The Emperor's Knives

3

Excingus presented himself at the barracks’ front gate an hour after dawn, and was only slightly perturbed to find himself being collected from the guardhouse by Dubnus and a half-dozen of his hulking soldiers. The centurion wordlessly escorted him to the headquarters building, their path taking them past a group of twenty or so soldiers, stood rigidly to attention, who were the unhappy subjects of the long and inventive stream of invective being spat at them by an irate chosen man, while their centurion, a man of eastern appearance, stood to one side with a faint smile. The informant felt their eyes on him, every single man doubtless wishing that he were anywhere other than under the lash of the deputy centurion’s tongue. The shouting died away behind him as he entered the headquarters, although the sound of impassioned disgust could still be heard as he waited for Scaurus to enter the room.

Outside, Quintus waited until the headquarters’ door was firmly shut before pausing for breath, clenching a fist around the brass-bound and knobbed pole that was both his symbol of office, and his means of pushing his men into their places in the century’s formation.

‘So that was him, gentlemen. You all got a good look at the man, now store his face away in your tiny little minds and I’ll march you away for your morning of playing at being informants yourselves.’ He swept a withering glare across their ranks. ‘Informants? I wouldn’t trust any of you to know the crack of your arses from the cleft in your fucking chins! You’ll all be back with your centuries by lunchtime! Anyway …’

Shaking his head in apparent disgust he took a deep breath and then reverted to parade-ground volume.

‘Stand still, you monkeys! Right … turn! Quick … march! Your left, your left, your left, right, left! You with the fat arse! Get in fucking time or I’ll tickle your fucking piles with the end of this fucking pole!’

Inside the headquarters, Excingus raised an inquisitorial eyebrow at Dubnus, who had dismissed his men and now waited, still silent, in a corner of the room.

‘So, Centurion, do you intend to persist in this attempt at intimidation for the rest of the day?’

The massively built Briton shook his head in disgust.

‘I have nothing to say to you. Shut your mouth or I’ll loosen a few of your teeth and give you a reason for silence. When the tribune arrives you can talk all you like, but until then-’

Scaurus walked briskly into the room and took a seat behind the desk, Marcus and Julius following him in and taking positions to either side of their tribune.

‘Sit down, Informant, and tell me what it is you have for us that presents so great an opportunity?’

Excingus wordlessly unrolled the large scroll that he had carried into the fort, and Scaurus weighted down the paper’s corners while the informant smiled tightly at the men gathered around him.

‘You will recognise this map as a plan of the city, Tribune, but your provincial colleagues may not share your familiarity with Rome.’

He pointed at a spot to the south of the city’s walls.

‘We, Centurions, are here.’

His finger moved, indicating in turn a succession of points on the map.

‘This is the Palatine Hill, where the emperor has his city palaces. This is the Flavian Arena, where the gladiators fight, this-’

Julius leaned forward and put his face close to Excingus’s, his voice heavy with irony.

‘We know, Informant, that gladiators fight in the arena. We’ve seen the Palatine, and the Great Forum, and we know that these …’ He pointed to a massive shape on the map to the north of the Colosseum. ‘Are the Baths of Trajan. Dubnus had his purse stolen there and spent an hour threatening various lowlifes with violence before he gave up on the prospect of ever seeing it again. Get to the point.’

The informant smiled cheerfully back at him.

‘So nice to hear that you’re assimilating quickly, you’ll be surprised at the number of men from the provinces who can never get past how many prostitutes there are in the city.’ He met the first spear’s narrow-eyed gaze with a look of innocence. ‘So, without the lesson in the city’s landmarks, here’s the thing. This …’ He pointed again, ignoring Julius. ‘Is the praetorian fortress. I mention it because it’s important, and because I very much doubt that you’ve ventured all the way across the city just to look at yet another fortress, although you really should. It’s a rather impressive pile of stones — although I’m forgetting, Centurion “Corvus” here began his military career in there, didn’t you, Centurion?’

Marcus locked stares with him, and the informant quickly decided that coming to the point might be the most sensible choice.

‘Anyway, as you know, one of the men you’ve decided to hunt down and kill lives in that fortress. And while you might just manage to get in there, dressed in the right uniform and with a great big smile on your plan from Fortuna herself, I really can’t see you getting out again, even if you managed to find and kill him which, I have to admit, I think unlikely. For one thing, you have no idea where his quarters are in the fortress, and for another, there’s always the risk that the hard-eyed young centurion here will be recognised by one of his ex-colleagues as a former praetorian who left informally and under something of a cloud.’

‘And?’

‘And, First Spear, I happen to have come by some information that I think will provide you with a rather less risky alternative. Would you like to hear it?’

Having thanked Quintus for his part in the charade that had enabled the trackers to take a good look at their target, Qadir dismissed him back to his duties and looked about the soldiers standing in ordered lines in front of him.

‘Fall out and sit down.’

He waited until they were all sitting on the ground in front of him, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and excitement at the unexpected change in their routine.

‘Tribune Scaurus has a task in mind for you men, or for some of you at least. If you take it on, and if you’re successful in mastering the necessary skills, then you’ll all be granted immune status and awarded a rise in pay to one and a half times basic. But …’ He waited until the interest generated by the last statement had died away before speaking again. ‘I have to warn you, not all of you will be capable of the task the tribune has in mind. And if you don’t have the skills, I will return you to your centuries without hesitation. So I suggest that you pay very close attention to the lessons that I am about to teach you, for it will be by their application that you will either succeed or fail. Follow me.’

He led the group up the transit barracks’ narrow main street until they reached the stone wall at the far end.

‘Divide into two groups.’ Once the brief period of confusion caused by his command had been resolved, he ordered one group to stand behind him. ‘The rest of you, I want you all to walk away towards the headquarters. You two, stop at the end of the first barrack. You three, at the end of the next block, and you four stop after three blocks. Is that clear?’

The soldiers shuffled their feet and looked at each other, trying to work out what was so difficult about this that they risked being sent back to unremitting sword drills and the lost chance to boast about their increased pay and status to their tent mates. Qadir stared at them in silence for a moment.

‘If you spend half the day pondering the meaning of my instructions then you will all fail this test, and so you will all go back to face the inevitable rough humour that will result from your failure. So, I will ask one more time, and any man that does not answer me quickly and clearly will be our first dropout. Is that clear?’

The men standing before him chorused their understanding, and the Hamian nodded slowly.

‘Very good. Now, when I wave my arm, the pair must hide behind the barrack beside which they are stopped, when I wave it again the trio must hide, leaving only the group of four in view. When I call out to you then you must all return here. Clear?’

Again the agreement was swift and loud, his gently posed threat clearly having sunk into the soldiers’ minds.

‘Then do it. The rest of you, turn and face the wall while they do as I have bidden.’

While the second group walked back down the street, Qadir spoke to the men gathered before him, his quiet, assured tones forcing them to listen with the utmost care.

‘The first lesson that we will learn is that in this game which we will be playing, distance is our friend. Every fifty paces that a man moves away from you makes him seem that much smaller and insignificant, and, unless he wears bright clothing, every step makes him that much less visible, as you will see in a moment.’

With the other men in their various places, he spoke again.

