‘If they come, I will deal with Leon and Bishop,’ she says with a smirk, her handgun ready.
‘The sprinkler systems in that room have been activated,’ Abbey’s voice says, breaking through static. ‘Took their time too.’
‘I thought we had lost you,’ I reply.
‘Something in there interfered with my comms. That shouldn’t have happened. I could see everything though. Got pretty heated in there.’
I can’t tell if she’s trying to crack a joke or not, but I’m not in the mood. ‘Have you heard anything from Dave?’ I ask her.
‘Nothing good,’ Abbey replies.
‘We need to get back there and help him,’ I say. ‘We need to get Emma out of here.’
‘No, Adam, you need to keep going,’ Emma orders me. ‘Find out what happened to the centurion. Find the Eagle. Find Matt.’
‘She’s right,’ Abbey tells me. ‘The police have been alerted and you will never have a better chance than now. Dave can handle himself. He’s survived worse.’
‘All right,’ I concede, turning then to Emma. ‘I’ll find the records first, then I’ll come back for you and Dave.’
‘Go!’ she orders me. ‘And thank you.’
‘No worries,’ I tell her, lingering for a moment.
‘Go!’
I want to stay, to look after her and get her out of this place, but I know she and Abbey are right; I need to continue. I hurry on, running from room to room but find nothing until I enter a vast chamber, directly under what has to be the arena. Looking up, I can see the wooden beams of the arena floor, the old beams marked with age and blood. Light from the Colosseum’s arena seeps through the gaps in the beams, illuminating the chamber, the glasses reacting to give better vision. In the vast chamber is more equipment and several glass cabinets housing excavation gear in storage and others containing relics recently discovered. Around me are smaller cells with doors made of aged iron bars.
‘This must be where the gladiators and animals were kept,’ Abbey tells me. ‘And there directly before you in the centre, that must have been the lift to raise those who would fight into the arena.’
I can see the vast mechanism, still in place after all this time, but it’s not that which catches my eye, nor is it the impressive statue, still completely intact, of Mars, God of War. It towers over me, sword and head of defeated foe held high, pelt of a bear draped around the god’s shoulders. The statue stands on watch over the area, as it would’ve greeted all gladiators about to take to the arena.
The walls capture my attention; across every inch of them is Latin inscriptions. On a marble arch, at the heart of the walls before the lift are the words HIC STATIS HONORATUM VICTORES.
‘Here stand the honoured victorious!’ Abbey translates, her voice a higher pitch than normal with excitement, her Irish tone more pronounced than ever. ‘Oh my God, Hunter, you’ve found it!’
‘Why would anyone want to hide this?’ I ask in wonder. ‘It is a testament to the men who fought and died here.’
‘The Colosseum is just a tourist attraction these days,’ Abbey replies. ‘Perhaps they wanted to hold onto this, this one piece of their history, keeping it as theirs.’
I can understand that. From the outside, I can see the decay and ruin inflicted on the great structure by man over the years. They wanted to keep just one piece of their history as it was in the days when gladiators fought on the sands above. They wanted to preserve the heroes of their past.
‘Take as many images as you can, Abbey, so you can translate it later,’ I say, slowly turning my head so that the glasses see as much of the walls as possible. ‘I need to get back to Emma and Dave.’
The glasses highlight each and every inscription, red crosshairs centring on each with images stored for later analysis.
‘No need,’ Abbey says, voice more excited than ever. ‘I’ve found it!’
28
THE CENTURION—Capua
My fate leads me to the Colosseum. It is the greatest structure I have set eyes on; the biggest and grandest in all of Rome. Vespasian was a madman but this, his creation, is certain to be the pinnacle of his achievements and could almost banish the memory of his tyranny. Forty thousand people are attending the Games of Titus, son of Vespasian, to honour his ascension to emperor. Forty thousand people and the arena is not even complete yet; the upper echelons are still under construction.
Standing with me, awaiting our turn upon the sands, is the Celt Machonus and Onyxx of Gaul, skilled warriors with dozens of victories between them. They are good men, cursing me as a recruit but each showing respect after my worth was proven.
Machonus, the long fire-haired Celt, carries gladius and shield as I do, whereas bald-headed Onyxx, tallest and stoutest of Hader’s gladiators, is armed with twin battleaxes. We wear the armour of the legion, breastplate, greaves, helms, all of it to give further credence to my title as the Centurion. Despite my initial distaste, I must admit there is comfort in wearing the armaments of the legion once again.
Against the three of us will be the champions of five other ludises, each fighting for the glory of their house. The melee, as it is known, will only end when a single man stands alone victorious. That man will be me. I will be fighting for Lucilla.
‘Stay together and we may yet survive this,’ I tell the Celt and giant Gaul at my side.
‘Agreed,’ says Machonus, Onyxx remaining eerily silent.
Executions of escaped slaves are greeted first, then bear and lion fighting, the animals losing every time to the spears of their hunters. After the carcass of the last beast is dragged away for the butchers, the gates open before us and we march out onto the already bloodied sands. The crowd’s chants are so loud they shake my bones. The arena is beyond imagination, and we, the gladiators of Hader, cannot help but smile broadly as the roar of ‘CENTURIONS’ ripples through the spectators. In the centre, we stop and face our opponents, twelve of them, eager to spill any blood that is not their own. Even when they are defeated, I will need to face Machonus and Onyxx. There will be a moment that will transform us from brothers to enemies; it is a moment I do not relish.
