lads.’ He offered the shopkeeper his spear with an impetuous grin. ‘Want to finish him off? Be my guest! After all, think of all the times the bastard’s taken money off you, or pawed your wife.’

The other man shook his head.

‘Part of me wants to, wanted to the second I saw you put the iron into his foot … but I can’t.’

Morban nodded, giving the weapon to a passing soldier.

‘I know. I would have been the same, a long time ago …’ He sighed. ‘And now I’m just a murdering animal. Only every now and then I get to do some killing that actually feels good. Be lucky, friend, and when Maximus’s replacement turns up, and you know he will, you just remember that the only thing keeping them on top of you is your willingness to be stood on. Show ’em your teeth and they’ll soon fade.’

He locked the shop and headed off down the hill towards the Ostian gate with the last of his men, a grizzled veteran from his own century who had waited for him while he chatted to the potter.

‘You think they’ll stand up for themselves, do you, next time the protection boys come knocking?’

The standard bearer shook his head sadly.

‘Not a chance.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘See, I’ve worked out what it is I like so much about this place. It’s civilised. Good food, good wine, whores wherever you look. It’s just nice. Problem is, you introduce animals like us to somewhere nice and before you know it everyone’s paying a percentage just to keep their guts on the inside, or to avoid having their daughters fucked in the street. And that’s sad, mate, more than sad, it’s a fucking tragedy. All we can do is console ourselves that at least we did a little bit of good today, and gave them one less horrible bastard to worry about.’

His fellow soldier nodded.

‘And not only that, you also gave me something to tell the lads back in barracks.’

Morban puffed his chest out.

‘You mean when I put that spear to him?’

The soldier shook his head.

‘No mate, when you told him you could kill him from thirty paces with it. You couldn’t hit a barn door with a bolt thrower!’

Scaurus and Marcus made their way through the crowds surrounding the Flavian arena with their usual escort of barbarians and Cotta’s men in close attendance. Both men were immaculately turned out, Scaurus wearing a toga bearing the single narrow stripe that indicated he was of the equestrian class, while Marcus was dressed in a simpler garment and walking a careful half-pace behind him. Striding up to the guards barring the entrance that led up to the senatorial level, the tribune announced his invitation by the imperial chamberlain himself to witness the afternoon’s bouts. After a swift reference to the list of guests for the day, they were admitted, leaving their escort to wait for them in whatever shade they could find, while Cotta made his way over to the next entrance to take his seat in the section reserved for army veterans. Climbing up to the senatorial balcony, they were greeted at the entrance to the imperial box by Cleander himself.

‘Rutilius Scaurus! It was good of you to make the effort. I wasn’t sure that you’d take me up on the invitation, given the fact that your young colleague’s mentor will die on that sand very shortly.’

Marcus returned his smile with an impassivity that he was far from feeling, allowing the tribune to answer on his behalf.

‘My officer recognises the inevitability of the situation, Chamberlain, and has sworn to Mithras to witness Flamma’s last bout with the dignity and reserve expected of a Roman officer. It’s not as if we’re barbarians, after all.’

Cleander nodded, raising his eyebrows at the younger man.

‘Impressive discipline, Centurion. Accept my sympathy, if you will, and my respect for your stoicism. You’re an example to some other members of the imperial establishment.’ He looked pointedly across the box to where Julianus stood wringing his hands. ‘If a certain procurator isn’t careful, he’ll find another man occupying his office. You’d think he’d be happy, given the fact that I gave him permission to place a few thousand on his own man, but apparently his lanista is convinced that Flamma will rip Velox apart in short order, agreement to take the final dive or no. What do you think, Centurion? After all, you know him best of anyone here?’

Marcus stared at him bleakly for a moment before finding his voice, the words numb in his mouth.

‘The Flamma who taught me to fight was a man of the greatest honour, and I see no change in him despite the brevity of our reunion. If he says that he’ll lose the bout, then you can be assured that he’ll die here this afternoon.’

Cleander nodded.