‘When I give the word you may turn, just for a moment, and look over your shoulder, in the manner of a man who wishes to see if there is anyone behind him. Just for an instant, mind you, the quickest glance possible and as casually as you can manage. Now!’

The soldiers looked around, then flicked their gazes back to Qadir.

‘You all saw the men one block away without any problem?’

They nodded, looks of puzzlement on all but a couple of faces. Qadir waved his arm, waiting until the closest men had taken cover.

‘Now!’

The soldiers turned and looked again, a few more of them turning back with looks of understanding, and again the centurion waved his arm, waiting until the three soldiers had moved into hiding, leaving only the group of four visible.

‘Now!’

This time when the men turned back from peering over their shoulders they were nodding and exchanging knowing glances as men will when the obvious dawns upon them.

‘You see? The closest men stood out very clearly, the next closest were obvious enough, but the third group?

Saratos was the first to speak, his face still thoughtful.

‘They hard to see with quick look. If they tunics not red be even harder.’

The Hamian nodded approvingly.

‘Exactly. Well done soldier. Now we’ll repeat the lesson, and this time you men will be the ones standing in the street. Off you go, and send the others back here to me.’

‘So there you have it. If you still want to mete out whatever it is that you consider to be justice to one of the Knives, you have the perfect opportunity.’

Excingus sat back in his chair and waited for a response from the officers gathered around him.

‘You’re sure that he’ll visit this place of his tonight?’

The informant shrugged, pursing his lips non-committally.

‘Of course I’m not sure, Rutilius Scaurus-’

‘Let’s keep this formal, Informant. There’s never going to be any point in our relationship when I’ll tolerate any degree of familiarity from you.’

Excingus smiled, and Marcus watched with fascination as he swallowed whatever irritation Scaurus’s swift put-down inspired in him with disturbing ease.

‘Of course, Tribune, my apologies for overstepping the bounds of our admittedly tenuous association. And no, I can’t be sure he’ll visit his private museum this evening. What I am sure of is that since he’s been there every night when he’s not had watch duty for the last week, it does seem to be a fairly reasonable bet that tonight will be no different, wouldn’t you agree?’

Julius leaned forward in his chair.

‘And how do you come by such good information, precisely?’

The informant leaned back, his face wreathed in a knowing smile.

‘Ah, the question that every man in my trade, be he good, bad or simply indifferent, comes to expect.’ He struck a pose, raising an eyebrow in a mock inquisitorial manner and speaking in the haughty tones of an aristocratic employer. ‘“So exactly how do you know this, Informant?”’ Changing his position, he adopted a sly look, his voice becoming more persuasive than hectoring. ‘“Do tell me, my man, where did you come by that fascinating snippet of information?”’ Sitting bolt upright, he strengthened his voice to imitate the bluff no-nonsense approach of a wealthy businessman. ‘“So come on then, Informant, how much do you want to tell me where you get all these secrets. What does it take for me to dispense with your services and cut out the man in the middle, eh?”’

He shook his head pityingly at the glowering first spear.

‘Everyone I deal with asks me the same question, sooner or later, and I’ve become more than expert at giving absolutely nothing away. Do you really believe that I’ll happily trot out my means of knowing where Dorso is going to be, and when? There’s honest and open, First Spear, and then there’s downright naivety.’

‘And we understand your desire not to have your sources suborned, Informant …’

‘And yet, Tribune?’

‘Precisely. And yet, what’s my guarantee that I’m not going to send my men into a trap, with or without your active participation? How do I know that you’ve not been fooled into accepting this apparent pattern in the praetorian’s movements? What if he’s a good deal more suspicious and careful than you’re implying, and whoever goes to confront him in this museum of his finds a warmer reception than we might have hoped for?’

Excingus shrugged again.

‘As to what’s inside the place, I have no idea. For all I know, he’s employed Flamma the Great himself as a live-in bodyguard. All I can tell you is that once Dorso’s done guarding the imperial palaces, he takes enough time to wash and change into his off-duty uniform, and then walks down the Vicus Patricius to a little place he either rents or owns — the latter, I suppose, given all the money he must have made over the last few years — buys himself and the two guardsmen who escort him everywhere a hot meal from a nearby tavern, and disappears into the house. He doesn’t come out until early the next morning, when he walks back up the hill to the praetorian fortress and goes back on duty. And as to how I know this? Just for once, given the difficult nature of our relationship, I’ll give up one of my methods if it will help to persuade you of the provenance of my information. I used a gang of petty thieves and pickpockets, men I pay handsomely enough to take time away from their profession when the occasion demands their particular street skills, to tail Centurion Dorso, discreetly mind you, for the last six nights. Given that the praetorians rotate the assignment of their cohorts once every two weeks, to give the men on night duty time to adapt properly to the change of their sleeping hours, I can see no reason for him not to repeat the same routine this evening. He couldn’t be any more accommodating in his predictability if he tried.’

‘And you have no idea what it is that he has in there?’

The informant shook his head at Marcus.

‘As I said, I’m not entirely sure. My people can track him from one place to another easily enough, but once he’s inside the house he’s out of their view. We can all speculate, and my guess would be that he goes there to gloat over the highlights of his collection, but that’s all my opinion is — speculation.’

‘Why do we need to break into this place of his? This man has a reputation as a collector of weapons, so why don’t we just put word out that we’ve got trophies to sell from the recent campaign in Britannia?’

Excingus smiled at the young centurion, unable to keep a patronising edge from his voice.

‘If only it were that simple. If you still had that rather interesting sword you captured in Germania Inferior, for example …’ He smiled at Marcus’s narrowed eyes. ‘Come now, Centurion, soldiers will talk. Yes, if you were still in possession of the “Leopard Sword” then you might have a sufficiently juicy worm to put on the hook, but a few old bits of rusty metal that you took from a tribe that no one’s ever heard of? This man’s a serious collector, or so it’s rumoured, with weapons and other items that span the entire history of Rome and going as far back as the conquest of the Etruscans. He’s even rumoured to be in possession of a sword which is supposed to be the one that One Eyed Horatius used to hold the bridge over the Tiber almost seven hundred years ago, and the gods alone know what sort of price that would command if it were to come on to the market.’

‘No wonder he’s so happy to participate in the murder of prominent members of society. There must be heirlooms in their houses the likes of which otherwise never see the light of day. So, how do you propose that we bring this praetorian to some kind of justice?’

Excingus raised a jaundiced eyebrow at the tribune.

‘How do I propose? I don’t intend to propose anything, Tribune. All I’m going to do is tell you where and when I expect you’ll be able to get to the man. How you go about it thereafter is entirely up to you. And now, gentlemen, as far as I’m concerned my part in your scheming against Centurion Dorso is at an end. Do I need an escort back to the main gate, or shall I find my own way?’

‘So, now you know the effects of distance on your visibility when you’re following a man, let’s consider how that works in practice, shall we?’

The detachment had gathered around Qadir at his command, and were sitting in a semi-circle around him while the Hamian centurion looked around at them, assessing how closely they were following his words.

‘Imagine that we are following a single man through the city. Our task is to keep him in sight while he makes his way to wherever it is he is heading and …’

He paused and looked about him with a significant glance, raising an eyebrow in silent question. One of the brighter soldiers answered, summoning his courage to speak directly to the officer.

