The Emperor's Knives

7

The morning had passed slowly for the newcomers, obliged to sit and watch the ludus’s routine as Sannitus and his men had variously encouraged, chivvied, cajoled, bullied and simply kicked his trainees through their lessons. The sound of booted feet rasping across the floor and the grunts and curses of the would-be gladiators filled the air.

‘Ointment.’

Marcus stirred from his reverie.

‘What?’

His friend waved a hand at the men exercised before them.

‘I was thinking how this isn’t very much different to the way we train, and then it hit me.’ He sniffed the air ostentatiously. ‘Muscle ointment. They’re all using it, despite the fact that they might as well be rubbing on rabbit fat for all the good it’ll do them.’

The Briton yawned, looking round at the soldier they had rescued from robbers earlier that morning, who had woken from his own doze and was looking around him with weary interest. The three soldiers had been sat down in a corner of the hall with a pail of water between them and told not to move until the issue of their status was concluded, their presence tolerated but not yet accepted by Sannitus.

‘You’re really listed as dead?’

Horatius nodded at Dubnus, leaning back and taking a sip of water from the pail’s scoop.

‘As far as the record keepers for my legion are concerned, I died in an ambush a few miles south of Vindobona, in Noricum. Whereas what really happened was that I ran from the fight like a frightened child.’

Dubnus smiled.

‘We’ve all been there.’

The soldier snorted angrily.

‘Not me. Not until that instant when my feet took me into the forest without me even considering the alternative.’ He sighed. ‘You won’t understand unless you know the full story, and we hardly seem to be short of time for the telling, do we? I was a centurion with the Tenth Gemina, and, let me tell you without any pride at all that I was the best fucking officer in my cohort. The fastest man with a sword, the most accurate with a spear … I could kill a man with nothing more than a shield.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘Oh yes, I was death incarnate, and didn’t I know it? As far as I was concerned, every other man in the cohort was inferior to me in the only way that mattered, and I stalked around as though I were the only real soldier in the fortress.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Which made what I did that day even worse. I could have killed half a dozen of these bastards before they took me down, and instead …’

‘How did they manage to ambush you in the first place?’

Horatius nodded.

‘Don’t think I haven’t asked myself that question a thousand times since the day it happened, after all, it’s the stuff they teach you in basic training, isn’t it? I can still remember that leathery old bugger of a centurion who turned us into soldiers telling us all about ambushes. “Every successful ambush needs two things, gentlemen, one party cunning enough to set the trap and another stupid enough to walk into it!” And gods, you can believe me when I tell you that we really were that stupid. Just because the men setting the trap were our own, we meekly allowed-’

‘You were attacked by Romans?’

Horatius snorted a humourless laugh, raising an eyebrow at Marcus, who was staring at him with a look of incredulity at the revelation.

‘Yes, by Romans. Is that shocking to you, friend? A praetorian centurion came to the Vindobona fortress, you see, with orders from the emperor. The Legatus was to ride south to Rome immediately, and there was an escort “waiting for us just down the road”, so he decided that he only needed a few of his own men for the sake of appearances, me and a half-dozen of my lads that could ride to act as bodyguards. When I asked the praetorian why he’d not brought his own men to the fortress with him, he told me that it was to avoid any unnecessary delay, and that there was “no time to lose”. The bastard was right though …’ The soldier’s eyes were cold as he recalled the moment. ‘His men were waiting for us alright, they waited at the top of a hill between two steep verges and then, once we were halfway up, they came down the road towards us four abreast and at the gallop, calling out to each other with the excitement of getting to kill a senator. I shouted to the Legatus to ride for his life but he was too slow getting his horse turned about, and they ran him down like a dog. I took my men into them, but there were too many of them for us to do anything but die gloriously.’

He drank from the scoop again, shaking his head in disgust.

‘I managed to put my blade’s point into a face, punched the man clean off his horse, only to find myself on my back in the road beside him. His spear had caught me in the arm and snagged one of the joints of my manica.’ He grunted a mirthless laugh. ‘That metal sleeve probably saved my bloody life. I staggered back onto my feet between a pair of horsemen, both of them trying to get their spears lined up on me, and that gave me time to put my swordpoint up into the jaw of the man on my left. Then I slipped on the road’s surface, probably from the blood that was running down it in rivulets, and lost my grip on the sword. I knew if I bent down to find it I’d never come back up again, so I drew my dagger and pulled the man on my right out of his saddle.’ His eyes closed, and a satisfied smile played across his face for a moment. ‘I’ve always liked my knives long enough to be of some use in a fight, and I hit him so hard that it went right through his neck and stuck out of the other side. And then it happened …’

He paused again and shook his head, the disgusted expression twisting his lips.

‘I pulled his sword from its scabbard and rolled under his horse. There were four of them surrounding the last of my men, just playing with him before the kill, and as I got to my feet it came over me, the sudden realisation that I could either stand and fight with him, and die with some pride, or run for my life. And I ran, brothers …’ He lowered his head, rubbing at his eyes with a big calloused hand. ‘May Our Lord Mithras forgive me, I ran. Coward though I was, Our Lord was still watching me that day, and both of the spears that were thrown at me as I ran missed, one landing so close that I was able to grab it as I jumped the ditch and went for the trees like … well, like a man running for his worthless rotten life. I heard a voice shouting orders behind me, whoever was in command of that rabble, “Get after him! There are to be no survivors!”, and my hope that it was all some horrible mistake went out like a snuffed lamp.

‘Those bastards killed the last of my men as I ran from them up the hill beyond the ditch. I heard the scream as one of them put iron into him, and then again as another man finished him. They were after me quickly enough, of course, and I could hear them calling out to me that if I came out nice and meek, and made it easy for them then they wouldn’t torment me before the kill, but if I made them wait they’d make me pay for the pleasure, you know the sort of thing.’

Dubnus nodded.

‘And that made you angry, right?’

Horatius smiled grimly.

‘Angry? I was already angry, I was raging! With myself mainly, but it was more than that. They were assuming that I was already a beaten man, because of the way I’d run from them, and until they started shouting for me to come out and die like a man, they weren’t far from wrong. No, it wasn’t anger, it was fury! It was the need to murder them all to make amends for my own cowardice. There were four of them, laughing and joking to each other as they came up the hill in a line, full of that confidence that a man can’t help but feel when he’s killed another, whether it’s justified or not …’ He looked down at his hands. ‘I just thought “fuck you” and stepped out from behind the tree I was using for cover and gave them a moment to realise what they were facing before I threw the spear. I wanted them to know that I was alone, and to come to me.’

He smiled at the memory.

‘I always was good with a spear, but I’ll tell you this, I’ve never slung any better than that in all my life. One moment it was in my hand, the point tickling my ear, the next I was looking down my outstretched arm at the closest of them with the bloody thing spitted through him front and back, armour and all. He staggered and fell backwards while the other three just stared at me, come out of nowhere and covered in other men’s blood, my teeth bared and my eyes like dinner plates, and I think they knew right then that they were already dead. One of them had a spear, but he was so terrified that he threw it wide of me, and I was into them before they knew what was happening.’

