‘And how many of these mob fighters do you have, Julianus? Ten. A dozen?’
The Dacian procurator smiled back at him.
‘Only three. But three men of such a quality that I expect them to go through their assailants without any problem whatsoever.’
‘And how many Dacians will you throw at these newcomers?’
Julianus shrugged, affecting to neither know nor care, despite his lanista’s very careful instructions on the subject.
‘That’s a level of detail somewhat deeper than I usually bother myself with, although I do recall Sannitus muttering something about a two to one fight.’
He looked at his fingernails, but Novius saw an opening and went for it.
‘Two to one? But if they’re as good as you say, surely they can cope with stronger odds than that? Perhaps we need to make a wager on the subject?’
Julianus looked up at him from beneath hooded eyelids.
‘A wager? But Novius, surely the last time we gambled on the result of a fight you lost a—’
‘And now’s my best chance to make it back, from the sound of it. A thousand sestertii, eh, but on a three to one fight?’
Unable to back down, Julianus decided to attack.
‘A thousand? No, five thousand.’
Novius recoiled.
‘Five?’ He looked about him, realising that he’d manoeuvred himself into a corner from which there was no escape. ‘Very well, five.’ He waved a hand at the arena’s procurator, and Julianus smiled at him while a small part of him started worrying as to how Sannitus was going to react to the change of plan. ‘With our colleague here to ensure fair play, eh? And, before you leap to your feet to scurry off and warn that animal of a lanista of yours, that bet’s good just as long as there’s no warning for these new commoners of yours. Let your men discover that the odds against them have changed when the Dacians jump out of their pits, eh? Or will that be too much for them?’
Julianus shrugged, knowing that having raised the stake so high he had little choice in the matter.
‘As you say, let’s see how real gladiators cope with surprises.’
Sigilis led the small party into the domus’s garden and took his seat under the shade of the circle of trees that protected his outside dining area.
‘Do sit down, Tribune, and tell me your story.’
Scaurus took his seat.
‘Forgive me, Senator, if I detail one of my men to take an interest in this magnificent garden. It would not do for us to be overheard.’ The senator nodded, and one of the two soldiers who had accompanied Julius paced away steadily towards the massive wall that guarded the property, while the other walked steadily towards the house. ‘So, you will be pleased to hear, three of the four men who have terrorised Rome for the last few years have been dealt with by my vengeful centurion.’
He briefly detailed the deaths of Dorso, Brutus and Pilinius, and with the mention of the last of the three Sigilis smiled slowly.
‘With regard to that particular disgusting specimen of twisted humanity and his cronies, I’m genuinely pleased to hear your news. I knew that something had happened to them, from the rumours sweeping the city, but for the delivery of their justice to be so fitting …’ He looked across the immaculate garden to where the soldier set to search for any eavesdroppers had reached the wall, turned about and was walking back towards them in the same slow, deliberate manner. ‘But what of the fourth? Which one of them still survives?’
‘Mortiferum.’
‘I should have known it …’ He shook his head knowingly. ‘And how do you expect to get to him, might I ask?’
‘So there you see it. The Flavian arena in all its glory.’
Velox gestured to the view through the closely spaced iron bars that protected the viewing point out onto the arena’s sand, grinning as Dubnus and Horatius crowded forward to peer up at the tiered rows of seats on the amphitheatre’s far side. Their window out onto the fighting surface was at ground level, the room in which they stood part of the arena’s labyrinth of underground passages and chambers. Looking up, they could see that every seat was filled, the packed galleries teeming with a mass of humanity whose sole instinct seemed to be to bay for the blood of the men pacing forward across the fighting surface before them. With their heads only five above the arena’s surface, the four men’s view out across the sand was unimpeded, although there were only two fighters on show and neither of them was showing any sign of hostility towards the other. Armed with long rectangular shields and what looked like smooth wooden cudgels, they were advancing slowly towards a hastily installed grove of small potted trees in the amphitheatre’s centre.