‘To make sure that he don’t see us, Centurion?’

Qadir nodded encouragingly.

‘Exactly. For if he does, our careful pursuit will be over in a moment. Did anyone here perhaps play the game when they were children?’

The soldiers looked at each other blankly, and when Sanga spoke it was with a wry grin.

‘Not really, Centurion. We was all more likely playing the “trying to get it up the locals girls” game.’

Qadir nodded, sharing his man’s smile.

‘Very well, allow me to share some small part of what I learned before I left my home and travelled all the way to your cold, damp and barbaric province. We are following a man — let us call him “the mark” — through the city. How far back from him should we be?’

‘Three blocks, Centurion.’

Qadir looked at the man who had answered.

‘Are you sure?’

The soldier looked puzzled.

‘Didn’t you just show us how far back we have to be to avoid being noticed, sir?’

The Hamian nodded.

‘I did. But consider, what will be the effect if our man turns a corner to the left or right? You will be three blocks back, and will not know whether he plans to turn another corner at the next opportunity. By the time you reach the point where he turned, he might well be out of sight. So what must you do?’

The soldier thought briefly.

‘Run?’

‘Yes, you must run, and hope that he is still visible when you reach the corner in question. But then if the mark has any suspicion that he’s acquired a following, might he not choose to turn back on himself and look around that corner a moment later? And if he sees you running towards him then his suspicions will obviously be confirmed. Not only will he make a point of running himself, and turning two or three corners to throw you off his scent, but he will also be looking out for you whenever he is on the street. This will not be a good outcome.’

He looked around him for a moment before chuckling softly at their downcast faces.

‘But this does not have to be the case. The task of following the mark is much easier for one or at the most two men, and sometimes two are better than one since they can talk to each other. After all, what could appear more natural than two friends having a lively conversation when the mark takes that quick look behind him? So, one or two men follow the mark at a distance of between a block and two blocks behind, and the other men hang further back, two groups of two or three on either side of the road.’

He looked round the men with a faint smile.

‘So, let’s try that question again. The mark feels suspicious about those two men behind him, so he chooses to make a sharp right turn. You have no need to run, since you have men in support of you, but what do you do? After all, he’s suspicious of you already, so he has an eye open for anyone trying to follow him, and you were close enough for him to register the colour of your hair, the shade of your tunic and so on. And if he sees you again, still following him even though he has just turned two or three corners to evade just such an attempt to track him, he’s likely to react just as badly as if he saw you running. So …?’

‘So we need to get the blokes that are hanging back to move up sharpish and take up the follow.’

Qadir applauded softly.

‘Good, Sanga — but how shall we do that? The mark will, after all, be listening carefully for the sound of shouting, anything out of the ordinary.’

Saratos frowned up at him, clearly considering the question, then smiled quietly to himself.

‘You, Sarmatian. I think you know the answer.’

‘Is obvious Centurion. We make signal with body.’

Qadir nodded approvingly.

‘Yes we do. As the man in the following role, once the mark has gone out of sight to the left or to the right, you need to signal to the men behind you that they need to do two things. Firstly, that they need to move up smartly and take up the follow, and secondly …?’

He looked at the Sarmatian soldier again, and Sanga nudged his mate in the ribs.

‘Secondly need to make turn to right or left.’

‘Exactly.’

Sanga had his hand in the air in an instant, the question written all over his face.

‘Centurion?’

‘Soldier?’

‘Well sir …’

Qadir could see the question forming, the soldier’s lips moving slightly as he tried to think of a way to express his curiosity without looking stupid in front of his comrades.

‘When we perform these tricks that I am training you for, Soldier Sanga, there is no stupid question except for the one you don’t ask. So?’

‘I was just wondering, Centurion …’ He paused, still searching for the right words. ‘How it is you know so much about spying on people?’

Once Excingus had been escorted from the headquarters building, Scaurus sat back in his chair.

‘Well?’

Julius’s tone was thoughtful.

‘It could be a set-up, designed to lure the centurion here into a trap, but that feels unlikely to me. Excingus knows that if anything happens to any of us he’ll be the first suspect, and that we’re hardly likely to hesitate to put him to the knife.’

Scaurus nodded his agreement.

‘The question for me isn’t whether this is a genuine opportunity to take down one of these men, but how he came by the information so quickly. Yesterday he didn’t have a clue as to how we could get to Dorso, or not that he was willing to share with Senator Sigilis who, as his employer, you would expect to be the first person to be informed, and yet today he knows the praetorian’s movements for the last week? He’s either playing his own game or there’s something we’re missing in all this, but whatever it is, the sooner we get our men trained and out there to start tracking him around the city the better.’

‘And that’s the other problem.’

Scaurus turned his attention back to the veteran centurion.

‘What is?’

‘Being followed around the city. I wondered yesterday, when Excingus appeared at the front door of the doctor’s house so very soon after she’d arrived, but something he said just now, about newcomers being amazed at how many whores there are in the city, pretty much confirmed it for me. We might be thinking about tracking him around to see who he talks to, but our informant friend seems to have beaten us to the punch.’

‘He’s going to turn this time.’

‘No, he not.’

‘I’m telling you he’ll turn, you barbarian fuckwit … here it comes … come on … shit!’

‘Tell you, he no turn. Next corner.’

Sanga grimaced, speeding up his pace a little.

‘Yeah, good guess Saratos, you lucky prick. Come on, get ready to run.’

Up ahead the centurion’s distant figure was approaching the next cross-street, and Sanga looked quickly across the road at the two men walking on the left side, both of whom were watching Qadir with the same hungry intensity he was feeling. The closer of the two looked back at him and the Briton winked.

‘You ready girls? One gets you two he’ll turn right!’

The closest of them waved a dismissive hand, then tensed as Qadir abruptly turned, looked back and crossed the road from right to left, disappearing out of sight in the opposite direction to the one he’d expected. The men closely following him split up, one of them walking on past the turning as if nothing had happened to cover the next street along in case Qadir turned right again, while the other bent to tie his boot lace, his body turned to indicate the direction the centurion had taken. The men to Sanga’s left smirked at him as they turned their own corner and sprinted for the next junction, knowing that they had to reach the next street along and be settled back into a walking pace before their quarry emerged in order to take up the role of his new tails.

‘Come on!’

Sanga was already halfway across the road, ignoring the entreaties of a tavern owner to sample his meat stew. With Saratos at his heels, the pair crossed to the far side and hurried up the street, closing the distance to the point where Qadir had disappeared from view. They were barely twenty paces from the point where he had disappeared from sight when the centurion reappeared around the corner at a pace close to a run, looking back as if he was being pursued by furies and only seeing the two soldiers at the last moment. Nodding a brief recognition he spoke swiftly as the two men stared at him.

‘I’ve seen you once, gentlemen, so if I see you again then this exercise is over!’ Dodging around them he made off in the direction from which they had come. ‘And next time try not to stare quite so obviously!’

The two men looked at each other for a moment before Sanga tapped his comrade on the shoulder and pointed at the other side of the street.

‘Go!’

Walking swiftly around the corner from which Qadir had reappeared so suddenly, he ran for the far end, crouching to pop his head out at ankle level to peer down the street to his left. Seeing only the bemused-looking soldiers who had turned left to take up the follow, he bounded round the corner and sprinted past them.