Horatius stared across the ludus’s training hall at the men rehearsing their cuts and strokes, and Marcus knew that he was replaying the moment in his head.

‘I put the spear man down before the fool even had the chance to pull his own blade free. He was no more than a child, and as I opened his throat I knew I’d made a mistake in attacking him first, but then I had to run straight at him to be able to dodge the spear, if he could have thrown it straight …’ He shrugged. ‘Mistakes we make, eh? Not that the other two were any more of a threat. The man on the right might as well have been trying to fight me with a sausage, for all the good he was with a sword, and in the instant that I looked into his eyes I knew that I was invincible against men like these. I stabbed down with my blade, putting it through his thigh and then ripped it free to open the artery. Gods, you should have seen the blood. So much blood …’

He grimaced.

‘You killed them all?’

The legion man shook his head at the big Briton’s question.

‘The last of them ran for his life away down the hill screaming for help, and for a moment I considered chasing him down, putting my iron through his spine and then charging into the rest of them to sell my life dearly, but …’

He shrugged, and Marcus found the words for him.

‘You chose life instead.’

Horatius nodded.

‘I chose to make my escape, and ran across the farmland to the next line of trees before they could get their horses onto the open ground. After that I knew that there was only one purpose left for me in life, to discover the reason why my legatus died and to take a cold and bitter revenge for him. It may take me years, or I may never manage it, but this new life will provide me with shelter until that time comes.’

He looked at Marcus and Dubnus with fresh calculation.

‘And you?’

The pair looked at each other before Marcus replied.

‘Our quest is much the same as yours. We-’

He was interrupted by a shout from across the ludus.

‘You three, over here!’

Sannitus was beckoning them over, a toga-clad man with sparse hair the colour of polished iron standing beside him. Disquietingly, several armed men were arrayed behind them, and as the three soldiers approached, the lanista held up a hand in warning.

‘Bow your heads in respect, candidates, if you wish to be considered for this school. This man is my master, Tettius Julianus, the man responsible for the Dacian Ludus.’

They stopped and bowed, keeping their heads down as the sword-armed bodyguards fanned out to either side in a protective half-circle about their master that Marcus fervently hoped was routine. With a clear sense for the theatricality of the moment, Julianus waited until his men were in position before breaking the silence.

‘Well then, gentlemen …’ He waited until all three of them had raised their heads. ‘Look at you. It’s my experience that men like you hardly ever drop into a lanista’s hands. We get soldiers, of course, but usually time-expired veterans who can’t face the thought of fending for themselves and don’t want to sign up again. And now, suddenly, here you are, three of you on the same day, a gift from Fortuna or so it seems.’ He looked at the three before him with a wry smile. ‘You’ll understand then why it was that I wanted to check your bona fides with a little more care than would be the case with the usual class of candidate. Horatius …’

The legion centurion snapped to attention.

‘Sir!’

Julianus shook his head.

‘Don’t call me sir, Horatius. That would tend to imply that I have the sort of power that the empire invests in its military officers, and believe me when I tell you this, as far as you’re concerned, once you’ve taken the oath, I’ll have far more power over your fate than any officer would ever be likely to exercise. The correct address for you to use for me is “Master”. And as for your bona fides, I’ve done some asking around and, somewhat to my surprise, all seems to be in order. You are indeed, as far as the army’s record keepers are concerned, a dead man. I don’t know how you achieved such a neat trick and I’m not going to ask, since it’s enough for me that I can swear you in to the school legally. So, Centurion, do you still want to join the ludus?’

‘Yes, Master!’

Julianus nodded, gesturing to the men closest to the soldier, who ushered him away from Dubnus and Marcus. He stared hard at them both in turn.

‘And now for you two gentlemen. I went to visit your tribune this morning with the intention of confirming your freedom from imperial service. Obviously the only acceptable proof of this status was for him to produce the diplomas of your honourable discharge, which you told Sannitus would be in his possession.’ He looked at them both in turn again, his expression unfathomable. ‘And to be frank, gentlemen, my expectation was that he would flatly contradict your story, and demand that I return you to him in chains. And my expectations in such matters, gentlemen, rarely prove to be misjudged.’

Marcus, risking a sidelong glance at Dubnus, saw that his friend’s gaze was fixed on a point over the procurator’s shoulder, his expression one of supreme confidence. The guards clustered tightly about them shuffled slightly, feet moving to find the best grip on the training hall’s floor. Julianus looked at Sannitus with a knowing smile.

‘So imagine my surprise when he produced your diplomas from his desk without even a flicker of concern. You, are, it seems legally and honourably discharged from the service of Rome and therefore, without any doubt whatsoever, free to enter this training school. So, gentlemen …’

He paused, and Sannitus gestured for them to come to attention.

‘The offer on the table before you is this. I will sign you up for a period of five years, no more and no less. I will pay you each five thousand sestertii, half now and half in the event of your death or on completing your term. At the end of your term, if you have risen to the ranks of those men who are celebrated by the crowds and achieve high status within our small world here, you will be able to negotiate a far larger sum for your next period of service. So, do you still wish to swear the sacramentum gladiatorum, and in doing so enter the Dacian Ludus?’

The two men answered together, barking out their answers like soldiers on parade.

‘Yes, Master!’

Julianus stepped back, gesturing expansively for Sannitus to come forward and perform his traditional role in swearing in the new men. The lanista motioned Horatius forward to rejoin the other two, and spoke to them in a fierce tone that was loaded with significance.

‘The only acceptable answer to the three questions I am about to ask you is ‘Yes, Master!’, and I want the men brushing out the sand over there in the Flavian Arena to hear you. Do you understand?’

All three of them bellowed their response at the tops of their voices.

‘Yes, Master!’

He looked at them for a moment before raising a single finger.

‘Will you swear to give your bodies over to the ludus, to be marked with hot iron if necessary?’

‘Yes, Master!’

He raised a second finger alongside the first.

‘Will you submit to being flogged, or beaten, by any member of the ludus’s staff, for any reason they deem appropriate?’

‘Yes, Master!’

A third finger rose up.

‘And will you commit yourself to the service of your master Julianus, and any man who may come after him in the role of procurator of this ludus, and vow to meet your fate by cold steel if he decrees it fit?’

‘Yes, Master!’

The lanista slapped his fingers into the palm of his other hand with a loud crack, shaking his scarred head in amusement.

‘Done! You are now officially the property of the ludus, from this day until the day that you earn your release from its service, and more than that, you are now officially gladiators. Think about that oath you just swore, by the way. I really can order any of you to be branded, or flogged, or beaten, and as to cold steel, I can put you to death simply by pairing you with the best men from the other schools when your time comes in the arena, and ensuring your bloody and painful demise. You will have no choice as to who you fight, gentlemen, none at all. We don’t usually go to the trouble of branding volunteers, that’s for the men who’ve been condemned to the arena in place of criminal justice, but I’ve been known to burn the mark onto volunteers who manage to piss me off as a means of making sure they’ll never knowingly do it again.’

He looked at them with a pitying smile.

‘As of this moment you have the status of infamis, the lowest of the low. Every man in Rome will look down on you, unless of course you rise to the status of demi-gods through your exploits in the arena, and even then they will still count themselves as better than you. So welcome to the ludus, gentlemen. Congratulations are definitely not in order.’