‘You’ve seen all this before, haven’t you?’
Their escort’s quiet question in Marcus’s ear was couched in a knowing tone of voice, and his answer was equally amused.
‘Yes. But I was usually sitting in the expensive seats.’
The champion gladiator grinned wryly.
‘Gives you a different perspective, eh?’
The Roman nodded, pointing up at the low ceiling above their heads.
‘And the noise!’
The packed stands over them were booming with a raucous cacophony, as the crowd yelled, bellowed and hooted their preferences for the fight underway before them, the massive structure seeming to shake with the reverberations. Dubnus shook his head in amazement.
‘What are they shouting?’
Velox put a finger to his ear.
‘Listen carefully and you’ll make it out.’
The big Briton tipped his head, and after a moment realised that the crowd were shouting two words in a seemingly unending chorus.
‘Black Brutus! Black Brutus! Black Brutus!’
‘Black Brutus?’
The gladiator pointed at the arena before them, indicating an iron cage large enough to hold two men at best, its door open wide in anticipation of a prisoner of some nature.
‘You see the empty cage? Those two are beast fighters. It looks like they’re playing a rather dangerous game that was only invented last year, which I suppose you might call “putting the blood-crazed man-eating cat back in his box without becoming his lunch”. Any minute now there’s going to be—’
A trapdoor within the circle of trees swung upwards, and out of the yawning gap in the fighting surface a glossy black feline monster sprang out onto the sand. Driven to fresh paroxysms of excitement by the animal’s sudden appearance, the sixty-thousand-strong crowd came to its collective feet, bellowing the same two words over and over again as the two men facing the cat eyed it unhappily over the rims of their shields. Dubnus shook his head in disbelief.
‘What the fuck sort of animal is that?’
Mortiferum shook his head in amusement at the Briton’s awed question.
‘You don’t get many leopards in Britannia then? That, my friend, is a four-legged killer of men. He’s a rarity, being black, but he’s just as deadly as his spotted brethren, if not more so. Apparently most black leopards are smaller than usual, but not only is that bastard bigger than the norm, he fights with just as much cunning as my brother Mortiferum, if not a little more viciously. Just watch what happens next …’
As he spoke, the midnight-black cat sprang forward, hooking its claws over the rim of the closer of the two shields and using its two-hundred-pound weight to drag the defence down. Finding himself face-to-face with the beast’s snarling maw, the fighter hastily released his grip on the shield’s handle and stepped back with his cudgel raised to strike, but by mischance managed to find the edge of another trapdoor with his heel, tripping backwards to land hard in the sand, the cudgel spilling uselessly from his hand as he hit the hard surface.
With a coughing growl that was audible over the crowd’s own bloodthirsty roar, the leopard pounced, springing forward again and landing on the fallen beast-fighter’s body as he struggled to rise, its head snapping forward to bury long incisors deep into his throat. As the dying man struggled ineffect
ually beneath his assailant’s weight, the other man stepped in, swinging his cudgel in a long arc to connect with the leopard’s hind quarters, smack of its impact raising a fresh cheer of approval from the crowd, but the cat, as if inspired by the blow’s stinging power, turned and stepped off its victim with a chunk of his windpipe visible in its mouth. Spitting out the grisly evidence of his partner’s demise, it stalked towards the remaining man with the slow self-assured pace of a killer, eying its victim for the weak spot at which it would strike.
Tossing away his shield in an abrupt movement that sent the crowd into fresh raptures, the sole remaining bestiarius took a two-handed grip of his club, rotating his wrists until the weapon’s heavy head was behind his neck, seeming to rise onto his toes as he waited for the leopard to attack. In a flurry of motion the beast pounced forward, but where it had struck the fighter’s partner on the chest, the surviving fighter swayed to one side with a dancer’s grace, snapping the club round in a vicious arc that smashed its very tip into the big cat’s head with enough force to send the beast sprawling onto the sand, its paws twitching as it clung to consciousness.