‘He’s doubled back!’

They stared after him as he ran across the first junction, sure that Qadir would not have stopped or turned again so soon. Looking to his left he saw Saratos crossing the junction two streets away and running hard, and accelerated to match the other man’s pace.

‘Look at this one, he can’t wait to get down to business!’

A pair of prostitutes stepped into his path, and it took all of the Briton’s agility to avoid crashing into them. Looking about him he saw a stall selling rough wool tunics, and he grabbed a handful of coins from his purse.

‘How much?’

The stall holder leaned back and looked up at the looming soldier, grinning at the handful of money with the look of a man who had seen his chance and intended to grab it with both hands.

‘For a man your size? Five sestertii.’

Tossing the coins at the vendor Saratos snatched up a large blue tunic and ran to the next road junction, skidding to a halt and repeating the crouch-and-peep act, retracting his head quickly as Qadir turned the corner and walked purposefully towards him, shooting a glance back over his shoulder. Backtracking hastily he was still looking round for somewhere to hide himself when the older and clearly more experienced of the prostitutes took matters in hand, pushing him up against the wall and thrusting her body against his, her hands roaming under his tunic to find his hardening member.

‘Come on you dirty bastard, you know you want to!’

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Qadir stride past barely half a dozen paces away, but the desultory flick of the Hamian’s gaze clearly failed to register that the helpless man pinned against the wall beneath yet another of the capital’s money-hungry working girls was one of his men. Finding his penis already erect, she laughed eagerly, tugging hard enough at the organ’s shaft to sorely test his resolve.

‘Come on! I’m fucking starving! Three sestertii!’

‘Just …’ He caught her hands and gently pushed her way. ‘One minute, eh?’

He walked back to the crossroads and waited for Saratos who eventually came past with the look of a man out for a gentle stroll.

‘Put this on, and give me yours!’

The Sarmatian ducked into the side street and pulled off his tunic, much to the amusement of the watching prostitutes, his tattoos bright blue in the afternoon sunlight. He pulled on the new garment and renewed his pursuit of Qadir without a backward glance, and Sanga turned back to find the prostitute standing behind him with a hard smile on her face.

‘Soldier, are you? That explains the muscles. Well now, Soldier, since you’ll probably lose your load in seconds, I’ll do you for two sestertii. Which you can get by reclaiming what you overspent on that tunic …’ She jerked her head at the tunic vendor who was looking up at them with an expression of unease bordering on naked fear. ‘He usually only charges two.’

As the late-afternoon sun dipped towards the roofs of the transit barracks, a bored-looking boy dressed in a tunic cut in the military pattern wandered out of the main gate. He was wearing a belt that ensured the garment’s hem hung above his scabbed and somewhat grubby knees but which also, far more to the interest of the five children sitting around and playing knucklebones on the other side of the road, carried the weight of a half-sized sword. Dressed in an assortment of clothing that appeared to be either too big or worn threadbare, they watched the child with expressions of calculation as he walked slowly towards them. After a swift discussion, the biggest of them stood up and approached him with a hard grin, but the boy’s calm stare and firm grip of the sword’s hilt swiftly dissuaded him from his initial idea of simply stealing the weapon.

‘Who are you? We ain’t seen you before.’

The child looked up and down the road before answering.

‘I’m Lupus. I live with the soldiers in there.’

‘Lupus? What kind of stupid fucking name is th-’

The boy was quicker than his inquisitor expected, drawing the sword and taking guard in a way that put the blade’s edge within an inch or so of the urchin’s neck.

‘My name. Have you got one, or did your mother not bother?’

His inquisitor danced back with a look of alarm.

‘I’m Julius! And there’s no need for the sword!’

Lupus grinned at him, slotting the blade back into its scabbard.

‘Maybe not, Julius, but now we all know where we stand. Arminius always says that-’

‘Who’s Arminius?’

‘My fighting teacher. He’s German.’

The children, who had gathered round him with looks of bemusement, stared at each other in further disbelief, and another of them, a boy with a long scar across his cheek, piped up in a disbelieving note.

‘You ain’t got no fighting teacher! You’re making it up!’

Lupus simply grinned, waving a hand back at the barracks behind him.

‘Want to see me training with him?’

Julius shook his head.

‘We’ll never get in here. That’s army ground. If we even try to get in we’ll just get a good hiding and then be kicked out.’

Lupus shrugged.

‘I can get you inside, if you’re not too scared to come with me.’

They stared at him in collective uncertainty for a moment, and then one of the smaller children stepped forward, pushing Julius aside. It was obvious that they were brothers, although where the older child had the look of a bruiser in the making, the younger had more of a sly look about him.

‘Why?’

Lupus frowned at the question.

‘Why what?’

‘Why would you want to get us inside?’

‘Because I’m bored! The only other children in our cohort are babies, and they’ve gone into the city. I’ve got no one to play with.’

‘Pla-’

The scar-faced child’s incredulous guffaw was cut off by a hard elbow in the ribs from the younger boy, something which to judge from the unmoving faces of the other children was nothing out of the ordinary.

‘Yeah, we’ll play with you. We love to play … But how do we get in there?’ He shot a meaningful glance at the gate guards. ‘It ain’t like those bastards are going to let us just stroll in, is it?’

Lupus nodded, leaning forward to whisper quietly.

‘Follow me. I know another way in.’

He walked away confidently, ignoring the risk that the children would mob him once they were safely away from the guards at the barrack’s gate, and their ringleader shook his head at his companions to deter just such an attempt, muttering a quiet command to them.

‘Not now. Later.’

On the south side of the barrack’s encircling wall he led them to a small doorway inside an arch set in the stonework.

‘I found this while I was exploring. It was bolted inside, but there’s no lock …’

Lupus swung the door open and went in through the gate, leaving the street children standing outside looking at each other. The small child pushed Julius towards the door.

‘Go on. If it’s safe we’ll follow you inside.’

The boy sidled up to the gateway and peered through it at the barracks buildings on the other side, taking a nervous step forward to the threshold, peering in to either side.

‘I can’t see anything.’

His brother stepped forward and swiftly thrust him through the gate.

‘Ah, you bastard Gaius!’

His outburst was met with a stony-faced stare, as his younger brother pointed a finger at the barracks behind him.

‘Stop fucking about and have a proper look!’

The child walked slowly forward three paces, staring about him wildly as he regained his equilibrium. Nothing moved, other than Lupus who raised an arm to point at the barracks.

‘Half of them are empty! We could play hide and seek …’

Gaius walked through the gate, looking around as if he could hardly believe what he was seeing, and the remaining children followed him into the enclosed space.

‘We could play hide and seek, but I’d rather play at looking round this place. There must be plenty of stuff we could sell back in the city, and-’

The gate slammed shut behind him, and the children whirled to find a huge bearded centurion standing behind them with his back against the wooden door.

‘Get them!’

A dozen men sprang from the cover of the barracks to either side, their arms outstretched to prevent any of the children from escaping into the maze of buildings, but rather than looking to escape, Gaius shrugged his shoulders and waited meekly for the soldier to take him by the arm.

‘Not going to run, little man?’

The child shook his head, grimacing up at the soldier.