Felicia and Annia spent a quiet morning in the house, the former’s mood too dark for her to do anything much apart from sit and stare at the wall opposite while Appius played with his toys at her feet. Annia bought her a cup of herbal tea sweetened with honey, which she accepted with grace but little enthusiasm, sipping at the drink while her friend fussed around the room tidying what she’d tidied only an hour before.

‘I’m sure he’ll be fine. After all, he is the fastest man with a sword Julius has ever met, and my man’s no slouch when it comes to fighting …’

Felicia looked up at her with a weak smile.

‘Thank you, Annia. And you’re right, of course. He’ll beat any man in the city in a straight fight, but then once he’s killed this Mortiferum, what’s to stop a crowd of angry supporters mobbing Marcus and tearing him to pieces. He’s not coming back, and I’ve no choice but to reconcile myself to that reality.’

Annia looked at her in silence, unable to find any words of comfort in the face of her implacable logic. After a moment her attention was caught by the dog, busy snuffling around the floor in the dining room.

‘Come here, Centurion!’

She whistled, and the animal came scampering over to play for a moment before scrabbling away across the tiles again, yapping brightly as he snuffled across the floor around the dining couches.

‘Time you went outside, I’d say, since the last time you were sniffing around like that you dropped the contents of your bowels a moment later!’

She scooped up the dog, taking him to the door, but as she opened it Julius was striding up the garden path.

‘If I might come in?’

He kissed his wife dutifully, and bowed to Felicia.

‘I have news of your husband, Domina. He has been accepted by the Dacian Ludus, and will shortly be fighting in the arena. The school’s procurator came to see the tribune this morning to get proof of Marcus and Dubnus’s diplomas-’

‘Diplomas?’

He nodded.

‘When a man leaves the service, he receives a bronze tablet stating that he has served with honour. We had one prepared for each of them when it became clear to the tribune that your husband wouldn’t be dissuaded from seeking this one last act of revenge, whatever the cost.’

She stared at him for a moment.

‘You knew he was going to do this? And you did nothing?’

The first spear met her gaze.

‘We did. And what should we have done? Locked him up?’

After a moment’s thought Felicia shook her head.

‘I suppose not. If I couldn’t forbid him to go into the ludus, then I can’t criticise you for doing much the same. The insult to his honour would have been too much for him to have borne. So now what?’

The first spear rubbed a hand through his hair.

‘Now? Now we’ll have to wait and see how he does in the arena. Apparently he’ll be fighting tomorrow. After all, it’s not as if he needs much training …’ He frowned across the room at Centurion, who was once more snuffling around beneath the table. ‘You’d better get that animal outside, before he sh- empties his bowels on your floor.’

One Eyed Maximus strolled into the barber’s shop just after lunch, taking a seat against the cool rear wall and leaning back.

‘That’s better. It’s too fucking hot out there, and that’s a fact.’

His two companions who, Morban had already noted, usually kept their opinions to themselves, stood on either side of him and glared balefully at the customers having their hair cut, one of whom promptly decided that he had better places to be and left with the job incomplete.

‘Think I’ll get a haircut, since I’m here.’

One of his minions raised a hand to forestall the next customer who, it had to be admitted, had already looked more than a little hesitant in his approach to the vacant chair. Maximus laughed, grinning at the man as he too decided to pursue interests other than getting his hair cut.

‘Very wise too!’ He sat down in the chair and twisted his neck to stare up at the soldier who would shortly be cutting his hair. ‘Nice and tidy, short at the back and sides and nice and thick on top. Think you can manage that?’

The man with the scissors grunted his assent and set to with vigour, recognising from Morban’s face his desire to have the gang leader out of the chair, and for that matter the shop, as quickly as possible. Silence descended for a while, nobody daring to speak while such a delicate operation was in progress, until the gang leader held up a hand to stop his haircut.

‘So what’s my share today, eh Fatty?’

Morban took a moment to count the coins in his cash drawer.

‘Five sestertii.’

Maximus smiled happily.

‘You, Fatty, are my new number one client. You’re making twice as much as anyone else on my turf, which means that you can afford a small tax rise, can’t you?’

Morban winced.

‘How much?’

The one-eyed man shook his head, forcing the soldier with the scissors to stop cutting for a moment.

‘How much, sir?’

The standard bearer fingered the knife that he kept in the drawer behind the piles of coins.

‘How much … sir?’

Maximus grinned with the pleasure of his small victory over the sullen shopkeeper.

‘That’s better! Let’s call it a nice round twenty per cent, shall we, just to make sure you’re clear on the need to show a little more respect. You won’t miss another ten on the hundred, not with the juicy profits you’re making now, will you?’

Sighing to himself Morban closed the drawer.

‘No sir. I’m sure we’ll manage.’

‘Good. Now let’s have a look at what you’ve done to me.’

He held up a shining iron blade, nodded at himself as he turned it this way and that to survey his new haircut.

‘Not bad!’

He jumped up out of the chair and padded across to Morban, holding out an open palm.

‘Collection time!’

The standard bearer handed over a stack of coins, and Maximus dropped one back on the desk with a grin.

‘That’s to pay for the haircut. It’s not like I’m a thief, is it?’

Gathering his men he stalked out of the shop, grinning at the queue outside.

‘That’s it lads, in you go!’

Morban watched him walk away down the street in silence, ignoring the pointed looks his men were giving him.

‘Tomorrow?’

Julianus grinned back at his lanista.

‘Drink your wine, Sannitus.’

The trainer raised a jaundiced eyebrow, pointing at the cup before him.

‘As I recall it, the last time you told me to drink my wine I ended up agreeing to fight the most successful gladiator this city’s seen in the last twenty years so that you could gain favour with the emperor.’ Pulling his tunic away from his right shoulder, he pointed at a long pale scar that ran over the muscle between neck and arm before running out of sight beneath the thick wool. ‘You made a nice purse of gold, and I got cut from shoulder to belly. If Flamma hadn’t been in such a good mood, he’d have smashed my collarbone, and as it was he seemed to find it hilarious to cut my bloody nipple in two.’

Julianus nodded his agreement.

‘Ah, Flamma. Now there was a gladiator. Never vindictive in the arena, or at least not unless he was given good reason, and such an artist with a sword, big as a house and nimble as a dancer. And you can stop complaining; it took me enough gold to persuade you to come back for one more fight that a little nick like that was well bought and paid for! Add to that the fact that you were convalescing for long enough to travel to Greece and study for your priesthood in the temple of Nemesis.’

Sannitus smiled darkly.

‘And ideas like this one do a lot to convince me that I should have stayed there. You know they’re not ready.’

Julianus raised his hands in protest.

‘Not ready? All three of them bested Hermes without breaking sweat, and he’s supposed to be the third best man in the ludus. Why else do you think I went galloping over the hill to see their tribune and make sure they weren’t spinning us a story? What more do you think they need to be “ready”?’

The lanista raised his fingers, ticking off the points one at a time.

‘They don’t understand the rules …’

‘They’re bright boys, all three of them. They’ll learn quickly enough, especially with an experienced hand like you to talk them through it.’