Looking at the club in his hands the bestiarius tossed it to one side, walking to where his mate’s discarded shield lay flat on the sand.
‘No!’
The bellowed command from another of the viewing positions away to their right had no apparent impact on the bestiarius, and he took up the shield, turned on the spot and walked back towards the semi-conscious animal with a purposeful stride. A dozen or so animal handlers burst from doors set in the arena’s walls, hurrying across the fighting surface with their nets and restraining poles, but it was clear to the audience that they would be too late. A barrage of catcalls and imprecations rained down on the fighter as he raised his fallen colleague’s shield as high as he could before pounding its brass-rimmed edge down onto the stunned leopard’s throat.
The big animal’s back arched convulsively as its windpipe was smashed, the bestiarius landing a second vicious blow to ensure that it would die of asphyxiation before he was wrestled away from the doomed creature with the crowd’s boos ringing around the amphitheatre. Velox shook his head as the bestiarius was dragged away kicking and shouting.
‘Let’s hope that his revenge was worth it, because he’ll be paying for it with his life. And that monster was a crowd favourite, which means that they’ll still be baying for blood when the first proper fight of the afternoon starts. I pity the poor bastards who’ve drawn that slot, because one of them’s dead for certain with the mob in that mood. Come on, let’s go and get some food.’
He led them back into the huge building’s depths, torch and lamplight swiftly replacing that provided by the windows into the arena.
‘Mind you, there’s a lesson there. Always keep your feet flat to the ground, and shuffle step, feeling the way with your toes. If you fall over in the middle of a fight like he did, then your life is likely to be equally short and unpleasant. Now, here we are.’
He led them through a doorway into a scene that resembled something from the underworld, organised chaos by torchlight as dozens of cooks worked to complete the meals that would be taken up the long staircases to feed the dignitaries perched high above them.
‘And you can fuck off as w—’ The nearest man to them stared hard at Velox for a moment before cracking a broad smile. ‘Welcome, champion! I won a gold aureus on your last fight! Here, have a pie!’
He handed the gladiator a hot piece of pastry, staring past him at the three friends. ‘I suppose you want these three feeding as well?’
Velox shrugged and smiled conspiratorially.
‘That depends on whether you want my tip for this afternoon to be supported by well-nourished fighters or not.’
‘Here!’ The cook passed them each a pie with almost indecent haste, looking over his shoulder to the other end of the kitchen where the master cook stood watching his men’s progress. ‘Now, tell me quickly and get away, before that old sod sees me feeding you!’
The champion gladiator winked, taking a mouthful of the pie.
‘Mmm. Excellent …’
The cook lifted a clenched fist with a snarl that was only partially playful.
‘You’ll get me—’
A shout from the kitchen’s far end warned them that they had been spotted.
‘Oi! Get the fuck out of my kitchen!’
The cook raised his fist in earnest this time, advancing on them with a pleading look.
‘I’m seeing them off, never fear!’
Velox took pity on him.
‘The mid-afternoon wake-up bout. Bet on the three centurions!’
Allowing the winking cook to hustle them out of the kitchen, the four men ate their pies, blowing on the hot filling as they nibbled at the pastry.
‘Come on, we can eat these as we go. Follow me and I’ll show you a place you only want to visit once.’
Once outside the domus’s sprawling property, Scaurus raised an eyebrow at his first spear.
‘Well then, did you get what you needed?’
Julius looked in turn at the men who had accompanied him, and the older of the two nodded happily.
‘Everything, Tribune.’
Scaurus nodded grimly, indicating the two men lounging brazenly on the next street corner.
‘Good. Make a start as quickly as you can. I fear the senator has very little time left.’
‘Well then, Tettius Julianus, I hear that you’re giving us all a bit of a treat at the end of the day?’
The procurator started at the quiet voice in his ear. While his attention had been on an attractive young woman in the company of one of his fellow senators, the imperial chamberlain had left the imperial box and strolled onto the senatorial podium that ran alongside it, his approach silent until he’d spoken in Julianus’s ear.
