‘Come on then, let’s see if you’ve got as much bastard in you as your mates.’
Marcus stopped just outside of the reach of Hermes’s sword and stood ready, both hands hanging easily at his sides and his eyes alert for any sign of an attack. Sannitus laughed, motioning his man Edius to give him a weapon.
‘You’re not stupid, are you?’
His answer was delivered in a deliberately dismissive tone, but the younger man’s gaze never wavered as he stared at Hermes.
‘Not stupid enough to let a man who’s already been humiliated twice by my brothers in arms have a free shot at me.’
Hermes sneered, but Sannitus nodded his appreciation.
‘You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that, Soldier. If you really are a soldier?’ He pursed his lips and looked the younger man up and down, shaking his head in apparent disbelief. ‘You really don’t look the type, do you? Sure you wouldn’t be happier up the hill with the praetorians?’
Marcus shrugged, keeping his eyes fixed on the gladiator.
‘I’ll let you be the judge of that.’ He waved away the shield that Edius was offering him. ‘I’ll take another sword, if it’s all the same to you.’
Sannitus shook his head in amusement.
‘You can defend yourself with your stick of celery if you like. I’ve never had a man elect to fight for his place with two knives before, and it takes us years of hard work with the best swordsmen to produce a competent dimachaerus, but if you think you’re good enough to fight that way then you just go ahead.’ He nodded to Hermes. ‘Ready?’
The gladiator growled his answer, his gaze locked on Marcus in a way that was clearly supposed to be intimidatory.
‘Let me at him.’
Horatius leaned closer to Dubnus, muttering a question in his ear.
‘Is he good enough?’
The Briton laughed softly.
‘Just watch.’
Sannitus turned to Marcus, who was weighing the two practice swords in his hands, still watching Hermes intently.
‘Ready?’
As he opened his mouth to answer, the gladiator took a deep breath, and, in that instant for which the young centurion had been waiting, he closed his eyes momentarily. Marcus stamped forward with his left leg and lifted his right, bent at the knee, snapping his foot forward and twisting his body to plant it squarely in the gladiator’s chest. The kick catapulted Hermes backwards to land hard on his backside, while Marcus stalked forwards with his swords levelled. His opponent scrabbled backwards, frantically retreating in the face of the weapons’ twin threats, staggering untidily to his feet with a scowl of fury.
‘Bastard!’
Marcus grinned for the first time, showing his teeth and smirking at the gladiator.
‘You need to do something about that blink. I doubt it pays for a professional fighting man to have quite such an obvious tell, do you?’ He flicked a glance at Sannitus. ‘If you really are a gladiator? After all, you don’t really look the type at the moment, do you?’
The trainer nodded wryly, realising that all he had achieved through his crude attempt to worry the young centurion a moment before had been to sharpen the man’s edge, but Hermes had clearly missed the point.
‘You cheeky young cunt! I’ll have your fucking liver out!’
Sannitus stepped forward, raising a hand.
‘Enough! We’ll—’
Hermes pushed past him with a snarl of rage.
‘Fuck off, Sannitus! This turd’s mine!’ He stormed forward, punching with his shield to take advantage of Marcus’s apparent lack of any means of defence, and forcing the younger man to dance backwards, away from his lunges. ‘Not so fucking clever now, are you boy?’ He attacked again, and this time Marcus feinted right before sidestepping left and steering away the gladiator’s blade with almost contemptuous ease, looking pointedly down at the gladiator’s exposed right leg as he did so. Sannitus shook his head in dismay, turning to look at Dubnus.
‘Am I right in thinking this isn’t going to end well?’
The Briton shrugged.
‘That depends on your man.’
Marcus backed away as Hermes bore down on him again, raising his swords wide.
‘It’s honours even at this point, Hermes. You’ve been on your backside, and you’ve chased me around for a while. We could just drop the weapons and call it a draw?’
The gladiator sneered over the top of his shield.
‘Fuck you! Offering me a draw when I’ve got you running scared? I can smell the sh—’
He jerked to his right as Marcus leapt forward, realising even as he did so that the attack was only a feint, twisting desperately to counter the changing threat as his opponent sprang off his left foot and struck at his shielded side, realising too late that this too was bluff as the weak sword stroke merely touched the shield. Far too late, the gladiator realised that his abrupt switch of defence had left the entire right side of his body undefended, his sword nothing better than a forgotten and useless piece of wood in his right hand. The other sword hit his right knee with enough force to buckle his leg, and Hermes found himself lying on his back clutching his leg while his opponent turned away, dropping his swords to the sandy floor.