Sannitus shook his head, his lips pursed disapprovingly.

‘They’re still soldiers. Unless we teach them what gladiators do and don’t do to each other in the arena then all they’re good for is hacking a bloody trail through whatever we put in front …’

He fell silent, looking at the man on the other side of the broad wooden desk with a fresh understanding. Julianus nodded.

‘Exactly. This emperor isn’t like his father, Sannitus. Marcus Aurelius used to insist that we made the most economical use of the lads, and that we turned as many of the prisoners we took in into long-termers as were capable of making the change and learning our ways. All his son wants to see is a series of good fights, ceaseless excitement from the first bout to the last, and above all plenty of blood. I’ve already been given very clear instructions from the palace to put on something that will make Commodus sit up and take notice, once we’ve got all the usual animal baiting and bestiality out of the way. Apparently the chamberlain has promised him that we’ll be starting this year’s Roman Games with a series of fights to make the plebs roar with delight, and you know what that means. Dead bodies, nothing more and nothing less.’

He took a sip of his own wine.

‘The Flavian’s procurator has promised me a batch of Dacian prisoners, prime men apparently and all still in good condition, and I was going to tell you to put Hermes and Nemo into the ring against them, but I see no reason to risk our better fighters against a bunch of unknowns. Let’s see what these centurions are capable of against men with nothing to lose, shall we?’

Sannitus shrugged.

‘If you put it like that it doesn’t sound as if we have much choice. Two prisoners apiece?’

Julianus inclined his head in gracious agreement.

‘You’re right, anything more would be pushing our new boys a little too hard the first time out. Two men apiece it is.’

‘Life in the ludus ain’t all as black as Sannitus likes to paint it.’ With the completion of their training for the day, the lanista’s assistant Edius was leading the three centurions to their accommodation, talking over his shoulder as he led them into the ludus’s maze of corridors. ‘Free men, slaves and even the men that scrape out the sewers may all call you scum when they think you’re not listening, but women, on the other hand, will see you as their best chance to get a decent portion of cock once their husbands’ dicks have shrivelled up and dropped off. And let me tell you from experience, having the nail hammered home by a body the likes of which their men could only dream of drives them wild!’

The school’s accommodation took the form of a series of corridors which were lined on both sides with cells barely large enough to accommodate two men, their front walls formed of narrowly spaced iron bars with heavy hinged doors to allow for both access and containment as the situation required. All along the corridor down which he led them, the doors were wide open, and men lounged around both in the cells and the walkway in various states of undress.

‘Not everyone in the ludus is quite as happy as you boys are to be here, but since this is the volunteer block we usually keep the doors unlocked. You two will be sharing this one …’

He pointed Marcus and Horatius at the doorway of a stone-walled room barely big enough for two straw-filled pallets, before turning back to point at another empty cell, gesturing to Dubnus.

‘And you, big man, since we have no one to share with you yet, you get this one to yourself for the time being. One of the slaves will be along with your food soon enough …’ He paused, looking pointedly at the other two, who had walked into their cell and were looking round the small enclosed space with bemused expressions. ‘And you both need to get as much of it down your necks as you can stomach, I’d say. We need to get some fat on you, so that you look like proper gladiators rather than the sad pair of skinny runts you are now, eh? There’s only your mate here that’s got the look of a fighter!’

The two centurions grinned at each other wryly, Marcus shrugging at his new comrade.

‘And there I was making the mistake of thinking that since two years of campaigning in Britannia, Germania and Dacia has left me without an ounce of fat on my body, I’m in perfect condition.’

Edius leaned into their cell with a serious look, wagging a finger at the two men.

‘You’ll learn better soon enough. If you’d not been so fast with your swords I reckon old Sannitus would have told you both to fuck off.’ He shook his head at their baffled expressions. ‘Not big fans of the games, are you?’

The two men nodded, Horatius leaning back against the cell’s stone wall.

‘I was too busy learning my trade to give a toss about a load of fixed fights. There’s not one in ten bouts where the outcome’s not already arranged before they step onto the sand, and after a while you get bored of watching the same fighters with the same tired moves dancing round each other and waiting for the moment when one of them goes down.’

Edius shook his head knowingly.

‘That might be the way where you come from sonny, but this is Rome. This ludus is one of the most famous schools in the empire, and our men are expected to put on a show that’ll have the plebs roaring and shouting for more. And that means men sometimes get killed, and more often than not even the victors get cut. Of course a decent swordsman can judge the cut just right, and make his opponent bleed like a stuck pig without actually maiming him, or making it so bad the poor bastard bleeds to death in the arena — not unless they’re really going for it or they hate each others’ guts — but for that to work the other fighter has to have a good layer of fat for him to cut into. See?’

He lifted his tunic, showing the pale lines of scars that criss-crossed his thighs.

‘You boys know as well as I do that one good thrust of a sword into a man’s upper leg’ll kill him inside half a dozen breaths, once you’ve opened the artery in the thigh, but the men I was fighting knew how to keep their cuts shallow. That way we always used to put on a good show, with plenty of blood, but without too many of us ending up face down. After all, nobody wants the cupboard to be empty when the big games like the ones that start tomorrow come round.’

Horatius started.

‘Tomorrow?’

The barrel-chested lanista nodded, cracking a wry smile at them.

‘I thought that might make you sit up and pay attention. Tomorrow, my lads, is the start of the Roman Games, the biggest series of games in the entire year as far as the major schools are concerned, with hundreds of fights to be staged between now and the end of the celebrations in two weeks’ time.’ He laughed at their expressions. ‘Don’t worry, no one’s going to throw a bunch of tyros like you into the arena without training you up first!’

Still chuckling, he turned away and left them to it. Marcus and Horatius looked at each other for a moment and then laughed at the same time.

‘A pair of skinny runts?’

Marcus shook his head at the other man’s incredulous tone.

‘It’s a label we may have to learn to love. Now I think about it, just about all of the other gladiators in this place are rather better upholstered than I was expecting. Perhaps we will need to fatten up a bit.’

‘Or perhaps you won’t.’ They turned, finding a tall, well-muscled man in a tunic of fine red wool standing in the cell’s doorway with his arms folded. ‘If you’ve got the speed and skill to keep other mens’ blades away from you, then you’ll never need to worry about all that padding that everyone else is carrying. They said the same thing to my brother and I when we walked through those gates, but neither of us ever found any need to stuff ourselves.’

He stood and waited for a response, a slight smile on his face, and Marcus looked back at him for a moment before the realisation of who the newcomer was dawned upon him, a snatched memory of a face seen in the light of torches in the city weeks before, the hairs on the back of his neck rising.

‘Mortiferum?’

The other man grinned back at him, shaking his head.

‘No, I’m his brother, as it happens.’

‘You’re Velox?’

The gladiator nodded.

‘You’ll have to forgive the rather bombastic nature of my arena name, but it’s so much easier than trying to persuade anyone to use my real name that I’ve more or less stopped trying.’

Horatius stepped forward and offered his hand to the gladiator, who clasped it and then reached out to repeat the greeting with Marcus, who realised that he was giving a good impression of being awestruck by the man’s presence, even if his main emotion was in reality simple hatred. He took the hand, looking into the other man’s eyes as they clasped.