‘Nah. If you wanted to hurt us you’d have your knives or your cocks out by now, so I figure you want something from us. So let’s talk, eh?’

‘There’s no demand for it I’m afraid. We get the odd German asking for it, but I can’t make a living selling that foul muck and it doesn’t keep for long either, not like wine. What’s wrong with a good honest cup of Iberian, that’s what I want to know?’

Marcus nodded his agreement, putting down enough coin for a flask of the good falernian that the tavern owner kept under the counter, and ushered a still-fuming Dubnus to the table to which Qadir had already laid claim. The establishment’s working women, whose instincts for silver were clearly well honed, had swiftly surrounded the Tungrians on their arrival, but then equally quickly worked out that the three centurions weren’t looking for the particular services they were offering. Dubnus poured three cups of wine, raising his own in a weary salute before sipping at it in a disconsolate manner.

‘Bloody wine. It’s all very well for you lot that grew up with the stuff, but it gives me a foul headache. Where can a man get a beer in this city, that’s what I want to know?’

‘You had a beer the other night, and spat it out onto the floor. Remember?’

The big man nodded, pulling a disgusted face.

‘Do I? I could never have imagined that it was possible to ferment a brew that I wouldn’t enjoy, but this place just keeps on coming up with new ways to piss me off. What was it called?’

‘Cerevisia. It’s a Gaulish recipe, I believe.’

Dubnus shuddered.

‘Well it was just wrong. I won’t get a decent drink until we’re back in Britannia, that’s obvious.’

He sipped at his wine again, looking down into his cup with a resigned expression, and Marcus turned to Qadir with a question.

‘So then, spy master, how many of your trackers do you think have managed to master the art of following a man through the city then?’

Qadir looked out of the window of the tavern with a small smile to where a pair of his newly trained spies lounged insouciantly against the wall of the building on the street’s far side, watching the neighbourhood women walk by.

‘Consider this, my brother. We take soldiers, or rather the one soldier in ten with the wit to cope with such a task. These are men who are well accustomed to making a little work go as far as possible, and to whom the art of idling and generally avoiding the attention of their superiors has become second nature. Thus it is that on the street they are most adept at blending into the background, and, when forced out of whatever cover they are using, at then giving every impression that they have no interest whatsoever in the man they have been set to follow.

He took a sip of wine, nodding in appreciation of its quality, raising the cup in salute to Marcus and Dubnus.

‘That really is very good. Anyway, later this afternoon, once we had practised tailing a mark — myself, as it happens — with mixed results, I sent them out to follow randomly selected citizens as those innocents went about their business, under my own watchful eye. Most of them did well enough, including the two men who started a fake fist fight to throw one of our marks off his suspicions. I think you can guess which two soldiers were willing to get blood on their tunics in the pursuit of authenticity?’

Dubnus snorted a quiet laugh, tipping his head towards Marcus.

‘Two of his men, perhaps?’

‘Exactly. I’ve never seen a couple take to the art of tailing quite as quickly. Sanga bought Saratos a different coloured tunic to wear at one point, once I thought I’d thrown them all off, and the man tracked me for a dozen blocks from so far back that I had no idea he was there, until I led him back to the rally point. Assuming that he had become lost in the city’s maze, and would eventually find his way back to us, I was berating them for failing to keep me in sight when Sanga just coughed, and pointed to his fellow soldier who was lounging in a doorway and listening to it all with an expression of such innocence that it was all I could do not to burst into laughter. The ten men I have retained are all good enough to risk following Excingus the next time that we get the chance, but those two are head and shoulders the best of them. I have another idea in mind for them …’

The three men looked up as Cotta walked into the establishment, dropping into a chair opposite Marcus and pouring himself a cup of wine from their jug. He drank, smacking his lips appreciatively, wiped the sheen of sweat from his brow and then flashed his usual hard grin at the Tungrians.

‘Well then! We, you will be pleased to hear, are now the proud proprietors of the shop around the corner from your woman’s house, young Marcus. I drove a hard bargain with the landlord, given that I discovered from the neighbours that the place has been empty for almost three months. Something to do with bad drains. All we need now is something to sell from it.’

‘Well that’s easy enough.’

Marcus looked round at Dubnus, whose previously morose expression had clearly brightened at the thought which had occurred to him. Cotta leaned forward with a mischievous smile.

‘Go on then, spit it out.’

The big Briton raised a weary eyebrow.

‘We’ve already done that one, thank you. Anyway, as to what business to run in the shop, the answer’s obvious.’

‘Is it?’

He nodded emphatically at a bemused-looking Cotta.

‘What’s the one thing that a man has to have done to him no less than once a month?’

‘Once a month? I like to get my leg over a good deal more regularly than that!’

‘Not that!’ Dubnus reached out and took a hold of the veteran officer’s hair, tugging at a stray lock. ‘This!’

There was a moment of silence.

‘A barber’s shop?’

The big man shrugged.

‘Why not? Let’s face it, it’ll give us a good reason for having men going in and out of the place, a few of whom can then go to your wife’s house to stand guard. And believe me, we’ve got more than enough men who’ve been cutting their mates’ hair for long enough that they know how not to make too bad a mess of it.’

Cotta pulled a thoughtful face for a moment.

‘You know that very might well be an inspired idea. But who’s going to run it?’

Dubnus’s smile broadened.

‘That’s the best bit. I know just the man. Just make sure you watch him carefully. He’s as slippery as an eel once there’s a sniff of coin on the breeze.’

‘Come along now, little one, nearly there.’

Felicia and Annia had walked down the hill in search of some fresh food once the worst heat of the day had abated, both women carrying their children as usual while a pair of Cotta’s men had walked before them to clear a path through the Aventine’s cosmopolitan hubbub, two more following on behind to discourage any attempt at robbery. With a bag full of fresh produce for the evening meal, they were climbing slowly back up the slope to where the house waited, guarded by another two men.

‘Are you sure I can’t take him for you, Domina?’

Felicia smiled and shook her head at the closest of her protectors, shifting the sleeping Appius from one arm to the other.

‘Thank you, but he’s asleep. And we’ll be … home … soon enough.’

Annia laughed softly behind her, her own child tucked under her chin and tightly strapped to her body with a length of cloth.

‘Home! You never thought you’d be saying that again, did you?’

Her friend stopped and looked up the hill, just able to make out the roof of her father’s house above the walls of the houses that lined the road.

‘No. And now that I can, it doesn’t really feel right in my mouth. I’m really just not sure …’

Annia put an arm around her shoulder, shaking her head at the bodyguards who were gathering around them with faces that spoke volumes for their professional concern.

‘You lot can concentrate on making sure that we’re not robbed, and I’ll look after the Domina.’

She wrapped her arms around her friend, sandwiching the two sleeping children awkwardly between them.

‘Now you just listen to me. You’re clever, educated and you’re a success in a profession that a lot of men can’t handle. Your father would have been more than proud of the way you’ve coped since his death, and taking that house back is no more than you deserve. You heard what Excingus said, the previous occupants weren’t harmed when he made them move out, and let’s face it, he’s more than unpleasant enough to have had the measure of your previous husband’s family. So let’s just-’

She fell silent, looking down to see what it was that was tapping against her leg.

‘So much for you lot as bodyguards, eh? You can’t even stop a little dog from getting to us! Look at it!’