‘As I thought. Certainly the man gave me no indication of anything but the strongest of intentions to go through with his offer. It’ll be over soon enough and we’ll all be able to get on with our business, me to running the empire and you two gentlemen to defending its frontiers. I have something in mind for-’

A blare of trumpets interrupted him, and the three men turned to stare down at the arena’s sand as the referee led out a pair of lightly armoured figures. Both men were wearing a manica on their right arms with the mail-sleeve-secured straps running to a heavy leather pauldron on their left shoulders. Velox had chosen to fight bare chested, while Flamma had donned a light mail shirt to provide some protection against the edges of his opponent’s swords. Both men had eschewed a helmet, their heads left bare to grant them the breadth of vision necessary for the fluid fighting style of the dimachaerus, and each had a pair of swords strapped to their waists on wide leather belts. Flanked by an honour guard of a dozen spearmen with brightly plumed helmets and shining breastplates, they strode out towards the arena’s centre, gazes fixed forward as if neither was willing to recognise the other’s presence. The announcer was struggling to be heard over the crowd’s sudden deafening roar of appreciation, and after two futile attempts at introducing the bout, he fell silent, waiting as the two men strode out across the clean white sand. At some prearranged signal they stopped, both turning to acknowledge the crowd’s fevered applause with raised arms. After several moments of shouting and clapping, the crowd gradually fell silent in the face of their heroes’ patient inactivity, allowing the announcer to make another attempt. Raising his voice to a hoarse bellow, he shouted his scripted introduction to the fight over the audience’s continuing hubbub.

‘Beloved Caesar! Noble senators! Roman gentlemen! Citizens! People of Rome! The Flavian Arena bids you welcome to this, the third day of the Roman Games! Today we are doubly blessed by the presence of the two greatest fighters of our age!’

The hysteria erupted again, and the two gladiators once more raised their arms to acknowledge their respective supporters.

‘Fighting for the Dacian Ludus, the current champion gladiator, a man with the proud record of never having been wounded in all his career!’ The announcer paused portentously, allowing the fact of Velox’s apparent invincibility to sink in. ‘The master of carnage! The fastest man with two swords in the city of Rome and with nineteen victorious fights to his record and no draws or defeats! Citizens, I give you … Velox!’

The crowd went wild, and looking around the arena Marcus realised that a good three-quarters of them were on their feet and waving their fists in support of the champion. Velox stepped forward and raised his hands for a third time, turning a circle to salute every side of the packed stadium before stepping back and lowering them to his sides, close to the hilts of his swords.

‘The Champion’s opponent this afternoon needs little introduction! A hero of the recent past, the greatest gladiator of our time, with the record of thirty-eight victories and one draw …’

‘And that was a fix!’

The anonymous shout from the crowd drew a gale of laughter, and Flamma bowed to the side of the arena from which the interjection had been thrown, his face clearly fixed in a broad grin.

‘He looks rather more happy than I’d expect from a man facing his end.’

Scaurus turned to look at the chamberlain, seeing the calculation in his expression.

‘You’d be surprised, Chamberlain. Sometimes it’s easier for a man to accept certain death than to strive for life in the face of overwhelming odds.’

If Cleander had been minded to reply, the announcer beat him to it.

‘Citizens, welcome back to the Flavian Arena, an old favourite … Flamma the Great!’

The eruption of noise was little less violent than that which had echoed from the arena’s high walls a moment before, the crowd clearly expressing a genuine fondness for the veteran gladiator, who turned a swift circle with one hand in the air to acknowledge their sentiment. Waiting until the applause had died down to a gentle roar, the referee stepped forward, waving away the customary escort of his hulking bodyguard and the slaves who usually flanked him with hot iron to encourage the fighters to commence their brutal entertainment, as Velox and Flamma unsheathed their weapons.

‘Quite right too!’ The Tungrians and Cleander looked over to where the emperor had been lounging on his couch to find him up on his feet and leaning over the balcony, clearly brimming with enthusiasm. ‘These two men don’t need to be driven to fight!’ The two gladiators bowed to the emperor, each of them spontaneously raising his swords in salute, and Commodus turned to address his court. ‘The two most talented dimachieri in living history are about to fight to the death for my entertainment! How thrilling!’

Cleander shared a wry smile with Scaurus.

‘As I said, he’s rather enthusiastic about the whole thing.’