‘Forgive me, it’s not often that a man gets to meet an arena legend.’

Velox shook his head.

‘We’ll have none of that nonsense in here. Within the ludus we have no adulation, whether contrived or not …’ He paused, looking at them both with a sombre expression. ‘After all, any of us might meet the other on the sand at some point. In here, my friends, we are brothers, from the youngest tyro to the most experienced and deadly man in the place.’

Marcus inclined his head in recognition of the generous sentiment, turning to introduce Dubnus only to find the big man staring over his shoulder down the corridor. Looking round to see what had caught his attention, he realised that a group of three men had gathered around a single woman at the far end of the run of cells. She was wiry, and as tall as the shortest of them.

‘Ah yes.’ Velox’s voice took on a sardonic note. ‘Those of us not disposed towards enjoying each others’ bodies have the choice of either taking a handful of grease and closing their eyes or forcing themselves on the slave girls, which is, after all, what they’re here for. Apparently.’

As they watched, it became clear that the gladiators gathered around the woman were playing with her as a prelude to something much more direct, taking advantage of the fact that she was carrying a bucket of meat stew with both hands and unable to prevent their lewd groping. Dubnus shook his head, his anger evident to Marcus in his narrowed eyes and tight lips.

‘Is that woman assigned to this corridor?’

Velox nodded, speculatively eying the hulking Briton.

‘She is. But if you fancy taking her for a ride you may find there’s something of a queue. You should-’

The Briton brushed past him, striding purposefully down the run of cells with a set in his shoulders that Marcus had seen before.

‘Excuse me brothers, I suspect that this is about to get nasty.’

He slipped past the champion gladiator with a nod, padding quietly after his friend who had stopped a few feet from the scene of the servant girl’s molestation.

‘Get your dirty fucking hands off her!’

His booming command silenced the hubbub in an instant, and the three men who were now dragging the woman towards a cell swivelled to face him, one of them the gladiator who had been bested by the three friends that morning. In an instant they were lined up across the corridor with their fists clenched. Hermes stepped forwards, raising his right hand to display his scarred knuckles in an unambiguous threat.

‘And who the fuck do you think you are, tyro?’

Dubnus straightened his back, folding his massive arms.

‘I think I’m the man who’s going to put his fist through your face so hard you’ll have to reach back to blow your nose, unless you back down and leave the woman alone.’

Hermes walked forward until he was within a foot of the Briton, who allowed his hands to fall to his sides.

‘Beating me with a wooden sword doesn’t give you any rights in here, Briton. Until the day I can meet you with iron and put you in your place, you’d better keep your head down, unless you want to get a quick reminder of just how far down the ladder you are from me. That woman is ours. Mine. I’ve fucked her before, and I’ll fuck her again, any time I like. She’s a slave, so I’m free to do whatever I want to her. And when I’m done, these other men will take their turn with her. We’re happy, ’cause we get to empty our balls, and the master’s happy because a happy gladiator is a quiet gladiator.’

‘And the woman?’

Ignoring the dangerous note in the Briton’s question, Hermes threw his arms out wide, turning his head to grin at his audience.

‘The woman? Well she doesn’t get a choice, does she boys? She just gets a regular load of our-’

He didn’t see the punch coming until it was way too late, a fast left-handed hook that smacked him full in the face and bounced him off the wall to his left. The gladiator tottered, groaned once, the long, slow moan of a man who was already no better than semi-conscious, then slumped gracelessly to the corridor’s floor. In the instant before violence erupted, while the men around him were still goggling at the speed and ferocity with which the Briton had put their comrade away, a bellow of command froze them in place.

‘Hold!’

Marcus started at the snapped order, realising that Horatius had advanced down the corridor half a step behind him, but before he had time to register any gratitude for the other man’s support, the gladiators gathered about them stirred angrily at the sight of their friend sprawled across the stone floor.

‘Fuck you! You’re not in the bloody legion now, Centurion. We’re going to kick the fucking shit out of all three of you, and then-’

‘No …’ Velox’s voice cut through the rapidly escalating anger with ease, silencing the rumble of threats with his first word. ‘You won’t.’

The gladiator stalked down the corridor, easing past Marcus and Horatius and planting himself in front of Dubnus with self-assurance oozing from every pore.

‘You won’t raise a finger against these men. Not just because I reckon they’d give half a dozen of you a good hiding and come looking for more. And not even because if you do, and trust me on this, I will personally kill, slowly and with the greatest pleasure I can squeeze from the act, the man who makes the first move. And you know how much I like to live up to my arena billing.’ He looked around him, his face hard, and Marcus saw more than one of the men around them flinch at the overt threat. ‘They don’t call me “The Master of Carnage” without good reason, do they? Be the first one to step forward against these men and tomorrow morning it’ll be just you and me, with sharp iron and no question of mercy.’

He looked about him with an expression of disgust.

‘It’s not even because I’m tired of you dirty bastards degrading these poor helpless bitches just because you can. No, the reason that you’re not going to touch these men is because, as I was just about to tell them, is that they’re fighting in the morning. So right now you can consider this as an instruction from Sannitus himself, since he asked me to give them the good news. And knowing Sannitus as well as I do, and the expectations he has of these three, I can assure you all that the first man to raise a fist will have an easy enough exit from this life at my hands, compared with what’ll happen to the others when I tell him who else participated.’

A moment’s silence stretched until first one, and then another of the men who had squared up to Dubnus looked down at their feet, and the tension ebbed from the situation like water from a split skin.

‘We keep the woman though.’

Velox smiled at the petulant mutter, shaking his head slowly from side to side as he went face-to-face with the man who had spoken.

‘No. You don’t. I really am sick to my guts of your depravity. Wait your time, earn your passes into the city, and then take out your need to fuck on the multitude of women who actually want you between their legs. And, let us be clear about this …’

He stepped forward, reaching out a hand to grasp the culprit by his ear, whispering something that was inaudible to the Tungrians, grinning as the subject of his attentions blanched at whatever it was that he’d said. He turned away with a last contemptuous stare at the surly group still gathered around him, an act which seemed to be the cue for the man to whom he’d just spoken to start herding his fellows back down the corridor to their cells.

‘You, on your way.’

The slave girl turned and fled at the command, leaving the buckets of food on the floor, and Velox nodded in satisfaction, raising his voice to ensure his words carried down the run of cells.

‘It’s a good thing I was here for all concerned, I’d say. Remember what I’ve told you, and don’t imagine that my threats won’t hold good if any stupidity starts once I’m round the corner!’

Turning to leave, he threw a final comment over his shoulder.

‘And you three had better make sure you get a belly full of food. You’ll probably not have any appetite in the morning.’

Later, with their bellies full of bread and meat, the three men went to their beds and lay in the barrack’s darkness. Listening to his comrades breathing, Dubnus heard first one and then the other fall asleep, the pattern of their respiration slowing and deepening. The big Briton smiled up at the cell’s invisible ceiling, quietly satisfied at having guessed his friend’s reaction to the tribune’s suspension of their attempts to kill Mortiferum.