‘Bastaaaard! I’ll fucking kill you for—’
He fell silent as Marcus turned back and stooped quickly to take his throat in a hard-fingered grip. When the younger man spoke his voice was cold and matter of fact.
‘I’ll remember that. And if we ever, ever, meet in the arena with iron in our hands, you’d be as well to cut your own throat before I get to you, or you’ll spend a long time dying.’
‘Enough!’
Sannitus stepped in between the two men, pushing Marcus away.
‘I can usually spot the real animals before they ever pick up a sword, but every now and then I miss one. Like you, you monster.’ Marcus stared back at him for a moment before realising from the man’s tone that the term was intended as a compliment. ‘What’s your name?’
Resisting the urge to declare his true identity, Marcus replied with the assumed name under which he served in the Tungrian cohort.
‘Marcus. Marcus Tribulus Corvus.’
Sannitus nodded slowly.
‘Perfect. Every man needs a name for the arena, something that the crowd can shout out when you stand before them with your sword red with blood. Names like Velox, or Flamma, short names that the crowd can punch out in a chorus.’
He pointed to Horatius.
‘You’ll be “Centurion”. And you, Dubnus is it? Yes, “Dubnus”, that’s a good name for a crowd, short and simple. But you, my lad, since I predict you’re going to give my two best men something new to think about, we’re going to need something powerful for the fans to get hold of. And I think “Corvus” will do very nicely.’
‘It looks as if the young fool’s actually decided to go into the ludus after Mortiferum then?’
Scaurus spread his arms wide with a helpless shrug at his glowering first spear. A messenger sent into the city soon after first light, when Dubnus had failed to make an appearance at the routine dawn officer’s meeting, had confirmed what the first spear had strongly suspected.
‘And in his place you’d have done what, exactly?’
The fuming first spear shook his head in exasperation.
‘And in his place, would you have left your wife and baby son to fend for themselves in the almost certain outcome of your death? Would you have taken your best friend into the bloody ludus to die with you?’
His tribune sat back in his chair, contemplating the ceiling for a moment.
‘I doubt he had any choice in the matter. You of all people know just how stubborn Dubnus can be – after all, he put up with you as a centurion for several years, I believe? And in any case, you may be slightly premature in your certainty that they won’t—’
A knock at the door heralded the arrival of a soldier sent with a message from Otho, the day’s duty centurion. Saluting as s
martly as he knew how to, mindful of his senior centurion’s ever judgemental eye, he stamped to attention and delivered his message in a breathless gabble.
‘Centurion’s respects, sir, and he has a man at the main gate asking to see you, sir! Man from the city, sir!’
Scaurus shot a glance at Julius to confirm that his subordinate was as bemused as he felt, nodding his assent. The first spear stood, directing an order to the waiting soldier.
‘Very well, Soldier, ask Centurion Otho to escort him here please. Dismissed.’
Once the enlisted man had repeated the stamping and saluting expected of him and left the room, Scaurus sat back in his chair with a thoughtful look on his face, while the first spear paced across the room to look out of its window.
‘That’s even quicker than I would have expected.’
Scaurus nodded thoughtfully.
‘Quite so. Let’s hope that this infers good news, shall we?’
Otho himself showed their visitor into the office, his battered face set in a concerned expression. He saluted and withdrew, his hard stare at the back of the man’s head speaking volumes for the worry that had spread across the camp once the two centurions’ absence had become apparent. Scaurus rose gravely from his chair and paced around the desk, offering the visitor his hand. The newcomer was smartly dressed in a formal toga, his boots shining from the frequent application of wax, and his thinning hair was cut short in apparent defiance of the current fashion. A slave waited behind him with the look of a man who was used to keeping his mouth shut and his eyes and ears open, and he watched in respectful silence as his master bowed to Scaurus and spoke in a confident tone that gave Julius the feeling that he was a man well accustomed to getting what he wanted.
‘Greetings, Tribune Scaurus. I can only apologise for making such an unexpected visit, and for not sending a message in advance to request a meeting. I am Lucius Tettius Julianus, procurator of the Imperial Dacian Ludus.’