‘Yes!’ His voice sounded high-pitched, and he cursed Cleander’s ability to make him feel guilty in even the most innocent of situations. ‘We had a trio of walk-ins yesterday, three former centurions all of whom seem to be as capable as the best of my men.’
‘Really?’ The chamberlain arched an eyebrow, clearly enjoying his discomfiture. ‘As good as the Death Bringer?’
Julianus shrugged.
‘Maybe not that good, but …’
‘Good enough for you to risk their lives against three desperate prisoners of war apiece though?’
Julianus smiled weakly.
‘My lanista tells me—’
‘Your lanista? Surely as the procurator of an imperial gladiatorial school you take a close personal interest in the abilities of the men you send into the arena? After all, as I’m sure I hardly need to remind you, Caesar takes a very dim view of things when the men sent onto the sand to amuse him are proven to lack the necessary skills and bravery to entertain him. After all, he is exceptionally skilled with any weapon you might care to mention …’ Cleander raised both eyebrows in mock question. ‘We’ll just have to hope that your lanista has sufficient discernment to ensure that Commodus will be entertained on this occasion.’
He waited for a moment expectantly and then, just as Julianus was about to speak, smiled widely.
‘I’m just having my fun with you, Senator, don’t pay me any attention. I’m sure your new men will be sudden death personified once they come face-to-face with a handful of underfed Dacians. Tell me though, I am curious – where did these three men come from? I’d hate to think that serving soldiers might have sought refuge from their duty in your school, no matter how risky an alternative it might make …’
Julianus gabbled an answer into the chamberlain’s long pause, relieved to find himself on firmer ground.
‘No fear of that, Chamberlain, no fear at all! One of them’s a legion man listed as dead – I had my slave check with the military records – and the other two are Tungrians, honourably discharged. I checked that with their tribune in person, because I …’
He fell silent, waiting for the Chamberlain
’s intrigued expression to turn into speech.
‘Tungrians? I see. And the legion man, what’s his name?’
The procurator wracked his memory for a moment.
‘What did he call himself … ah, yes, his name is Horatius.’
Cleander’s smile broadened.
‘Is it indeed! Well there’s a happy coincidence! I’ve been hearing tales of a centurion with the same name who gave some men of mine a most thorough display of his fighting skills only a few weeks ago. Let’s hope that your Horatius shares his skills, for if he does we’re in for the most gripping performances for a good while. Now, do carry on considering that young lady’s finely turned ankle …’
He patted Julianus on the shoulder and turned back to the imperial box, the guards’ crossed spears opening to admit him to the emperor’s presence. The procurator realised that he was sweating profusely despite the day’s unseasonal cold, his appetite for covert examination of the city’s aristocratic females suddenly absent.
Velox led the friends through the tunnel’s cool gloom, the floor sloping gradually downwards before levelling out to run under the arena’s length to the east, its walls lit by blazing torches that provided just enough illumination to see. A familiar tang filled the air, and their guide inhaled deeply.
‘There it is. That’s the smell I associate with the arena. Blood.’
The tunnel started to climb, and he gestured to an opening on the right. They followed him in and found themselves in a torchlit chamber some thirty feet square and ten feet high, its floor filled with tables large enough to accommodate a man’s corpse.
‘This is the spolarium’s lowest level. Once Charun’s stoved their brains in, the bodies are carried down here to be relieved of their kit. Corpses go out of the building on carts for disposal, equipment goes to the armamentarium to be reconditioned for the next man to use it. Efficient, isn’t it?’
On one of the tables lay the body of the dead beast fighter, stripped of his clothing and in the process of being washed clean of the blood that had poured from the dreadful wound in his throat. In one corner a man was crouched over something large and dark, and Mortiferum led them over to stand beside him.
The Emperor's Knives: Empire VII (Empire 7) Page 28