They watched as the referee spoke to the two fighters briefly, Velox bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet as he stared at Flamma with a deadly intent that was evident even at fifty paces. With an exaggerated gesture for the fight to begin, the official stepped backwards, and with a lunge the younger man went for his opponent, his swords flashing in the sunlight as he set about his assault. For a moment it seemed that not even the Flamma of Marcus’s memory could resist the terrible speed and purpose in the younger man’s attack. That Flamma would have danced away from his opponent’s swords so lightly that he would have appeared to float across the sand, ready to turn his fleeting retreat into a vicious scything counter-attack, but the intervening years had evidently gnawed hard on his body. Marcus winced in anticipation as Velox slapped aside the sword that the older man had raised to parry his strike, stabbing forward with an audacity born of his apparent supreme confidence. The crowd held its collective breath for a moment, then gasped in amazement.

‘How the fuck did he do that?!’

The emperor was on his feet again, pointing in amazement at Velox, suddenly wrong-footed as his veteran opponent summoned whatever measure of his massive strength that still remained and hit the thrusting sword so hard with his other blade that it was smashed to the ground. While Velox’s defence was still open, he threw a looping punch with his left fist, fingers still wrapped around the hilt of his other sword, the blow connecting squarely with Velox’s temple and sending him reeling away on legs suddenly robbed of their strength. The crowd were on their feet, half of them howling indignation at the tactic while the remainder were jubilant at Flamma’s escape from what had looked like certain death a moment before. Scaurus shook his head.

‘He’s shown his hand too early, if his plan is to overwhelm the man with brute strength, because he won’t get that close again. Velox will just stand off, and cut Flamma to ribbons.’

The younger fighter was indeed suddenly giving a good deal more respect to his opponent, intent on taking the time he needed to recover from the enervating blow he’d taken a moment before. As if he knew that his opportunity would be a fleeting one, the veteran stamped forward to attack, moving faster than the champion could retreat in his momentarily shocked state. Some hint of the fleetness of foot that had combined with his bestial strength to make the veteran fighter invincible in the days of his pomp still remained, and he covered the distance between them in half a dozen swift steps to attack with a furious purpose of his own. Velox retreated in the face of his fury, his swords flicking out to punish the big man for his assault with first one cut to his thigh and then another, but Flamma was too quick and wary to allow a killing blow to open the femoral arteries, which his opponent was aiming for, and as the younger man tarried an instant too long to make the second cut he seized his chance and lunged forward on one bleeding leg, punching Velox between his eyes so hard that the champion flew backwards to land full length on the sand.

‘Can you see what he’s doing? He can’t kill Velox if he’s to keep his word, but he’s damned if he’s going to allow the man to best him.’

Scaurus nodded agreement with Marcus’s words, his gaze riveted on the bloodied veteran as he stood waiting for his opponent to rise, his chest heaving from exertions that would barely have troubled him five years before. While the disoriented champion climbed to his feet, the older man bowed ironically to his crestfallen opponent, wringing a chorus of laughter from the fascinated crowd who were now silent for the most part, recognising that they were watching arena history being made.

The younger man shook his head, taking a moment to steady himself before he attacked again, driven forward by his pride, and Marcus shot a glance to where Julianus was watching, his face aghast as his most valuable asset moved back into sword reach one heavy step at a time, where previously he would have stepped lightly forwards. As if he recognised that Flamma could not kill him without impugning his own honour, the champion threw himself into one last frenzied attack, his swords swinging almost incoherently as he stepped forward. And then, as Velox made his final attempt to win the bout, the man Marcus had known throughout his youth surfaced in what was left of Flamma in one last glorious, fleeting display of the almost divine gifts that had seemed routine in the big man’s heyday. Strutting forward with the same grin that had advertised his apparent immortality to the crowds who had roared him on over the years of his glory, he parried half a dozen wild sword strokes, any of them enough to tear out his life as the champion’s blades raged wildly at his defence, indifferent to their deadly threat as he closed remorselessly in on the younger man. Parrying one last desperate lunge aside, he flicked his blades aside in a trick he’d taught to Marcus years before, snapping out his left hand to grip Velox’s tunic and drag him bodily into close range. Once, twice, three times he twisted at the waist to sink his massive right fist into the helpless gladiator’s stomach, then stepped back as the younger man bent double, gasping for air with his lungs brutally emptied, smashing one last titanic back-fisted blow into the side of Velox’s head to send his opponent spinning senseless to the ground.