A dog no bigger than a large cat had taken advantage of their pause to make an appearance from the side alley where it had been resting out of the sun, drawn by the scent of cooked meat rising from their bags, and was pawing at Annia’s leg with a hopeful look. The four ex-soldiers turned to look at her, the oldest of them stepping forward and stooping with his hand open, ready to take the animal by the scruff of its neck with a purposeful look.

‘Wait!’

He stopped in mid-lunge and looked up at Felicia, whose command, if softly stated, had been sufficiently terse in tone to momentarily freeze him where he stood.

‘Domina?’

She bent her knees and knelt to caress the dog’s neck. The animal jumped up on two legs, placing its front feet on her thigh and reached up to lick the tip of her nose.

‘Such a sweet little thing.’ She nodded to the bodyguard. ‘Pick him up, please, but gently. The poor little man looks just about done in for lack of food; you can see his ribs quite clearly. Pick him up and we’ll take him home.’

The soldier did as he was asked, holding the animal away from him with the obvious expectation that it would shortly realise that it needed to urinate.

‘Are you sure, Domina? These street dogs are well known for carrying diseases, and when your back’s turned he’ll just be stealing food and biting the children. What if he has the madness?’

His attempt to persuade Felicia to see sense petered out as he realised that she was shaking her head in a manner that he had learned, even in his short time as one of her protectors, was utterly unequivocal.

‘The madness?’ She put a finger under the dog’s chin and tilted its head, looking into the alert eyes with a smile. ‘There’s no madness here, just a bright little fellow who lacks a meal or two. Bring him along and we’ll give him a little food, see if we can’t fill him out a little.’

Annia bent to look at the dog more closely, dodging back to avoid an attempt to lick her face.

‘You lot haven’t got the sense you were born with! Call that a street dog? No wonder he’s so thin, there’s no way he’s been able to compete for food with monsters like that one.’ She pointed to an evil-looking stray that was lounging further down the alley in the deeper shade. ‘If we throw him back now he’ll be dead in a week. And besides …’ Her face took on a scornful expression which Cotta’s men had come to know all too well. ‘Let’s face it, we’ll all sleep more soundly knowing that we’ve got a guard dog roaming the house. I wouldn’t trust you lot to guard a shit house.’

Felicia smiled winningly at the veteran in whose big hands the dog was trembling, turning away up the hill and calling back over her shoulder to her friend.

‘Come along now Annia, I think you’ve had quite enough sport with these poor men today already. Let’s concentrate our thoughts on what we might call the poor little fellow, shall we?’

Annia bowed her head in a show of respect, shooting the waiting bodyguards a sideways glance.

‘Yes, and what an exciting game! I vote we call him Centurion! It’ll be nice to see this lot having to pay their respects to a skinny little runt like that …’

‘All these years I’ve been singing marching songs about a restaurant with bedrooms up the stairs, I can hardly believe that I’m actually sitting in one.’

Marcus laughed softly at his friend, raising an eyebrow in question.

‘And do you fancy making the trip upstairs?’

Dubnus glanced across the room at the trio of prostitutes who were still sulking against the far wall.

‘She’s too old, she’s too young, and she’s rather too skinny for a man with my tastes. And besides …’ He leaned forward to confide in his brother officer. ‘I’ve never found it easy to do justice to a woman I’ve had to pay for.’ He looked down at his crotch with a significant expression. ‘After all, I hardly need to go beg-’

One of Qadir’s newly trained soldiers walked slowly past the tavern and made eye contact with the centurions in their place at the window, tipping his head back the way he had come, up the hill’s long slope to where the magnificent bulk of the praetorian fortress loomed against the dusk’s purple backdrop. The four men turned away and concentrated on the food set before them. A moment later, the man they had been waiting for strode past them and turned into the tavern, throwing his cloak back over his shoulder and taking a coin from the purse at his belt, slapping it down on the counter in the manner of a man long familiar with the establishment. A pair of guardsmen still dressed in their uniforms had followed him down the hill, and stood waiting at the tavern’s door with expressions of tired boredom. Waving away the customary expressions of respect and greeting that he was offered by the restaurant’s owner, the praetorian graciously accepted a small cup of wine from which he sipped sparingly, nodding gravely to acknowledge the acceptability of the vintage. Dressed in the red off-duty tunic of a praetorian officer, a highly polished vine stick in one hand and a knife hanging from his gleaming leather belt, his thick hair and beard were neatly cut in apparent ignorance of the imperial fashion for long, bushy facial hair. His voice was loud enough to be heard over the buzz of the other customers’ conversation, and the prostitutes looked up with barely disguised boredom.

‘Lentil stew again? Go on then, I’ll take a pot full, and some bread to mop it up with. And the same for my men.’

Dorso leaned against the counter with the look of a man at rest after a long day, his gaze sweeping across the tavern’s customers without any visible sign of interest, and Marcus was careful not to meet his eye. After a short wait the proprietor handed the waiting soldiers three small pots of food and a parcel of bread wrapped in rough cloth, bowed his thanks for the distinguished officer’s custom and escorted him to the door. Marcus spooned up the last morsel of his meal and reached for the cloak in which his knife was concealed, waiting as Dubnus extricated himself from his place next to the window. While Cotta pounced on the untended wine jug, Qadir looked up at Marcus with professional concern, flattening his hands onto the table in the universal gesture for calm.

‘Keep well back from him until the last moment. It would be a shame if he were to take fright at this late stage. Just remember what I told you.’

Marcus nodded.

‘We’re simply out for an evening stroll, nice and easy.’

The Hamian waved the two men away, and emerging into the street they found the soldier Saratos leaning against the far wall with his eyes locked on a point further down the hill. They set off in Dorso’s wake at a gentle pace, their tracking of the praetorian made simple by the vivid red of his finely woven cloak and the two soldiers strolling close behind him. After another hundred paces or so he turned left, off the main street and into an narrow side street that ran away down the hill at an angle, and Dubnus slowed his pace momentarily.

‘Let’s not dive into the alley too quickly, or he might hear us behind him.’

Marcus nodded, reaching into his cloak to ready his knife. Emerging from the alley’s shadows they saw the praetorian thirty paces or so ahead of them with his men on either side, all three of them bending over a man dressed in rags who was squatting against the wall to one side of a heavy wooden door. His powerful voice carried effortlessly to the two men as they approached the small group silently from behind.

‘Ex-soldier, are you? Gods below man, but you stink!’ He rummaged in his purse, pulling out a coin. ‘Here’s a denarius, which I suggest you use at the nearest bathhouse …’

Marcus and Dubnus had closed the gap between them quickly but silently in their leather-soled boots, Dorso’s raised voice covering the faint creaking of their stitching. The praetorians never saw what had hit them as the two men struck. Dubnus smashed his man to the ground with a hammer blow from the lead-cored truncheon that had been hidden up his sleeve, the soldier more than likely already dead before he hit the cobbles, and Marcus struck his target with a bladed hand in the throat, dropping him kicking and choking to the cobbles, then put the point of his knife to Dorso’s throat with a growl of barely restrained anger.

‘You can die here and now, if you choose!’

The praetorian froze, but when he spoke his voice sounded more composed than Marcus would have expected, given the knife’s harsh touch at his throat.