‘I won’t let them kill you, brother, not unless they come through me f-’

A finger on his lips silenced him, and before he could react it was replaced by a mouth, the woman whispering into his lips as she crawled onto his body.

‘Be still. I thank you for save me.’

The Briton was still pondering a response when she put a hand on his phallus, the warm body atop his slithering down until he felt her moist sex press down against the suddenly erect organ. After a moment’s resistance his member slipped inside her as the woman pressed herself insistently against him.

‘What …?’

She kissed him hard, twitching her hips to widen his eyes at the sudden unexpected pleasure.

‘Told you, quiet. Only way I can thank. And better you than six men same time.’

The Briton lay in silence as the slave moved over his body, her suddenly urgent rhythm and questing tongue bringing him to his climax with unsurprising ease, given his months of abstinence. She lay on his body for a moment longer, kissing him one last time, then lifted herself off his rapidly shrinking manhood and touched his lips again, drawing a knife from inside her clothing as she stood, preparing to return to her quarters through the sleeping ludus.

‘Wait!’

The slave shook her head.

‘I go. I catch here, I be flog.’

‘But … what’s your name. At least tell me that much.’

Her smile was a line of white in the darkness.

‘My name Calistra. Go now.’

‘I will free you, Calistra …’

His words fell on empty air, the woman having slid round the cell’s door and darted silently away down the corridor.

‘Good evening, Gaius.’

‘Senator.’

Scaurus bowed deeply, holding the position as his host stepped forward and embraced him warmly, waving a hand to his butler to dismiss him. He’d been summoned earlier that evening and had attended to the invitation immediately, taking only Arminius and a pair of Cotta’s men with him across the city.

‘There’s no call for you to bow to me young man. While I’ve been kicking my heels here in Rome for the last three years, you, I hear, have been making a name for yourself in the north of the empire?’

Scaurus inclined his head to accept the older man’s praise.

‘I have enjoyed a fair degree of good fortune.’

The senator rubbed at his heavily bearded chin with a look of polite disbelief.

‘Good fortune? A man makes his own luck in this world, as well you know! Your “good fortune” has seen you win more than one victory in Britannia, capture a notorious bandit chieftain in Germania and rescue an emperor’s ransom from a gold mine in Dacia. Not to mention restoring the honour of the lost standard of my old legion, Sixth Victorious, or so I hear. I would sacrifice to Fortuna every day for the rest of my life if I could be assured of that degree of success. Wine?’

The two men retired to the senator’s private office, and Scaurus accepted a cup of excellent falernian from the man who, in the absence of his dead father, was the closest thing he had to an authority figure.

‘You’ve excelled yourself, Gaius, and about time too! I was starting to wonder if you were going to dedicate the rest of your service to taking ever more ridiculous risks out beyond the empire’s boundaries. I can only thank the gods that Ulpius Marcellus took some notice of what I’d told him about your abilities and put you in command of an auxiliary cohort.’ The senator paused to sip his own wine. ‘My only concern now is whether you’ll live beyond the end of next week.’ He stared levelly at his protégé, waiting for the younger man to reply.

‘I was wondering why you sent for me. I presume you’re referring to my recent visit to the palace?’

‘Yes.’ The tribune looked up, surprised by the sudden vehemence in his sponsor’s voice. ‘I am indeed referring to your most recent attempt to commit suicide.’

‘Suicide?’

‘You heard me, young man. You may lack the necessary degree of self-awareness to know what game it is that you’re playing, but I’m more than astute enough to compensate for your wilful refusal to confront your demons. I know all too well why you spent as long as you did scouting the northern tribes, with only that big German slave of yours for company’. Your reputation is that of a danger seeker, a man driven to take risks for the thrill of it, but we both know better, don’t we? And now here you are doing just the same thing, and in Rome of all places.’

Scaurus raised a hand, but the senator waved away his nascent protest.

‘I’m more than a little disappointed in you, Gaius. Were you actually planning to visit me at any point while you’re in Rome? I’ve waited patiently for you to come and present yourself, and yet you’ve shown no sign of doing so, forcing me to summon you as if you were a wilfully disobedient nephew.’

‘Instead of which I am …?’

The older man grimaced.

‘A brilliant, brave and occasionally wayward young man who, given the right guidance, might yet still aspire to the empire’s highest ranks.’

‘Really?’

‘Indeed. If I can rise from teaching Latin grammar to the position of provincial governor then there’s clearly hope for you!’

The younger man shook his head.

‘But my father …’

‘Indeed, let’s get to the root of it, shall we? Your father’s disgrace in Germania, and his honourable suicide.’ He shook his head. ‘In case you’d forgotten, young man, I served with your father. Indeed, if it wasn’t for my promise to watch over you, made to him before an altar to Mars before he took his own life, I might have despaired of you years ago.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘The German War. Triumph and disaster all rolled up into one dirty little package. Your father, Gaius, didn’t have to fall on his sword, as I told him even as he was binding me to my oath to act as your sponsor after his death. His over-developed sense of honour led him to do so in the face of utter indifference from those above him. And you show all the signs of having the same instinct towards self-destruction. Don’t you?’ He waited, but Scaurus made no response. ‘Did you really interrupt Commodus when he was in a state of some agitation, and in his own throne room?’

The younger man shrugged.

‘I can’t deny it. But I had good reason.’

‘Good enough reason to risk having your tongue cut out?’

A long silence settled upon the two men. At length the older man spoke again.

‘And now?’

Scaurus looked at his mentor with a hint of the defiance which had been the hallmark of his boyhood years.

‘And now I’m assisting a man who has been ill-used by the empire to regain his lost honour.’

‘This would be the Aquila boy, if the whispers I hear are to be trusted?’

‘Yes.’

The Senator was silent for a moment.

‘You do realise that his father was executed for treason?’

Scaurus laughed without any hint of humour.

‘And you do realise that his accusation was false?’

‘Gaius, the ice upon which you’re standing couldn’t be any thinner. And if you fall through it I will have no power to save you.’

‘I know. Nor would I expect you to do so.’

‘It might be worse than that. This new man Cleander, egotistical power monger though he is, has one redeeming feature. He seems to see some value in restoring me to favour, apparently on the grounds that if Perennis distrusted me enough to force me out of public life, I must in reality be of some value to the empire. There’s talk of Britannia.’

The younger man raised an eyebrow.

‘As governor?’

‘Apparently so. Although any revelation as to your involvement with this Aquila might well see us both condemned, given that my role in your life as a guardian isn’t exactly a secret. It won’t be Britannia for me, but rather a place in the Palatine dungeons alongside you.’ Scaurus nodded slowly. ‘But you can’t help yourself, can you?’

‘No, sir.’

‘I already knew as much. Very well, we’ll face the risk together, you on the streets of Rome and myself here in my gilded cage, while Cleander decides whether to use me for my abilities or put me down as the mentor of quite the most dangerous man in the city. But there is some small compensation you might offer me for this risk.’

‘Senator? Whatever I can do for you, if it is in my power, I will.’

The older man smiled.