A stunned silence reigned for a long moment before the crowd found its collective voice, a cacophony as they screamed and bellowed their conflicting pleasure and rage at the result. Marcus looked over at Commodus who was holding on to the balcony rail, his knuckles white with the force of his grip. Before the emperor had chance to even begin to consider the verdict the crowd was howling for, Flamma bent to pick up one of his swords, raising it over his head and waiting until the hubbub had reduced to a puzzled hush in reaction to the unprecedented nature of the bout’s end.

‘People of Rome!’ The hush became silence, as the sixty thousand men packed into the arena strained their ears to hear what the former champion had to say. ‘I came here today not to fight, but to die! My strength is used up …’

Voices rang out begging their idol to deny his own words.

‘It’s true! I have an affliction that I would wish upon no man, not even this murderer lying at my feet devoid of any honour.’

Commodus stirred himself from his amazement.

‘Archers!’

Cleander was at his master’s side in an instant.

‘It might look bad, my Caesar, were you to have one of the greatest champions of the Roman arena that has ever been known shot down like a dog in the moment of his victory. Riots have begun over less, and the flames of public unrest are so much easier to ignite than to quell. And if you were to allow Flamma a moment more, I suspect there’ll be no need …’

Flamma looked up at the imperial box, as if he knew where to find the man he had trained to fight while still a boy. Marcus looked back at him through his grief-stricken tears, the big man’s words of the previous evening still echoing in his mind, the answer to the horrified question he’d blurted out when his mentor had agreed to give Cleander one last fatal day in the arena.

‘Why? Because, my lad, there’s a crab gnawing at my bones.’

Marcus had frowned, shaking his head.

‘A crab?’

‘I’ve paid the doctors the best part of a year’s winnings to understand what’s happening to me. If I were to take off this tunic you’d be revolted by the growth on my back, black and lumpy …’ He shook his head. ‘It was the last man I consulted, a man called Galen, who treats the emperor and takes the occasional case on the side when they’re “interesting”, that made my blood run cold. He told me that I am afflicted by what he calls “the Crab”, our translation of the Greek word “Carcinos”. He tells me that the growth will kill me inside half a year, and that I will die in agony as it invades my organs and destroys them. I can feel it eating me sometimes, a hot pain deep in my chest. My last fight is already lost, Marcus. The only question is whether I go out on my feet, or on my knees in supplication to the pain that grows stronger every day. Would you deny me a swift death, and a glorious exit from this life?’

He’d stared at his former pupil imploringly, and at length Marcus had nodded his understanding, his eyes wet with tears.

‘Good lad. And promise me one thing? Will you see to it that I’m buried with honour? Have a nice stone carved in my memory, so that my name will live on?’

As the former champion stared up at him, Marcus nodded slowly, raising a hand in salute. Flamma nodded to himself, turning back to address the now silent crowd.

‘And now, my friends, my time to leave this life is upon me! Remember me with kindness, if you will!’ His voice lowered, and the words barely carried to Marcus’s ears. ‘For a while you were all the life I ever wanted.’

Lifting the sword he placed its point upon his chest and tensed, then rammed the blade through the thin mail whose only purpose had been to disguise his ailment, pushing the point between his ribs and deep into his body, his agonised grunt the only sound in the awestruck arena as he tensed himself for one last effort. Cupping his hands around the weapon’s hilt he drew one last long whooping breath with blood pouring from his open mouth, bellowing an incoherent cry of pain, anger and, to Marcus’s ear, release from torment that echoed around the silent arena. Then, his body jerking in its death throes, he pulled the blade towards him until its hilt rested against his chest, the weapon’s point first tenting the thin mail that lay across his back and then ripping through it, a stream of blood running from the point to paint a haphazard pattern on the sand at his heels. Swaying on his feet for a moment, gazing around the arena with a silent rictus, Flamma the Great tottered and then fell face down, his body twitching.

Utter silence reigned in the arena, and Marcus clearly heard the chamberlain’s voice as he leaned forward to mutter in Commodus’s ear.

‘A little applause would set the right tone, my Caesar. A magnanimous gesture from the city’s foremost patron of the gladiatorial art?’

To his evident relief the emperor rose, clapping his hands together and looking about him at the crowd with an expectant expression, and the arena erupted into wild applause as their ruler’s gesture broke the spell that Flamma’s suicide had momentarily cast over them. Cleander turned to the Tungrians, his hands clapping in an imitation of the emperor’s gesture.