‘It’s true then. No good deed goes unpunished …’

Dubnus took the pot from his hand, reaching into their captive’s cloak for the key they knew would be hanging from his belt. He opened the door and waved a hand at Sanga in dismissal.

‘Let’s go inside, shall we, and find out what it is that you come here to gloat over? You can be on your way, Sanga, although I’d recommend you do indeed find a bathhouse and sweat out whatever it is that’s making you stink like a donkey’s arse crack before you go back to barracks.’

The soldier got up and walked away, muttering to himself loudly enough for the two men to hear as they hustled the praetorian into the house.

‘“Make yourself smell bad,” he says, and then when you do all you get is abuse. Fuckin’ officers …’

While Marcus shepherded the praetorian in through the door, Dubnus dragged the prostrate guards in behind them, closing the door and leaving no trace of the ambush before knifing both men in the throat to make sure that they were dead. In the entrance hall there were lamps set out ready for use, and a single flame left burning to light the others. The big Briton lit a pair of them while Marcus held Dorso at knifepoint. He walked forward into a wide inner chamber, then stood and stared in wonder at the sight that emerged from the shadows as the lamplight strengthened. On every side of the room there were weapons racked on the walls: swords, shields, spears and axes, variously scarred, notched and battered by their evident use on combat, each with an engraved bronze plate fastened to the wall on which it was displayed. Released from Marcus’s grip, albeit with the knife still poised to strike if he attempted to fight back, Dorso turned slowly to face them, his expression strangely seeming closer to relief than fear in the dim light. The young centurion narrowed his eyes, lifting the knife close to his face, a shining bar of metal whose dappled surface gleamed in the lamplight, growling out the words he had rehearsed a thousand times as he had dreamed of the moment of his revenge.

‘My name is Marcus Valerius Aquila.’

The praetorian smiled gently, spreading his arms wide in apparent surrender.

‘I know it is. And I know that you intend to kill me.’

Dubnus and Marcus exchanged glances, both men perplexed at the apparent ease with which their quarry was accepting of his fate.

‘And you’re just going to stand there and let it happen?’

Dorso shrugged easily, clearly not troubled by his predicament.

‘You stand before me, Valerius Aquila, with a blade bared and murder in your eyes and ask me if I am ready to die?’ The praetorian laughed softly. ‘If I weren’t, I could easily have thwarted you out in the street, set my men on you and called for help.’

Marcus’s eyes narrowed at the shock of hearing his true name from the emperor’s murderer.

‘You recognised me?’

The praetorian shook his head in grim amusement.

‘You may have forgotten your time with the Guard, young man, but I haven’t. After all, I knew for several days before we received the order to kill your father that as the emperor’s tame murderers my colleagues and I would be the men called upon to deal out imperial “justice”. I used that time to have a good long look at you, Centurion, in readiness for the moment I faced you with a blade in my hand. I wanted to be sure that I wasn’t going to get any nasty surprises.’

‘And?’

Dorso shrugged.

‘You were nothing that special, just another snotty-nosed senator’s son who happened to be a little better trained than the average. You had the speed, and the technique, but you were still soft. You wouldn’t even have seen me coming, although it might be a different story now since you seem to have hardened up a little since then, got yourself a scar or two. Your father sent you somewhere he expected you’d never be found, didn’t he?’

‘Britannia.’

‘Yes, Britannia.’ Dorso nodded and chuckled, clearly confirming something he had already known. ‘Cold, wet and desolate, and forever being attacked by one barbarian tribe or another. I’ll bet you’ve seen more fighting in the last two years than most of us get in a lifetime. And now here you are, hardened from the fire and ready to put your father’s killers in the ground one at a time, eh?’

Marcus raised the knife again, showing the praetorian the pattern that ran through its fire-hardened metal shank. Dorso’s face took on a reverent expression as he stared at the weapon.

‘I’ve only ever seen that sort of metal once before, but the sword from which it was made was a deadly thing, capable of cutting through another blade with ease.’

Marcus looked about him.

‘You seem fascinated with weaponry. You come here every night just to look at a collection of old iron?’

Dorso shrugged impassively.

‘Not just iron, Valerius Aquila. This is the history of our people you see on these walls. Take that sword, for example …’

He pointed to a sword on the wall next to Marcus, and as the younger man turned to look at it, Dubnus put a massive hand on the praetorian’s shoulder, digging the fingers into his flesh beneath the tunic, and raised his own copy of the dappled steel knife so that the blade’s glinting edge was visible in the lamplight.

‘Give me an excuse and I’ll do the job for him.’

Marcus took the sword down from the wall, turning back to display the weapon to its owner.

‘So what’s so special about this then?’

Dorso shrugged again, ignoring the Briton’s tight grip on his arm.

‘In truth, it’s really not all that distinguished, a nameless sword from the civil wars with no provenance other than its obvious age. It pales into insignificance when compared to the dagger carried by the blessed Julius’s standard bearer, the man from the Tenth Legion who jumped into the surf when his follow soldiers were too frightened to set foot on the beach during the first invasion of Britannia — that’s over there, behind you on the far wall. And yet you’ve found what used to be one of my most treasured pieces. Some poor anonymous grunt fought and most likely died with that in his hand, back in the days when the battles were massive day-long affairs with half-a-dozen legions on either side, and the fate of the republic rested on the outcome. Sometimes I just get that down and sit with it in my lap, wondering what happened to the poor bastard that carried it. After all, if he managed to survive the fighting, he’d probably have found his family starving when he got home. Too many of the middle-class men the armies depended on were killed in the civil wars, you see, and the day of the gentleman farmer was long gone by the time that Augustus put an end to it all by declaring himself emp-’

Marcus stalked back across the room with the antique sword in his hand.

‘Spare me the history lesson, Dorso, before I allow this sword to taste blood one more time.’

The praetorian shook his head, the faint smile back on his face.

‘You’d be better not leaving any visible wounds, wouldn’t you Centurion? You need make it look like natural causes, I’d say, or the rest of our merry band of murderers will smell a rat and go to ground. I might have chosen to meet my fate head on, but I can assure you that they won’t be as accommodating.’

The younger man stared at him for a moment before speaking again, his voice edged with disbelief.

‘You really knew we were hunting you?’

The praetorian nodded.

‘I had a fairly good idea. Unlike my fellow players in this dirty, bloody game that we play at the emperor’s command, I heard the full detail of what happened in the throne room when Perennis died. You can imagine the chaos in our fortress when the guards on duty who witnessed it came back up the hill, and I was fortunate enough that the officer of the guard on the Palatine that night was a friend of mine, which meant I got to hear the full story, and without any of the interesting detail censored.’

The praetorian smiled bleakly at Marcus.

‘I managed to get him on his own, once he’d been debriefed by Perennis’s senior officers, and he told me the whole story, including the apparent involvement of a centurion from Britannia. He told me how that centurion, who, I should point out, apparently had a fresh scar across the bridge of his nose, looked as if he’d have dearly liked to have been the one that did for the prefect. And then, Valerius Aquila, just when I was wondering who that centurion might be, and why the emperor’s new favourite Cleander had allowed him to vanish off into the night, my friend told me something which gave me the answers to questions I hadn’t even asked. He told me that he was sure he knew that mysterious centurion from somewhere, but he just couldn’t work out where.’

