Scourge of Rome

by Douglas Jackson

  ‘You saw Ariston’s body?’

  Serpentius nodded dumbly.

  ‘Serpentius,’ Valerius hissed. ‘You have to concentrate. If you give up you’re a dead man.’

  The former gladiator looked up and Valerius shivered at the message in his eyes. ‘We’ve been dead men for years, Valerius, only we won’t acknowledge it.’

  A bitter laugh escaped Valerius’s lips. ‘If only our friends could see you now. Old Marcus, the lanista, Juva of the Waverider, and all those other men we fought beside. The great Serpentius led unresisting to his slaughter like a sacrificial lamb. Going to a coward’s death without putting up a fight.’

  Light flared in the leopard’s eyes at the word coward and Serpentius’s chains rattled as his muscles tensed. His upper lip twisted into its customary sneer. ‘Take these chains away and I’ll show you how to die, Roman.’

  ‘With a sword in your hand and a friend by your side?’ The Spaniard stared at him for a long time before he nodded. ‘Then help me.’

  King Sohaemus sat on his golden throne staring balefully at the chained figure surrounded by his guards. ‘The situation is clear. You killed a man – it matters not whether it was in a drunken brawl or that you have no memory of it – and under Emesan law you must be crucified.’ He turned to Valerius. ‘My respect for you forces me to allow you to speak for your friend, but,’ he shook his great head, ‘you must know it will count for nothing.’

  ‘What if I can prove he didn’t kill Ariston?’

  ‘All the evidence says he did.’

  ‘Even so …’

  The king waved a dismissive hand. ‘Speak, then. We are wasting time.’

  Valerius marched across the floor so he was standing directly in front of Serpentius. ‘You remember nothing?’

  ‘I remember a fight, and confusion.’

  ‘But you saw the wound in Ariston’s throat?’

  The Spaniard growled and would have spat, but he remembered where he was. ‘Butcher’s work, and from behind. I know I did not kill the Syrian because I have killed a hundred men and more, and every one of them looked into my eyes as they died.’

  ‘Lord, this means nothing,’ the guard commander interrupted. Valerius turned to stare at him and he lapsed into silence.

  ‘The king needs proof that Ariston’s death was not your work. Can you give him it?’

  Serpentius turned to the king and bowed low. When his head rose there was a gleam in his eye that contained a warning to any man who knew him. ‘Lord king, place a sword in my hand and six of your best men in front of me in full armour. Then you will see that the wound that killed the Syrian could not have been placed there by Serpentius of Avala.’ He shrugged, and a mirthless smile appeared on the ravaged face. ‘You see, I am an expert at my trade and this was the work of an amateur.’

  Valerius shook his head. ‘I don’t think King Sohaemus can spare six men.’ He nodded towards the doorway and Tabitha ushered in the display Valerius had requested. Slaves carried six spear shafts with the butts fixed into square wooden blocks for stability. Each shaft was topped with a water melon the size of a man’s head. A murmur of bemusement ran through the courtiers seated below the golden throne as the slaves placed them carefully in a circle five sword lengths in diameter. ‘Now, unshackle him.’ The request prompted an audible gasp and the beginning of a protest from the guard commander, but Sohaemus raised a hand for silence.

  ‘You will take responsibility for his actions?’

  Valerius felt Tabitha’s eyes on his back, but there was no way out now. ‘If he spills one drop of Emesan blood I am prepared to die for it.’

  ‘Very well,’ the king said. ‘Release him.’

  Two guards strode forward and removed the Spaniard’s chains. He rubbed his wrists where the iron rings had rubbed raw spots on his skin and flexed his shoulders. With a glare at the men guarding him he stepped forward into the circle of spears.

  ‘Your sword,’ Valerius ordered the nearest guard. The man looked towards his commander who gave the briefest nod of consent. He slipped the long blade from its scabbard and handed it hilt first to Valerius. ‘Are you ready?’ he asked Serpentius.

  ‘This is nothing but a child’s game!’ The impatient cry came from one of the Emesan aristocrats.

  ‘I’m ready,’ the Spaniard said. ‘Give me your knife.’ Valerius handed him the ornate dagger and he took it in his left hand. ‘Let’s get this done.’ He studied each of the melon-topped spears in turn as if he were trying to squeeze every detail from them, then closed his eyes. After a moment he repeated the operation.