‘Well then, who could have predicted such a thing? It seems that at least one of our associates has exposed himself to such a result rather more than might have been deemed wise.’ Marcus and Scaurus looked round at a surprisingly sanguine Cleander, who was in turn looking with amusement at Julianus’s white face and twitching fingers. ‘My father taught me at an early age never to risk money I couldn’t afford to lose on any gamble where I couldn’t be quite sure of the outcome, but clearly the procurator there failed to heed any such advice.’

Scaurus smiled, nodding his head in reluctant respect.

‘You didn’t bet on a victory for Velox, did you, Chamberlain?’

Cleander smiled mirthlessly back at him.

‘Of course not. I’ve been waiting for Flamma to surface from wherever it was that he buried himself after the Knives took down his patron Senator Aquila, and in the meantime I’ve made it my duty to know everything I can about the man. Of course, it helped that the emperor’s physician had just diagnosed him with an incurable disease, a fact that inevitably came to my attention through one of his assistants who serves to keep me informed of the physician’s movements. Men who know they’re dying are capable of great self-sacrifice, and once Flamma knew that he had the chance to meet the senator’s killer in the arena, it wasn’t hard to guess what he had in mind. Velox may have escaped with his life, but his career as a gladiator is over, in Rome at least. And, since you ask, half of the throne’s money went on a Flamma victory while the other half was wagered on Flamma dying in the arena today — regardless of the result.’

‘The throne wins.’

The chamberlain smiled again.

‘In my experience, Tribune, the throne always wins in the end. And now, with that valuable lesson imparted for you to do with as you please, I think it’s time for you both to leave, before Commodus recovers from his upset sufficiently to recognise you, Rutilius Scaurus. He still talks about the tribune who had the gall to interrupt him in his own throne room, and were he to realise that you were here I wouldn’t put it past him to whip out that knife he carries everywhere and renew the discussion. And today is not your day to die. Perhaps tomorrow …’

Cotta met the two men at the bottom of the stairs that led from the imperial box to ground level, his eyes shining with unshed tears. Marcus paused, looking towards the Forum to the arena’s west.

‘Excuse me Tribune, I promised Flamma an honourable burial.’

Scaurus nodded.

‘He’s earned it.’ He looked at Arminus, who nodded briskly in reply to his unspoken question. ‘We’ll come with you. For once there may be some small value to be had from our inevitable escort of barbarians other than their entertainment value every time we see a working girl.’

Marcus led them to the Gate of Death, stopping at the cordon which restricted access to the tunnel leading to the spolarium. The arena guards moved to block their path, and Scaurus raised a hand to forestall any conflict.

‘I am Gaius Rutilius Scaurus, and I am here on the orders of imperial chamberlain Cleander to provide the body of Flamma the Great with a decent Roman burial.’

The leading man shook his head, his voice appropriately respectful but firm nonetheless.

‘I’m sorry, sir, I’m forbidden to allow any unauthorised access to the spolarium. You’d be amazed at the number of people who try to-’ He fell silent, having caught a glimpse of Marcus standing behind Scaurus. ‘Here, you … you’re Corvus, aren’t you? The gladiator who put on such a good show in the arena the day before last?’

Marcus nodded, smiling wanly.

‘I was.’

The guard’s face split in an unexpected smile.

‘I thought I recognised you! I was on duty when you came down here before your fight. My mates on duty in the arena said you put on quite a show! Did you know Flamma?’

Marcus nodded, a tight smile touching his lips at the thought of all the hot afternoons he’d spent having his sword skills drummed into him by the big man.

‘I knew him. He trained me to fight.’

The guard looked about him, his expression turning conspiratorial.

‘In that case, since you’re one of the family, so to speak, I’ll allow you and your friends to pass this once. Flamma was one of the old school, if you know what I mean, a true gentleman for all the years he was champion, and he deserves better than the nameless grave he’ll get here without anyone to look after him.’

‘And you’re sure that they’ll be coming this way?’

Excingus nodded, pointing down the hill past the Great Circus to where the Flavian Arena’s brightly painted walls caught the afternoon sun’s rays.