‘I know. There is a colleague of mine, an old friend who has fallen from favour. I can do nothing overt to assist him, as he is, I hear, already marked for betrayal and death, when the time is right. But a man like you, a man with the right resources and lacking in conventional scruples — not to mention any sense of self-preservation — might just be able to spirit him out of Rome?’

Scaurus bowed again.

‘I will do everything in my power. His name?’

The senator smiled knowingly.

‘You’ve already made his acquaintance, I believe. His name is Gaius Carius Sigilis. Save him from the executioner for me, young Gaius. Extend just a hint of your improbable daring and outrageous good fortune to my friend, before he becomes another victim of this regime’s thirst for blood, will you?’

The ludus woke before dawn, its inhabitants summoned from their beds in the usual manner, the volunteers encouraged by the jibes and sarcasm of their trainers while the ranks of condemned men were escorted out into the torchlight by guards armed with clubs. The ranks of yawning, farting fighters were unusually quiet, collectively digesting the fact that the coming week would see most of them fighting for their lives in the arena. Sannitus walked onto the parade square, looked up and down their ranks and nodded to himself.

‘You apes look shit scared! Which is good!’

He strolled up the front rank, meeting each man’s eyes in turn.

‘Today is the first day of the Roman Games! The Great Games! Two whole weeks of chariot racing, boxing, athletics, acrobatics and, of course, enough blood on the arena sand to keep our discerning public happy! So, during these next few days we will be sending more than two hundred fighters over there …’ He waved a hand at the Flavian Arena’s top tiers, visible over the ludus’s walls. ‘You’ll be fighting men from the other schools, all of whom will be looking to put one over on us by winning more of their fights than we do!’ He lowered his voice to a growl, forcing them to strain for the words. ‘In all the years that I’ve been the lanista of this school that hasn’t happened, and gentlemen, trust me …’ He looked up and down the lines of men again with a grimace that made his feelings on the subject crystal clear. ‘That will not change this year. Whatever you find yourself facing: fish men, net men, hoplites …’ He shrugged, pulling a face that neatly summed up his contempt for the other gladiatorial disciplines. ‘You will win. You’ll win to bring glory to the ludus. You’ll win to bask in the adulation of sixty thousand screaming plebs, and to get the women vying for your straining pricks. And you’ll win because you know that I’ll be waiting for you if you lose and manage to escape with your life. So, pairings …’

He stood in silence as Edius stepped forward and, one man at a time, read out the waiting gladiators’ destinies.

‘Mortiferum!’

Marcus started as the champion swordsman stepped out from the front rank, staring at the back of his father’s killer’s head through narrowed eyes.

‘You will fight a pair of fish men from the Gallic School as the last bout of the day in two days’ time!’

The champion gladiator nodded with a look of indifferent confidence and stepped back into his place.

‘Velox! The Gallic ludus have sent their number one man in the vain hope that he’ll be able to regain them some pride after last year’s pathetic display. He’s a hoplite, apparently!’

‘Not for long he isn’t!’

A ripple of laughter ran across the waiting fighters, knowing that their champion had the skills required to back up his bravado.

‘Very funny. You’ve got the last fight of the day on the last day of the games.’

The roll call lasted until the horizon had turned from purple to a rosy shade of pink, as individuals and small groups of the less capable men were briefed as to their pairings for the first week of the games. When the last of them had stepped forward and heard his fate, the rotund lanista barked out one last set of names.

‘Centurion, Dubnus and Corvus!’

The three men looked at each other and stepped forward. Edius looked over to his lanista with a questioning expression, and Sannitus walked down the line of gladiators in silence, pushing through to the rear rank.

‘You three will be taking a mid-afternoon slot today. Come the middle of an afternoon’s fighting the plebs need something special to wake them up for the big fights to come, and Procurator Julianus has volunteered the three of you to provide that spectacle.’

Turning away, he raised his voice in a bellow of command.

‘All men fighting today, stay here. The rest of you, get back to your training. Move!’

The twenty-eight men who were due to fight mustered around the lanista, who took a swift head count, frowning at one man who had strolled over to join the group.

‘You’re not fighting today.’

Velox shrugged, smiling easily back at him.

‘I thought I’d come along for the parade, and then perhaps take them into the arena to have a look around and get used to the noise.’

Sannitus thought for a moment and then nodded.

‘It’s not as if a day’s missed training is going to trouble you over much. Right then, go and get your equipment, everything you’ll be wearing later on. Let’s give the plebs a show, shall we? You three can stay here, your armour will be provided by the arena staff since you’ll be fighting in military equipment.’

The friends waited in silence for a moment, until Horatius sniffed something familiar and yet unlikely on the air.

‘Smells like …’

He looked at Marcus, who shrugged and took a deep breath.

‘Now you mention it …’

Both men looked at Dubnus, bursting into uncontrollable laughter at his sheepish expression.

‘You lucky bastard! It wasn’t that slave girl was it?’ Horatius goggled at the Briton’s nod. ‘Mithras above us! She came to you in the night? Remind me to be a bit quicker off the mark next time those apes try to mess with her, that’s the sort of gratitude a man could use in here!’

Marcus raised an eyebrow at his friend, seeing less amusement in his face than he might have expected.

‘Her name is Calistra. And I’m going to free her.’

‘Now that’s impressive.’ Both of them turned to Horatius, who was shaking his head in new-found respect. ‘She’s only done the love thing to him, and all in the space of one quick bunk up. She must come like a fully wound bolt thrower …’

Once the gladiators slated for that day’s entertainment had returned, most of them dressed in what seemed to be more or less the standard fighting equipment for the ludus, the lanista looked about him with a hint of approval in his faint smile. The gladiators were equipped for the most part in wide-brimmed helmets adorned with griffons or crests, each with a face mask perforated by holes large enough to allow clear vision. Their sword arms were wrapped in heavy padding beneath sleeves of segmented metal of the type worn by legionaries on the Danubius frontier, and each man’s leading leg was protected by a metal greave strapped over heavy padding to protect their ankles from the harsh bite of the metal shin guard’s edges.

‘Very nice, gentlemen, you almost look like gladiators! Swords and shields will be issued in the arena, just to make sure nobody decides to start the fighting early, or looks to use their weapons in some desperate bid for freedom! And for those of you who are here as condemned men, let me remind you that the guards accompanying us will beat the blood-stained piss out of you if you so much as look like making a run for it. Come along then!’

The lanista led the group down a stairway and into a sloping tunnel lit at intervals by freshly set torches. Velox laughed at the look of bemusement on Dubnus’s face.

‘You didn’t think we were going to stroll over to the Flavian through the sort of crowd that will already have gathered, did you? We’d be mobbed the second we set foot outside the gates, and it’d take an age to push our way through. This is much quicker …’

The tunnel ran downhill at a slight gradient for fifty paces before joining another, larger underground corridor, and Marcus realised that they had reached a junction of several such concealed walkways.

‘This is where the tunnels from all of the schools meet. It’s not far from here to the arena.’

The group marched on in a direction that Marcus judged to be eastward, and after a moment’s walking the dim light ahead of them resolved itself into a stairway leading upwards into the morning sunlight, while the dimly lit tunnel ran on to the west and, he presumed, into the bowels of the arena itself. At the top of the stairs they stepped out into a crowded space filled with gladiators of all types, the city folk kept at a respectful distance on all sides by a ring of arena guards, and Sannitus raised his voice as he pushed his way into the crowd.

