The Emperor's Knives (44 page)

He gestured to his men.

‘Right then lads, pick up those knives, drop the weapons back into the shop and let’s be away to leave old ‘No Eyes’ to consider the error of his ways!’

He turned to find the potter standing close behind him.

‘You’re going to leave all those swords in the shop?’

Morban nodded.

‘They’ll be safe enough until someone comes to collect them. I’ll lock the place up and I can’t see anyone being brave enough to break in given the obvious penalty for crossing me and my lads.’ He offered the shopkeeper his spear with an impetuous grin. ‘Want to finish him off? Be my guest! After all, think of all the times the bastard’s taken money off you, or pawed your wife.’

The other man shook his head.

‘Part of me wants to, wanted to the second I saw you put the iron into his foot … but I can’t.’

Morban nodded, giving the weapon to a passing soldier.

‘I know. I would have been the same, a long time ago …’ He sighed. ‘And now I’m just a murdering animal. Only every now and then I get to do some killing that actually feels good. Be lucky, friend, and when Maximus’s replacement turns up, and you know he will, you just remember that the only thing keeping them on top of you is your willingness to be stood on. Show ’em your teeth and they’ll soon fade.’

He locked the shop and headed off down the hill towards the Ostian gate with the last of his men, a grizzled veteran from his own century who had waited for him while he chatted to the potter.

‘You think they’ll stand up for themselves, do you, next time the protection boys come knocking?’

The standard bearer shook his head sadly.

‘Not a chance.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘See, I’ve worked out what it is I like so much about this place. It’s
civilised.
Good food, good wine, whores wherever you look. It’s just
nice.
Problem is, you introduce animals like us to somewhere nice and before you know it everyone’s paying a percentage just to keep their guts on the inside, or to avoid having their daughters fucked in the street. And that’s sad, mate, more than sad, it’s a fucking tragedy. All we can do is console ourselves that at least we did a little bit of good today, and gave them one less horrible bastard to worry about.’

His fellow soldier nodded.

‘And not only that, you also gave me something to tell the lads back in barracks.’

Morban puffed his chest out.

‘You mean when I put that spear to him?’

The soldier shook his head.

‘No mate, when you told him you could kill him from thirty paces with it. You couldn’t hit a barn door with a bolt thrower!’

Scaurus and Marcus made their way through the crowds surrounding the Flavian arena with their usual escort of barbarians and Cotta’s men in close attendance. Both men were immaculately turned out, Scaurus wearing a toga bearing the single narrow stripe that indicated he was of the equestrian class, while Marcus was dressed in a simpler garment and walking a careful half-pace behind him. Striding up to the guards barring the entrance that led up to the senatorial level, the tribune announced his invitation by the imperial chamberlain himself to witness the afternoon’s bouts. After a swift reference to the list of guests for the day, they were admitted, leaving their escort to wait for them in whatever shade they could find, while Cotta made his way over to the next entrance to take his seat in the section reserved for army veterans. Climbing up to the senatorial balcony, they were greeted at the entrance to the imperial box by Cleander himself.

‘Rutilius Scaurus! It was good of you to make the effort. I wasn’t sure that you’d take me up on the invitation, given the fact that your young colleague’s mentor will die on that sand very shortly.’

Marcus returned his smile with an impassivity that he was far from feeling, allowing the tribune to answer on his behalf.

‘My officer recognises the inevitability of the situation, Chamberlain, and has sworn to Mithras to witness Flamma’s last bout with the dignity and reserve expected of a Roman officer. It’s not as if we’re barbarians, after all.’

Cleander nodded, raising his eyebrows at the younger man.

‘Impressive discipline, Centurion. Accept my sympathy, if you will, and my respect for your stoicism. You’re an example to some
other
members of the imperial establishment.’ He looked pointedly across the box to where Julianus stood wringing his hands. ‘If a certain procurator isn’t careful, he’ll find another man occupying his office. You’d think he’d be happy, given the fact that I gave him permission to place a few thousand on his own man, but apparently his lanista is convinced that Flamma will rip Velox apart in short order, agreement to take the final dive or no. What do you think, Centurion? After all, you know him best of anyone here?’

Marcus stared at him bleakly for a moment before finding his voice, the words numb in his mouth.

‘The Flamma who taught me to fight was a man of the greatest honour, and I see no change in him despite the brevity of our reunion. If he says that he’ll lose the bout, then you can be assured that he’ll die here this afternoon.’