‘He knew me from my time with the Guard.’

‘Yes. But fortunately for both of us, the two of you didn’t serve in the same cohort. He knew you as a face he’d seen around the fortress, if only he could have remembered, but he didn’t make the connection I did. But then he hadn’t listened as your former tribune suffered under the undivided attentions of the emperor’s torturers. Having taken money from your father to send you away on the false errand that saved your life, the fool sobbed and screamed and bellowed out the place to which your faked orders had sent you, even before they subjected him to the necessary amount of agony to verify his story. And that place was Britannia. Britannia was the key to the puzzle, Valerius Aquila. The tribune told the torturers that your father sent you to Britannia, to the Sixth Legion in the province’s north, and here was a centurion from Britannia bearing that legion’s lost eagle and the severed head of its commanding officer. Your father sent you to the Sixth because of some previous relationship he had with that legatus, am I right?’

Marcus nodded.

‘Legatus Sollemnis was my birth father. Appius Valerius Aquila took me on as a baby to save him the embarrassment and encumbrance of a child.’

Dorso nodded slowly.

‘And so the last pieces of the puzzle slide neatly into place. And when I saw you in the tavern with that rather distinctive scar across your nose, I knew that my time to meet with Our Lord Mithras was at hand.’

Marcus stared uncomprehendingly at the older man.

‘You recognised me, and yet you still chose to come here knowing that it would be your death sentence? Why?’

Dorso shook his head slowly, rubbing a hand across his face.

‘Why just walk into your trap? I’m tired, young man. Tired of committing murder in the name of a man who isn’t fit to be on the throne, tired of watching my fellow murderers indulging their sick fantasies with the innocent members of blameless families. I’m even tired of all this …’

He looked around at the room’s panoply of antique weapons with a sigh.

‘I used to come down here with a light heart, overjoyed to own such a fine collection of weapons from some of the most noteworthy periods of both the republic and the empire. See that?’ He pointed to a long sword on the wall to their left. ‘That’s the blade that killed the Dacian emperor, Decebalus. I purchased it last year with my share from the murder of a particularly rich senator. It is an antique of almost inestimable value, and when I bought it I was filled with pleasure, and pride that a man from my relatively humble origins might own such a thing …’ He paused, looking down at the floor and shaking his head. ‘But over the last few months that pride has turned into disgust. Call it religion, call it conscience, but I am no longer able to take any pleasure from treasures purchased with innocent blood. In truth, Valerius Aquila, I’m more than tired. I’m sick, sick at heart, disgusted with myself for the things I allowed to happen in front of me, without intervening to offer some shred of dignity in death for so many innocents. I deserve to die, and offer some small recompense for their suffering.’

Dorso closed his eyes for a moment, then snapped them open and shot a pleading stare at Marcus.

‘You will struggle to believe this, but I am at heart a decent man. My father taught me from my earliest days to do the right thing …’ He waved a hand at the weapons that festooned the walls about them. ‘But I allowed myself to be corrupted by my desire to own Rome’s history, something I could never have achieved on a centurion’s salary. Oh, I might have managed to buy one or two of the pieces you see before you, but I can assure you that this is the finest collection of weaponry you’ll find anywhere in the city. Anywhere in the empire!’ The praetorian’s face, momentarily lit by the pleasure of his private museum, abruptly fell back into despair. ‘And all of it tainted by the blood of those who had no need to die at all, or to undergo the suffering to which they were subjected.’

He shook his head, his lips twisted in disgust.

‘Having accepted the role of imperial murderer, I quickly realised that I had already done too much and seen too much to ever be allowed to end my participation in that evil. The only way for a man to stop being a member of the Knives is for the other three to raise their blades and make a victim of him in his turn, and thereby ensure his silence. And so I participated in crimes of the most despicable nature, in the company of one man who can only be described as insane, another whose urge to prey upon the helpless is as disgusting as any vice I’ve ever witnessed, and a third who is only truly alive when he’s in the act of killing. For all the evil that I have done, and for which I am truly disgusted with myself, I can assure you that what you will find when you track them down will be infinitely more base and revolting. I caution you, Valerius Aquila, to be careful that in dealing out the justice that you so badly desire, you do not find yourself taking on their worst character traits.’

He took a deep breath.

‘And now, if you will, all I ask is that you make my end swift. When I’m gone I suggest that you burn this place, and destroy these grisly instruments of slaughter. It used to be that their antiquity, and what I assumed would have been their honourable use in defence of the city and people of Rome, provided me with some small measure of relief from the nagging self-hatred that my role as an imperial executioner caused me to feel. Now all I can feel is revulsion at the potential atrocities that may well have been committed with them in Rome’s name with these weapons. Their destruction can only be for the good.’

Marcus walked away from Dorso, looking about him at the shadowed ranks of weapons that lined the walls around them.

‘I had intended for you to die slowly, in an apparent eternity of agony, but it seems to me as if you’ve undergone much of that suffering already.’ Marcus picked up the large jar of oil from which the lamps were refilled each night. ‘There is a quick way for you to die, and one which will give little clue to your comrades that their destiny is upon them. Do you believe that you could tolerate the pain?’

The praetorian looked across the room at him with a grimace of anticipation.

‘I can only accept the challenge. Spread the fuel around liberally though. Once I’m alight I want this whole grisly showcase to burn with me.’

Marcus showered oil across the floor in splattering arcs, soaking the thick rugs and curtains with it, then carried the jar over to Dorso. The older man took it from him, swiftly upending the clay container over his head and soaking himself with the remaining fluid. Large drops ran down his face and dripped from his beard onto the mosaic floor, and the two Tungrians backed away as he nodded at them, reaching up to take a torch from its sconce and hold the flame out before him.

‘You see? I am ready to make amends for my sins, and I go to meet the Lightbringer! When next you pray to Our Lord, remind him of my sacrifice, and ask him to pardon my sins in recognition of my sacrifice in his name. And you, Valerius Aquila …’ Marcus watched in horrified fascination as Dorso put the torch’s blazing head to his tunic, the oil smoking furiously for an instant as it swiftly heated towards the point where it would burst into flame. ‘Please forgive me! Forgive-’ The praetorian’s last word was lost in the sudden roar as the oil took fire.

His body was abruptly consumed by a column of flame that momentarily licked at the ceiling high above them. With a hideous shriek of agony the dying man tottered forward into a rack of spears and knocked it over in a toppling clatter, sprawling headlong into the puddle of the oil which Marcus had spilled at his request. With another concussive ignition, the floor around his writhing body was alight, and Dorso’s screams strengthened from those of a man in agony to the pure, bestial howl of a creature from which any hint of humanity had been scoured by the flames.

Dubnus put a hand on his friend’s shoulder and dragged him away.

‘Come on! Before the whole place goes up, and we find ourselves having to explain to the urban cohorts why half the street’s on fire!’

They fled, Marcus looking back as Dubnus pulled him into the alley and started shouting that there was a fire, seeing the flames flickering brightly at the museum’s high windows. The glass popped and tinkled to the ground in a glittering shower, and Marcus realised, with a combination of gratitude and regret, that the praetorian’s screaming had stopped, replaced by the fire’s terrible, powerful roar.