  The men around the king sneered, and Sohaemus said: ‘In truth, Gaius Valerius Verrens, I do not see what cutting up a few melons is going to achieve.’

  ‘If you will give me a moment, lord.’ He turned to the nearest guard. ‘Blindfold him. Make sure he cannot see anything.’

  Now he had the attention of the entire room. Necks craned to gain a view as the guard removed his sash and tied it around Serpentius’s eyes. Even the king leaned forward for a better view. Valerius obliged him by walking silently across the circle and moving the melon-topped spear in front of him a foot to the left.

  ‘Are you certain he cannot see?’

  ‘Certain, lord.’

  ‘Good.’ He moved out of the circle. ‘Begin.’

  Valerius had witnessed Serpentius in action a thousand times, yet each time he found himself awed by the incredible swiftness and precision of the former gladiator’s sword work. The Spaniard had been born with a natural aptitude for killing, but his skills had been honed to a razor’s edge in the arena, where only speed, accuracy and an appetite for extreme violence kept a man alive. Serpentius must have marked his surroundings with the accuracy of a hawk fixing its target below. His feet never faltered and he was so quick none of the watchers registered a single stroke. A blur of movement. The sightless progress round the inner circle a continuous twirling dance. The path of the sword blade marked by a single gleam as it carved unerringly through the melon targets in a series of curving arcs, turning the air red with the sweet juice of the opened fruit. In what seemed less than a heartbeat only one melon remained. A groan went up from the spectators as they realized Serpentius was on the opposite side of the circle from the melon in front of the king, but the Spaniard didn’t hesitate. The eyes behind the blindfold homed in on their unseen target. His arm drew back and, with a flick of his left wrist, he sent Valerius’s dagger spinning towards the target the Roman had moved.

  ‘No!’ Sohaemus cried out as he saw death fly towards him, only for the dagger to pierce the green and gold outer skin of the melon, an inch from the edge.

  A collective sigh went up from the men in the room and Valerius went to his friend. As he took the sword from the former gladiator’s hand, he noticed that Serpentius’s ribs were heaving and sweat glistened on the hairs of his chest. The Spaniard reached up to unwind the sash from his face and Valerius found himself the focus of the piercing gaze he knew so well. Gradually the fire faded from the dark eyes and Serpentius let out a long breath. Valerius turned to face the king. Sohaemus stared at the dagger that had been kept from his heart by an inch of over-ripe fruit.

  ‘Does any man here still think that Serpentius of Avala killed my servant Ariston in such a crude fashion?’ Valerius’s eyes searched the room for any sign of dissent, but they were all looking to the king for their lead. Sohaemus pushed himself up from his throne and marched down the steps. He studied the melon that had been pierced by Valerius’s knife before reaching to pull the blade free.

  ‘I declare Serpentius of Avala innocent of this crime.’ He swept from the room followed by a crowd of his courtiers. Tabitha left with them and when he met her eyes Valerius was sure he saw her lips twitch in a smile.

  ‘Come,’ he said to Serpentius. ‘We have much to do.’

  They left the throne room side by side and the Spaniard turned to Valerius. ‘I thought you said you’d move the shaft a handspan to the left.
That must have been a good foot. What would you have done if I’d missed?’

  ‘You never miss.’

  XIV

  Valerius was studying a map of Judaea from Sohaemus’s library when he heard the shuffle of footsteps outside the door and Dimitrios the armourer begged entry.

  ‘Come in.’ Valerius rolled the map and the Greek marched in followed by four servants, who unwrapped their burdens at his order. Slaves had polished the body armour and helmet so they shone like glass and had an almost blinding lustre. When Valerius pulled the gladius from its scabbard he saw that the armourer had followed his instructions to the last detail. It was still a beautiful example of the sword-maker’s art, with the golden eagle glaring from the pommel, but Dimitrios had wrapped the hilt in a sleeve of wet leather which had dried tight to the polished bone beneath, resulting in a perfect grip.

  ‘Lord?’ Dimitrios held up the red tunic and scarlet cloak.

  ‘Must I?’ Valerius winced.

  ‘Of course, lord. The king’s gift must be perfect.’