Cleander nodded.

‘As I thought. Certainly the man gave me no indication of anything but the strongest of intentions to go through with his offer. It’ll be over soon enough and we’ll all be able to get on with our business, me to running the empire and you two gentlemen to defending its frontiers. I have something in mind for—’

A blare of trumpets interrupted him, and the three men turned to stare down at the arena’s sand as the referee led out a pair of lightly armoured figures. Both men were wearing a manica on their right arms with the mail-sleeve-secured straps running to a heavy leather pauldron on their left shoulders. Velox had chosen to fight bare chested, while Flamma had donned a light mail shirt to provide some protection against the edges of his opponent’s swords. Both men had eschewed a helmet, their heads left bare to grant them the breadth of vision necessary for the fluid fighting style of the dimachaerus, and each had a pair of swords strapped to their waists on wide leather belts. Flanked by an honour guard of a dozen spearmen with brightly plumed helmets and shining breastplates, they strode out towards the arena’s centre, gazes fixed forward as if neither was willing to recognise the other’s presence. The announcer was struggling to be heard over the crowd’s sudden deafening roar of appreciation, and after two futile attempts at introducing the bout, he fell silent, waiting as the two men strode out across the clean white sand. At some prearranged signal they stopped, both turning to acknowledge the crowd’s fevered applause with raised arms. After several moments of shouting and clapping, the crowd gradually fell silent in the face of their heroes’ patient inactivity, allowing the announcer to make another attempt. Raising his voice to a hoarse bellow, he shouted his scripted introduction to the fight over the audience’s continuing hubbub.

‘
Beloved Caesar! Noble senators! Roman gentlemen! Citizens! People of Rome! The Flavian Arena bids you welcome to this, the third day of the Roman Games! Today we are doubly blessed by the presence of the two greatest fighters of our age!
’

The hysteria erupted again, and the two gladiators once more raised their arms to acknowledge their respective supporters.

‘
Fighting for the Dacian Ludus, the current champion gladiator, a man with the proud record of never having been wounded in all his career!
’ The announcer paused portentously, allowing the fact of Velox’s apparent invincibility to sink in. ‘
The master of carnage! The fastest man with two swords in the city of Rome and with nineteen victorious fights to his record and no draws or defeats! Citizens, I give you … Velox!
’

The crowd went wild, and looking around the arena Marcus realised that a good three-quarters of them were on their feet and waving their fists in support of the champion. Velox stepped forward and raised his hands for a third time, turning a circle to salute every side of the packed stadium before stepping back and lowering them to his sides, close to the hilts of his swords.

‘
The Champion’s opponent this afternoon needs little introduction! A hero of the recent past, the greatest gladiator of our time, with the record of thirty-eight victories and one draw
…’

‘
And that was a fix!
’

The anonymous shout from the crowd drew a gale of laughter, and Flamma bowed to the side of the arena from which the interjection had been thrown, his face clearly fixed in a broad grin.

‘He looks rather more happy than I’d expect from a man facing his end.’

Scaurus turned to look at the chamberlain, seeing the calculation in his expression.

‘You’d be surprised, Chamberlain. Sometimes it’s easier for a man to accept certain death than to strive for life in the face of overwhelming odds.’

If Cleander had been minded to reply, the announcer beat him to it.

‘
Citizens, welcome back to the Flavian Arena, an old favourite … Flamma the Great!
’

The eruption of noise was little less violent than that which had echoed from the arena’s high walls a moment before, the crowd clearly expressing a genuine fondness for the veteran gladiator, who turned a swift circle with one hand in the air to acknowledge their sentiment. Waiting until the applause had died down to a gentle roar, the referee stepped forward, waving away the customary escort of his hulking bodyguard and the slaves who usually flanked him with hot iron to encourage the fighters to commence their brutal entertainment, as Velox and Flamma unsheathed their weapons.

‘Quite right too!’ The Tungrians and Cleander looked over to where the emperor had been lounging on his couch to find him up on his feet and leaning over the balcony, clearly brimming with enthusiasm. ‘These two men don’t need to be driven to fight!’ The two gladiators bowed to the emperor, each of them spontaneously raising his swords in salute, and Commodus turned to address his court. ‘The two most talented dimachieri in living history are about to fight to the death for
my
entertainment! How thrilling!’

Cleander shared a wry smile with Scaurus.

‘As I said, he’s rather enthusiastic about the whole thing.’