‘My spies saw Scaurus and Aquila walk down there earlier with no more escort than a few of Centurion Cotta’s men and a handful of hairy barbarians, none of them armed with anything more dangerous than whatever they can conceal under their tunics. It seems pretty certain that they’ll be coming back up the hill at some point, and when they do …’

Senator Albinus nodded grimly.

‘When they do, they’ll find me waiting for them at the head of twenty hand-picked men. Just pray to your gods that you’re right, Informer, or you’ll find that you’ve reached the end of my tolerance for your mistakes and misinformation. And don’t think you’re going anywhere in the meanwhile. You can join me for a refreshing cup of wine, and while we wait for my former friends to walk into the jaws of their fates, you can contemplate what I’m going to have these bloodthirsty individuals do to you should they fail to appear.’

The informer looked around him at the men Albinus had recruited to replace Cotta’s veteran soldiers, finding their stares locked on him like cats gathered around a mouse. He shrugged, doing his best to project an air of indifference.

‘I’m sure you’ll do whatever seems best to you, Senator. Although what my other client will think of my sudden disappearance might make for interesting conjecture.’

He allowed the comment to hang in the air, knowing that Albinus would be unable to resist the bait.

‘Your other client? You told me that you had abandoned Senator Sigilis, as he will imminently be arrested for plotting against the throne.’

Excingus allowed the ghost of a smile to creep onto his face, enough to establish some small edge of advantage without looking as if he was condescending to the senator.

‘Indeed he is. But it’s very rare for an informant to have a single client, especially a successful man such as myself.’ Albinus snorted his amusement, and the ring of men gathered around them smirked at Excingus’s irritated reaction. ‘In point of fact, I have two other clients.’

‘And if the doomed Sigilis is one of them, the other is …?’

The informant was unable to resist a smirk of his own, fighting hard to control his urge to shake his head at the senator’s lack of insight.

‘I’m not at liberty to disclose the name, but I’m sure you’ll work it out in due course, Senator.’

Albinus shrugged.

‘I don’t care who else you work for, Informant, just as long as the information I buy from you turns out to be a little more accurate than has been the case until now.’

Marcus walked out of the spolarium ahead of the four men carrying Flamma’s body, Scaurus bringing up the rear with Cotta’s men. The gladiator’s corpse had been washed clean of blood, the wounds that marred his legs and trunk tightly bandaged to prevent the escape of any more blood, and a coin placed in his mouth to pay his passage across the river Styx. Then, once the dead man’s body had been dressed in the armour he had worn for his last fight, the Tungrians had rolled it into a tightly wrapped thick linen shroud, and Dubnus, Arminius, Cotta and Lugos hoisted it onto their shoulders in readiness for its final journey. At the building’s entrance the guards stood aside to make room for the impromptu funeral procession, but Marcus found his path blocked by half a dozen men with Sannitus at their head.

‘We came to provide Flamma with an honourable burial.’ The lanista looked at Marcus and the men behind him with a grimace of distaste. ‘And instead I find the man who killed one of the finest fighters the Dacian school has ever seen carrying our brother away. What do you think you’re playing at, Corvus?’

Marcus stepped forward and went toe to toe with the lanista, his face hardening.

‘You heard what I told Mortiferum last night.’

‘I did. You mistakenly believed him to have been part of the murder of your family. What does that have to do with Flamma?’

‘Flamma was the man who taught me to fight. What you saw me do in the arena was pretty much all the result of his training, and in the process of teaching me those skills he became as close to me as my own father. Closer in some ways.’ He leaned in, his gaze locked on the lanista’s eyes. ‘You’re welcome to join me in providing him with a burial befitting his fame, but if you step into my path I will walk through you.’

Sannitus looked back at him for a moment, then nodded.

‘I believe you would. Very well, you and I will lay our friend to rest together then.’ The gladiators formed up around the men carrying the corpse, while Sannitus looked at Marcus thoughtfully. ‘It seems that ours weren’t the only lives that Flamma touched. So where were you thinking of laying him down to sleep?’

‘In a quiet garden close to the top of the Aventine Hill. Any member of the Dacian school will be welcome to visit his grave for as long as my wife owns the house.’

Sannitus nodded, pulling a roll of cloth from his belt, opening it up and draping it over his head, shrouding his face in shadow.