  Grudgingly, Valerius stepped out of his tunic and into the new one, which Dimitrios belted at the waist with a chain of fine gold loops. He then helped the Roman into the ornate breastplate, buckled on wrist and shin greaves, and slung the leather baldric so the scabbard fell on his right hip. He draped the scarlet legate’s cloak across his shoulders and pinned it at the breast, stepping back to study the result with a look of pained reflection. Finally, he placed the plumed helmet on Valerius’s head with a flourish worthy of a fanfare of horns.

  Serpentius walked in as the armourer fussed with the folds of the cloak. ‘Very pretty,’ he whistled. ‘When does the war start, general?’

  ‘Don’t call me general,’ Valerius snapped, conscious he wasn’t even a soldier until they reached Titus, and who knew then? He’d already decided to present the armour to the Emperor’s son or some other deserving general at the first opportunity.

  ‘There is one more thing, lord.’ Dimitrios held out a final linen parcel. ‘A gift. The personal gift I mentioned and,’ he hesitated, ‘to be received in private.’

  Valerius nodded to Serpentius and the Spaniard shrugged and followed the servants from the room.

  Dimitrios waited until they were alone before he began to unwrap the parcel with nervous fingers. ‘It came to me, lord, that these are particularly dangerous times …’ He peeled back the final fold of linen and lifted out a perfect replica of the wooden fist fitted to Valerius’s right wrist on a toughened leather stock.

  Valerius studied the wooden hand with bemusement. What did he need with two of them? ‘I … I thank you, Dimitrios. I’m sure a spare will come in very useful. I can keep one for ceremonial occasions.’

  ‘But you don’t understand, lord.’ A mysterious smile wreathed the Greek’s features. ‘This is different entirely.’ He held out the wooden hand and Valerius vainly studied it for any anomalies. As he reached out he heard a sharp click and a glittering knife blade the length of his longest finger snapped from the centre knuckle of the wooden hand. Valerius automatically backed away from the bright iron and Dimitrios laughed at his discomfiture.

  ‘It will still hold a standard shield perfectly,’ the Greek cried enthusiastically. ‘But sometimes a man in battle – or in dangerous times – can profit from the element of surprise. I noted by the marks on the original that it has often been used as a defensive weapon. This has the added benefit of being potentially offensive.’

  ‘How does it work?’ Valerius reached out to touch the point with the tip of his finger and winced as he drew blood. Dimitrios tutted and handed him a cloth.

  ‘Why don’t you try it?’ the armourer suggested. ‘You will note that the weight, dimensions and balance are the same,’ he went on, as Valerius stripped off the cowhide stock of the original, slipped the new version over his stump and tightened the leather ties with his left hand. ‘In fact, it is identical in every detail but one. Where the fist meets the cowhide you will now find an angular protrusion. Simply press it firmly …’

  Valerius followed the instruction. The same sharp snick and he had a knife in his right hand. He twisted his wrist to study it from every angle and shook his head at the fiendish potential of having a concealed weapon like this at his disposal. ‘Do I have to walk around with it for the rest of the day?’

  Dimitrios took the hand and turned it. ‘Inside the fist you will find another small protrusion. Simply press it, place the point against a solid surface and push until the top button engages. Like so?’ He stepped away and looked to Valerius for the fitting expression of wonder his invention deserved.

  ‘It is unprincipled,’ Valerius began warily, ‘underhand, sly,’ the Greek nodded, his grin growing wider with each word, ‘dishonourable and quite possibly criminal. It is a marvel. I love it.’

  ‘It is based on the principles of Archimedes,’ Dimitrios explained proudly. ‘But I must give some credit to Philo of Byzantium for his treatise on experimental catapults. I combined Archimedes’ lever theory and Philo’s work with metal springs. That is what gives it the power. In a way it is the same as a bow, but the stresses and tensions are provided by the spring. The length of the blade is dependent on the dimensions of the hand, of course, plus a comparable length which extends back into the stock when the knife is retracted. It provides the necessary stability when the blade is in use, while the second protrusion holds it in place. The mechanism is quite robust. For care, a few drops of olive oil in the button holes. But I wouldn’t advise getting it too wet.’ Valerius waited for the inevitable explanation. ‘Rust,’ Dimitrios said. ‘Once it rusts you would be as well throwing it away.’