‘Now then you Gauls, you beast men, you fighters of the Great School, make way for the greatest gladiators in the world! Make way for the men of the Dacian Ludus!’

A barrage of ribaldry and foul language met his apparent bombast, but Marcus could see that most of it was good natured despite the obvious nerves on display among the men that would fight and possibly die that day. Another man of roughly the same age as the veteran lanista stepped forward, a giant of a man with a bald head whose scalp was scarred as if by the claws of some vicious beast, and with one eye socket concealed by a patch. He wrapped the Dacian lanista in a bearlike hug, lifting Sannitus clean off his feet with a growl of welcome, and two more men crowded in to make their greetings, mutual respect evident on the faces of all four.

‘We’re not too late then?’

The one-eyed man laughed.

‘With this lot organising the parade? Not likely.’

Sticking together in their tight group, the Dacians looked around them with the understandable curiosity of men who might well be looking upon either their victims or their killers to be. One or two of the more experienced veterans recognised previous opponents, and stepped out of the huddle to make the clasp and enjoy a moment of conversation with men who, mortal enemies though they might briefly have been, were now simply fellow professionals, subject to the same hopes and doubts with which they themselves were struggling.

‘Gladiators!’ A strong voice rang out over the throng, snapping heads round as the fighters anticipated the command to move. ‘Follow the usual path to the starting point please …’

The three friends went along with their group, most of whom clearly knew where they were going, walking around the towering arena past the eastern gate.

‘That’s the Gate of Life.’ Velox hooked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Win your bout, or lose well enough to avoid a fatal wound and win the emperor’s favour, and you’ll make it back to the ludus even if they have to carry you back.’ They walked on around the amphitheatre’s curved walls, and at length he pointed forward at the gate in the amphitheatre’s western side. ‘On the other hand, if you die, or lose so badly that you have to receive the mercy stroke, or simply incur the big man’s wrath for not fighting hard enough, then you’ll be carried out through that gate. The Gate of Death.’

He was silent for a moment, as the straggling procession passed under the infamous arch in silence.

‘There, see?’ He pointed to a tunnel opening close to the gate. ‘From here that tunnel runs back to the east, under the arena all the way from here to the spolarium on the far side of the Morning School. If you die in the arena, then the staff take your corpse in there to be stripped of its weapons and armour, and to keep the poor sods that weren’t good enough or fast enough from putting off the lads that haven’t fought yet. And here’s the worst part of it …’ He pointed to the crowds gathered about the gate. ‘They’ve been waiting there most of the night, making sure they get the prime spots, and get to see the dead men as they’re carried out.’

‘Fucking ghouls.’

A fighter walking before them in the smooth egg-shaped, full-face helmet of a secutor spat the words over his shoulder, and Velox laughed in response to the venom in his voice.

‘Ghouls they are, that’s true enough. But if you couldn’t take a joke then you shouldn’t have joined!’

The anonymous gladiator laughed bitterly, his face hidden by the helmet’s smooth iron face and his eyes invisible in the holes cut into the mask to allow him some limited vision.

‘As if I had any choice in the matter.’

‘Ah yes, that was true for the first few years, wasn’t it Glaucus, but it’s not quite the case these days. You’re no longer the bankrupt who was forced into the arena to pay off your creditors, are you? How much did it take to tempt you into the games this time round?’

Glaucus, who Marcus supposed was easy enough to identify despite the anonymity of his enclosed helmet given the absence of the little finger of his sword hand, turned his head to be better heard, a wry note in his muffled voice.

‘Not as much as they’re paying to see you, eh “Master of Carnage”?’

Velox grinned back at him.

‘Probably not, but I’ll bet good money that getting a nice big payment isn’t all the attraction, is it? Some of them may be ghouls, but there’s something about their adulation that just hooks us back into the game, isn’t there, even though we know we might end up leaving the arena feet first that last time?’

The gladiators marched through the Arch of Titus and down into the Forum, through crowds gathered on either side of the road behind a barrier of praetorians. In the shadow of the Capitoline Hill, the remainder of the procession was gathered awaiting the order to march.

‘Acrobats, dancing girls, musicians, gladiators, dwarfs pretending to be gladiators … Fuck me!’ What in the name of Cocidius are those?!’

Velox smirked at Dubnus’s stunned reaction.

‘Elephants. They come from far to the south of Africa. Big bastards, aren’t they? Imagine facing a dozen of those on the battlefield.’

The Tungrian stared up at the closest of the beasts as they walked past, grimacing at the sizeable heap of dung that had accumulated beneath its hind quarters.

‘I reckon a few hundred well-thrown spears would give them something to think about.’

Velox raised an eyebrow.

‘And I reckon all you’d do with your spears would be to get them angry. Do you really think you’d want to see something that big angry at close quarters?’

Dubnus shrugged.

‘I’ll worry about it when I have to deal with it.’ He looked up and down the parade. ‘They do this for every day of the games?’

‘Every day. It gives the public a chance to see the gladiators, to prove that they’re in good condition for the fight and to see what’s in each man’s face. Does he look ready to fight for his life, and to kill, or does he just look like a victim? That and the elephants. Everybody loves elephants …’

Dubnus shook his head in wonder, then noticed something else that made him frown.

‘And the big man with the hammer? Is he going to fight with that?’

The gladiator smiled.

‘That’s Charun, or at least it’s the man who plays his part. If you die in the arena, then before you’re carried away to be stripped that bastard gives your head a sharp tap with the hammer and stoves in your skull, just enough to make sure you really are dead. I suppose it’s the quickest way of making sure that no one’s faking it, and to put anyone that’s still breathing out of their misery, but even so …’

They joined the tail end of the parade, watching as a group of a dozen lictors pushed their way through to the front with the customary bundles of fasces resting on their shoulders. Marcus saw his friend’s baffled look and explained their function, while Velox accepted the plaudits of those members of the crowd who had realised who he was.

‘They’re a sort of state bodyguard, although the twelve men assigned to escort Commodus when he goes out and about are really there to look after the emperor’s dignity rather than act as bodyguards. The bundles of rods they’re carrying represent their right to beat some respect into anyone who’s stupid enough to get in their way and by association impede the great man’s progress, and they’re here to make sure that the parade progresses to schedule, once he’s entered the arena. It’s not just the emperor that gets them, most senior public officials have a few to make sure that nobody gets away with showing them any disrespect. Even a Vestal Virgin will have a lictor to escort her to a ceremony, if her attendance is requested-’

‘Although that’s more to safeguard the men of the city than to prevent her from being ravished!’

They laughed at the old joke and Glaucus bowed, clearly enjoying himself behind the faceless helmet.

A moment later the distant arena erupted in a roar of approval, and Glaucus turned to hail Velox, who was chatting with several excitable-looking matrons at the crowd’s edge.

‘That’s the emperor’s arse in his seat then! Come on Velox, stop trying to make the women wet! It’s time to go walkies again! And make sure you don’t step in any elephant shit, that stuff’s three-feet deep!’