‘That sounds ideal. In truth I had little idea of where to take him. All that was in my head was to avoid his being dumped into a nameless grave along with all the other corpses from today’s fights. I will intercede with the goddess on Flamma’s behalf.’

They headed south, past the great circus, and began the ascent of the hill’s shallow rise in silence. As they approached a tavern on the hill’s crest a familiar figure stepped out in front of them, Albinus’s face red with the effects of the afternoon sun and the wine he’d clearly been drinking. Excingus remained in his seat opposite the one the senator had vacated, his amused smile slowly fading as he took in the hard-faced and well-muscled men escorting the Tungrians.

‘This is becoming a little routine, isn’t it, Decimus?’ Scaurus had strolled past the corpse bearers with an amused smile, shaking his head at the look of anger on his former sponsor’s face. ‘Are you sure you want to delay a solemn funeral procession like this?’

Albinus shook his head.

‘Not this time, Rutilius Scaurus. This time there’ll be no surprises, no unexpected rescue. This time you end up face down in a puddle of your own blood. With your lapdog centurion and that viper Cotta alongside you. Tonight, young man, I will open a jar of my very best wine and celebrate the removal of three particularly difficult thorns from my flesh.’

He clicked his fingers, and a score of muscular men who had been lounging against the walls around them straightened their stances and closed in around the corpse bearers. Scaurus looked about him appreciatively, nodding at Albinus.

‘You’re a persistent man, Decimus, I’ll give you that. Thin-skinned, a little lacking in the perceptive skills, bad tempered, a venal opportunist and slow witted, but certainly persistent. But are you sure these men will do as you tell them?’

Albinus grinned back at him in anticipation of his long-awaited revenge for the indignities the Tungrians had heaped upon him.

‘Oh yes, I’m more than certain. After all, they’re gladiators. They’ll do anything for money.’

‘Anything?’

The senator swaggered forward, putting a finger on Scaurus’s chest.

‘Anything! Their profession has removed any scruples they might have, and any status they once possessed, and now all they have left is the pursuit of riches. Riches which I will bestow on them in such quantity that they will never have to fight in the arena again. This time, Rutilius Scaurus, I have you by-’

Sannitus, his head bowed and his face invisible, lifted his gaze from the cobbles to reveal his identity, looking about him with a challenging stare.

‘Do you men know who I am?’

The man closest to him performed a double take of almost comedic intensity, shaking his head in disbelief.

‘Sannitus?’

The lanista turned slowly, looking at each man in turn.

‘I’m committing your faces to memory, brothers, so that I can have you hunted down and murdered. Those of you who do not know me should be aware that I am lanista of the Dacian Ludus and a priest in the worship of the goddess Nemesis, taking the body of our renowned brother Flamma for his inhumation. Those of you who are not delivered a swift and bloody justice by the members of my ludus for desecrating his memory will surely face judgement in the afterlife.’

Scaurus raised an eyebrow at Albinus, who was staring at Sannitus with a horrified expression.

‘Undone once more, eh Decimus? Or are you sure enough of the legitimacy of your quest for justice that you’ll risk ordering the death of a priest, especially one to a deity as unforgiving as Nemesis?’

The gladiators’ apparent leader, a big man with one eye covered by a length of cloth wrapped around his head and knotted at the back, stepped forward and held his empty hands up before him.

‘No fear. We’re not about to incur the anger of the goddess and have her pursue us for the rest of our lives. Come on lads!’

Albinus watched open mouthed as his escort melted away.

‘So, Decimus, once again you’ve come after me with murder in your heart, only to find yourself in my power. Is there any good reason why I shouldn’t order my barbarians to deal with you once and for all, here in the street? That big lad there might just be strong enough to rip your arms off, which would make for an interesting spectacle.’

Lugos grinned savagely down at the senator, who visibly blanched.

‘I …’

The tribune leaned close to his former legatus, casting a glance at Excingus who, still seated at the tavern’s table, was doing his best to appear inconspicuous.

‘I won’t sully this solemn occasion with your blood, but the next time I see you one of us will die, you can be assured of that. And given that you’ve been stupid enough to let yourself be led around the city by that snake of an informer, I’d say the odds are on my being the one to step out of the shadows unexpectedly.’

Excingus stirred, getting to his feet and dropping a coin on the table.