Scaurus bowed in turn, his disarming smile inviting his guest to share his amusement at the unexpected nature of the visit.
‘Greetings, Procurator, and welcome to what is for the time being a small part of Britannia transplanted to Rome, at least until we receive orders to march north again.’ They clasped arms. ‘This is my first spear, Julius.’
The other man bowed to Julius, and the big centurion gravely lowered his own head in reply. Scaurus gestured to the spare seat and walked back around the desk to his own chair.
‘Please do take a seat. Might I pour you a cup of this rather acceptable wine? It’s diluted, of course, in due deference to the earliness of the hour.’
Julianus tipped his head in grateful acceptance of the offer, sipping at the drink and nodding his approval. Scaurus tasted his own cup, barely sipping the watered-down wine before raising questioning eyes to his guest.
‘So, Procurator, how might we be of assistance to you?’
The visitor took a ring from his finger, passing it to the tribune.
‘As I say, I hold the rank of procurator, reporting directly to the imperial chamberlain, and I am responsible for the management of the Dacian Ludus.’
Scaurus inclined his head in recognition of his guest’s exalted status, looking at the procurator’s badge of office for a moment before handing it back with a respectful inclination of his head.
‘A weighty responsibility, Lucius. Especially these days …’
He left the statement unfinished, and the procurator took his conversational bait without hesitation.
‘How right you are. The emperor’s rather close interest in every aspect of the gladiatorial spectacle means that we have to produce the finest swordsmen in the empire if we are to satisfy his expectations.’
‘I can only imagine the pressure involved. But then you have those two brothers, do you not? Velox and …’
Scaurus looked at the ceiling as if trying to remember the other name.
‘Mortiferum. Yes, we do, and by the gods, they’re a superb pair of fighters, so good that I’ve bowed to my lanista’s suggestion and named them both as my first rank fighters despite the unusual nature of such an arrangement. However, and as I’m sure you can imagine, we do rather tend to go through the second and third rank men. So, when three candidates for the ludus present themselves together, and proceed, one after another, to comprehensively outfight one of my more effective men, well, I’m sure I can leave it to your imagination to work out what their potential might be. Not to mention their prospects.’
Scaurus smiled his agreement, raising an eyebrow to Julius.
‘Three men of such skill? I can indeed see what a gift that might seem. But of course, there’s always the risk of taking on a man who is in reality still a serving soldier. I can only assume that you examine each ex-soldier’s record with the very greatest of care?’
Julianus nodded.
‘Indeed I do. Which, as I expect you have already perceived, is what brings me here at such short notice. I have two men from your cohort in my ludus at this very moment, both claiming to have recently bought their way out of their commissions, and therefore claiming the right to take the oath.’
‘Ah.’
Scaurus’s expression went from relaxed bonhomie to shifty discomfort, and Julianus smiled sympathetically.
‘Ah indeed.’ He leaned forwards and lowered his voice, shooting Julius a conspiratorial glance. ‘Please believe me when I assure you that your own internal administrative procedures really are none of my business, and to be frank with you both, you’ve done me a huge service in freeing them up to seek their fortunes in the arena.’ He leaned back with an expansive gesture. ‘I can see them earning the ludus a good deal of gold. A very good deal of it. And some of that gold will, in time, work its way down to them with, I’m sure, the adulation of the crowd, the swooning services of a variety of grateful matrons, and so on. I’m sure we’ll all enjoy sharing in their reflected glory – you really haven’t lived until your female companion for the evening has spent the day at the arena enjoying the aphrodisiac effect of watching grown men tear into each other with sharp iron!’
He leaned back in his chair with a smug smile, and Scaurus leaned forward with an intrigued expression.
‘Now that I would like to see!’
‘And you shall, Rutilius Scaurus, as my personal guest when your men fight in the arena for the first time. I suspect that we’ll be making them part of a spectacle that will have Rome buzzing for days. Anyway, all I need to be assured of their freedom to take the oath is to see those two precious sheets of bronze that declare them both to be honourably discharged as citizens of the empire, with all the witness seals intact, of course.’
Scaurus shot Julius a swift glance.
‘Their diplomas?’
‘Yes indeed, that’s all. Just show me their diplomas and I’ll be on my way. You do have them to hand, I presume?’
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, thei
r 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—’
The Emperor's Knives: Empire VII (Empire 7) Page 23