  ‘It is truly ingenious,’ Valerius said. ‘I look forward to showing it to King Sohaemus.’

  ‘Please, no.’ Dimitrios had a look of horror on his young face. ‘The king has become uncomfortable with innovation of late. When I suggested using a similar mechanism to improve his catapults he threatened to have me impaled. If he knew I had forged this for you, he would carry out his threat, but he would castrate me first. In the name of the Black Stone, please tell no one. Promise me.’

  ‘Of course,’ Valerius readily agreed. ‘It would be a pity to deprive the world of such a talent.’

  XV

  Serpentius walked in without warning as Valerius prepared for their departure the next day. ‘It seems you’re not the only Roman who will be riding with Sohaemus’s archers,’ he said. ‘A broad stripe tribune rode in last night with an escort of cavalry from Tripolis. According to Gaulan he was on his way to join Titus, but Judaean fanatics cut the coast road and he came inland rather than wait for a ship to Caesarea.’ Valerius considered the news as he dried himself. A broad stripe tribune meant a senior officer, probably the second in command of a unit. ‘He’ll be joining his legion as aide to the legate, perhaps even an aide to Titus himself.’ He felt Serpentius’s eyes on him. ‘It would be best if we didn’t meet. Tell Gaulan to structure the column to ensure it doesn’t happen.’ The Spaniard nodded, but Valerius could see something was troubling him. ‘You think I’m being over-cautious?’

  ‘You can never be too cautious when people are trying to kill you.’

  A grunt of acknowledgement. They’d discussed who might have murdered Ariston, raising a dozen possibilities but coming no nearer to an answer. The likelihood was that someone wanted to separate Valerius from Serpentius. Without the gladiator guarding his back he’d be a much easier target. But then why kill Ariston and not Serpentius, who’d been as vulnerable as he ever would be, drunk and alone in the Emesan alley? Then again, perhaps Ariston had been marked as a spy, or already had enemies in the city. Valerius would have liked to discuss the question with Tabitha, but he could hardly go pursuing her through the palace. It seemed likely they’d never know.

  He finished dressing just as light began to filter through the courtyard window. Now, a dilemma few other men had ever faced. The thought brought a wry smile to his face. Which hand should he wear
today? He oiled the stump of his arm and laid out the two artificial fists on the bed.

  Serpentius studied the wooden twins. ‘What …?’

  Belatedly Valerius remembered he hadn’t mentioned the armourer’s gift to Serpentius. He picked up the new hand and pressed the button. Serpentius’s eyes lit up admiringly as the lethal little blade snapped out.

  ‘I like it,’ he grinned. ‘A proper lifesaver.’ He saw Valerius’s look of puzzlement. ‘That’s what we called a hidden blade in the arena. Even if your opponent smashed your shield away and bludgeoned you into the dust you always had a chance with your lifesaver. A quick thrust into his balls or even his thigh and he was yours for the taking. It took timing and nerve, but it worked. You should wear it all the time. Just in case.’

  ‘You don’t mind?’ Valerius indicated the other fist, which had taken Serpentius countless hours to carve.

  ‘This?’ The former gladiator laughed. ‘It’s just a rough old thing. It probably has woodworm. You should be ready for your audience with the king.’

  Valerius reached for the armour and, with the help of Serpentius, transformed himself into a glittering example of a Roman officer, clad in armour forged for a god, with the scarlet cloak of a legionary legate over his shoulder. When they met, King Sohaemus apologized for Ariston’s murder and made a pledge to hunt down his killers that Valerius doubted he intended to keep. There was no mention of the attack on Valerius himself, which presumably meant that Tabitha had managed to suppress all mention of it. Sohaemus was polite, but wary; perhaps a hint that the Roman had worn out his welcome. Nevertheless, he asked him to convey his regards to General Titus, greetings to the Emperor and assurances of Emesa’s continued loyalty to Rome. He pledged to send more troops if they came available and he would attempt to persuade Chalcis to do the same.

  ‘I have not had the opportunity to thank you for your magnificent gift, majesty,’ Valerius said with overblown courtesy. ‘It is far beyond my expectations and the value of any service I have provided. I will wear it with pride against your enemies and the glory of it will strike them blind.’