‘Led round the city? Isn’t that a little harsh, Tribune?’

‘Is it? Is it really? Decimus here may not be bright enough to have seen through your game, but I’ve worked it out.’ Scaurus raised his hands in a self-deprecating gesture. ‘I’ll admit that I’m somewhat later to the realisation than might have been ideal, but I can see it now.’

‘See what?’

He turned back to Albinus, shaking his head.

‘You’ve had Excingus in your pay for what, a fortnight? Ostensibly working for your senatorial colleague Sigilis, whereas in reality he’s been your creature, passing you information about our doings and helping you to plot your revenge on me for having the temerity to threaten you with the proof that you embezzled a fortune in gold from the throne in Dacia.’ He paused, raising an interrogatory eyebrow. ‘So would you say that’s gone well, Decimus? Your first attempt ended up with your would-be murderers siding with us, and since then you’ve either been too late to the party or not even been aware of the opportunity until it’s been too late. Has it ever occurred to you that your informer here might just be in the pay of someone else? Someone too big for him to refuse, even if the payment on offer hadn’t been quite so tempting? How much is Cleander paying you, Excingus?’

Albinus blanched, his ruddy face losing its colour in an instant.

‘Cleander?’

‘Cleander. I told you Decimus, that night outside Pilinius’s domus, that I’d worked it out. Too late to have been anything other than the chamberlain’s puppet, with this devious bastard pulling the strings on his behalf, but at least I do understand what’s been happening.’

The informant shook his head with a half-smile.

‘You give me too much credit, Tribune.’

‘On the contrary, I think you’ve played a masterful game. Allowing my rather slow-witted colleague here to believe himself to be your master, while all the time you were doing the chamberlain’s bidding and feeding us the information we needed to kill the Knives on his behalf.’ Scaurus shook his head in amusement. ‘And I was taken in by your act, I’ll admit it. I genuinely believed you were working for Sigilis, motivated by his apparently bottomless pockets to betray the emperor’s team of assassins to us one at a time. Even when I realised that you were working for this oaf on the side — and you can close your mouth and keep it shut, Decimus, unless you want me to have a change of heart as to the desirability of shedding your blood here and now — I still failed to perceive what should have been as plain as the nose on both of your faces.’

Excingus’s eyes narrowed theatrically.

‘Well done, Rutilius Scaurus. But tell me, what was it that led you to realise I was working for the senator here? What mistake did I make?’

Scaurus laughed, gesturing to the red-faced Albinus.

‘You know very well that you made sure I knew about your employment by Decimus here, as a smokescreen for your rather more influential employer. And I note you’re not denying your link to Cleander.’

The informant shrugged.

‘Given it’s probably the only thing that’s keeping me alive, I’m happy enough to admit the truth of your assumption. Cleander was never going to tolerate the Knives, once he’d replaced the praetorian prefect as the man behind Commodus’s throne. They had outlived their usefulness, and what was worse, they were getting greedy and, of course, they knew too much. Killing them would have been simple enough, but he needed his hands to be clean in the matter.’

Scaurus nodded.

‘Indeed he did. Imagine the excitement that would have ensued if the emperor had caught even a hint of his complicity in their deaths. Not to mention the fact that he needs their replacements, his own men, to trust him absolutely, right up to the moment that he has them killed in their turn to ensure their silence. So he used you to point us at them, one at a time, and sat back with a quiet smile while Centurion Aquila did his dirty work for him.’

Excingus shrugged.

‘Men like Cleander don’t reach the top of the dunghill without treading on a few faces on the way. It was made crystal clear to me that any failure to cooperate in his scheme would result in a protracted and distinctly unpleasant exit from this life for me, so of course I did as he told me.’ He bowed to Scaurus, and then to Marcus. ‘And now, gentlemen, with my thanks for your assistance, I really must be away. I have one last small task to perform, and then I shall slide away into the shadows. I suspect that Rome will shortly become inhospitable to a man with my twisted loyalties. And for you I have only one piece of advice …’

Scaurus cocked his head and waited, watching as Excingus turned away and spoke his parting words over his shoulder.

‘Beware the Knives, gentlemen. All of your efforts have only served to make way for a deadlier collection of murderers than the men you killed ever were …’

He walked swiftly away down the hill with the purposeful stride of a man with things to do.