They watched as the referee spoke to the two fighters briefly, Velox bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet as he stared at Flamma with a deadly intent that was evident even at fifty paces. With an exaggerated gesture for the fight to begin, the official stepped backwards, and with a lunge the younger man went for his opponent, his swords flashing in the sunlight as he set about his assault. For a moment it seemed that not even the Flamma of Marcus’s memory could resist the terrible speed and purpose in the younger man’s attack. That Flamma would have danced away from his opponent’s swords so lightly that he would have appeared to float across the sand, ready to turn his fleeting retreat into a vicious scything counter-attack, but the intervening years had evidently gnawed hard on his body. Marcus winced in anticipation as Velox slapped aside the sword that the older man had raised to parry his strike, stabbing forward with an audacity born of his apparent supreme confidence. The crowd held its collective breath for a moment, then gasped in amazement.

‘How the fuck did he do
that
?!’

The emperor was on his feet again, pointing in amazement at Velox, suddenly wrong-footed as his veteran opponent summoned whatever measure of his massive strength that still remained and hit the thrusting sword so hard with his other blade that it was smashed to the ground. While Velox’s defence was still open, he threw a looping punch with his left fist, fingers still wrapped around the hilt of his other sword, the blow connecting squarely with Velox’s temple and sending him reeling away on legs suddenly robbed of their strength. The crowd were on their feet, half of them howling indignation at the tactic while the remainder were jubilant at Flamma’s escape from what had looked like certain death a moment before. Scaurus shook his head.

‘He’s shown his hand too early, if his plan is to overwhelm the man with brute strength, because he won’t get that close again. Velox will just stand off, and cut Flamma to ribbons.’

The younger fighter was indeed suddenly giving a good deal more respect to his opponent, intent on taking the time he needed to recover from the enervating blow he’d taken a moment before. As if he knew that his opportunity would be a fleeting one, the veteran stamped forward to attack, moving faster than the champion could retreat in his momentarily shocked state. Some hint of the fleetness of foot that had combined with his bestial strength to make the veteran fighter invincible in the days of his pomp still remained, and he covered the distance between them in half a dozen swift steps to attack with a furious purpose of his own. Velox retreated in the face of his fury, his swords flicking out to punish the big man for his assault with first one cut to his thigh and then another, but Flamma was too quick and wary to allow a killing blow to open the femoral arteries, which his opponent was aiming for, and as the younger man tarried an instant too long to make the second cut he seized his chance and lunged forward on one bleeding leg, punching Velox between his eyes so hard that the champion flew backwards to land full length on the sand.

‘Can you see what he’s doing? He can’t kill Velox if he’s to keep his word, but he’s damned if he’s going to allow the man to best him.’

Scaurus nodded agreement with Marcus’s words, his gaze riveted on the bloodied veteran as he stood waiting for his opponent to rise, his chest heaving from exertions that would barely have troubled him five years before. While the disoriented champion climbed to his feet, the older man bowed ironically to his crestfallen opponent, wringing a chorus of laughter from the fascinated crowd who were now silent for the most part, recognising that they were watching arena history being made.

The younger man shook his head, taking a moment to steady himself before he attacked again, driven forward by his pride, and Marcus shot a glance to where Julianus was watching, his face aghast as his most valuable asset moved back into sword reach one heavy step at a time, where previously he would have stepped lightly forwards. As if he recognised that Flamma could not kill him without impugning his own honour, the champion threw himself into one last frenzied attack, his swords swinging almost incoherently as he stepped forward. And then, as Velox made his final attempt to win the bout, the man Marcus had known throughout his youth surfaced in what was left of Flamma in one last glorious, fleeting display of the almost divine gifts that had seemed routine in the big man’s heyday. Strutting forward with the same grin that had advertised his apparent immortality to the crowds who had roared him on over the years of his glory, he parried half a dozen wild sword strokes, any of them enough to tear out his life as the champion’s blades raged wildly at his defence, indifferent to their deadly threat as he closed remorselessly in on the younger man. Parrying one last desperate lunge aside, he flicked his blades aside in a trick he’d taught to Marcus years before, snapping out his left hand to grip Velox’s tunic and drag him bodily into close range. Once, twice, three times he twisted at the waist to sink his massive right fist into the helpless gladiator’s stomach, then stepped back as the younger man bent double, gasping for air with his lungs brutally emptied, smashing one last titanic back-fisted blow into the side of Velox’s head to send his opponent spinning senseless to the ground.