From the pulvinus balcony high above, we see the nobility of Rome. One man stands before them, addressing the crowd. He stands tall and strong, veteran of campaigns, and surprisingly, he is wearing armour on such a hot day. He is Titus, our newly crowned emperor, already wearing the golden laurel wreath upon his brow as his father did before him.
‘We come now to the most anticipated event of this honoured day,’ Titus announces, enthralling the entire crowd. ‘The Primus, the greatest event of any games has yet to be named. That is by my choice and its name will be announced upon completion of this melee. Fifteen men will fight from the Houses of; Ramis, Hader, Bollunth, Minthula, and Omanus. Your Dominuses do you great honour choosing you as their champions, as they honour me in their attendance at these games. Gratitude to all, for it shall not be forgotten.’
As he speaks, two men circle around us gladiators, pouring black liquid in a vast circle with us inside. With aflame torch, the liquid is ignited and the flames of Hades surround us.
‘Any man finding himself outside the flames is eliminated from the contest, bringing shame upon his house. The victor is the last man to be left standing within the circle of fire, all others fallen or eliminated. These men, these gladiators, are the greatest in all the lands. They fight to prove who is the greatest warrior in all of Rome. It will be a sight to be remembered for all eternity, gratitude paid to those men who give lives to honour me so.’
‘FOR THE GLORY OF OUR EMPEROR AND ROME!’ we gladiators roar back. I stay silent.
‘Let it begin!’
It is chaos the moment the order is given. Blood and death. It is battle, no melee. Machonus and Onyxx are at my side at first, hacking and slashing at any in our path before they are lost amongst the carnage. I cannot look for them, I can only face and fight what is before me.
I kill the first man standing in m
y way, ending his suffering as his throat has already been ripped open. Hammering my shield into the next, I eliminate him, sending him falling through the flames as I cross blades with another. He reacts too slowly and his stomach is impaled. Without waiting to see him fall, I move on, leaping over Onyxx as he is thrown back, slamming his shield into his attacker and forcing him into the flames where his screams drown out the cheers of spectators.
Onyxx does not thank me, instead, hurling an axe towards my head. I raise my shield to deflect the blow. The moment has come. We are brothers no more. Then he is on me, thrashing axe upon shield, his strength greater than any I have faced before. Ducking away from his falling sword, we are separated as others attack.
The blade of a new foe catches my arm and draws blood, but I am not dazed, only angered. I sweep his legs from under him and lower my blade to his throat but he offers the missio, begging for his life. Kicking his gladius away, I leave him, letting others finish off the coward.
The next man to attack dies quickly, as does the next man, and the one after that, until I face Onyxx again. Both of us are covered in the blood of the slain. He holds a man by the throat, his head forced into the fire and his screams piercing the roar of the crowd and chaos around us. When the cries stop, Onyxx drops his victim’s charred body and turns to face me. My blood is raging fire. I am eager to end it.
‘Centurion, now you die!’ Onyxx bellows. He has axe in one hand, raised spear in the other.
‘Not this day!’ I roar back in defiance, charging my towering opponent.
He hurls the spear and it glances off my shield to strike the man behind us. Onyxx’s axe swings towards me in wide arcs. I stab at the giant but he parries everything before grasping hold of my shield and tearing it from my arm. I slash my gladius across his chest but he merely roars in defiance. His fists, like hammers, strike my head and send me to the ground.
My world is stars and blood.
‘Lucilla…’ I utter as Onyxx lowers his gaze to me. There is death in his eyes.
‘CENTURION! CENTURION! CENTURION!’
The crowd is roaring for me, urging me to fight on.
‘Lucilla,’ I say, eyes focusing and my vision returning.
Machonus appears before me, breathing hard, bleeding from his wounds. He could kill me easily with the swing of a blade, but instead, he turns to face Onyxx. He dares to defend me. He shouts at the Gaul, who merely laughs before effortlessly knocking Machonus’s blade away and tearing the man almost in two.
Onyxx laughs loudly in the slaughter of a brother. He is deranged by the horror of it all. Another gladiator approaches me, eager for an easy kill. He does not see my anger and rage.
‘Lucilla!’ My wife is my battle cry. I force myself up, and grasping the fallen gladius, I ram it into the man’s stomach.
I charge Onyxx as he knocks Machonus’s dying body away. We are the last two. He sees me coming, battleaxe already swinging, but I leap, swiping my blade across his chest again. The wound is deep but he still will not fall. We clash sword on axe, trying to gut each other, but neither will relent until I see the opportunity to slash his arm holding the axe. The gladius cuts through his flesh and bone until the limb is sent flying into the flames. Onyxx yells with untempered fury, transformed into an enraged beast. I silence him with my blade.
The crowd erupts around me but I cannot hear them. I fall to my knees in astonishment and exhaustion. Their cheers give me a new life and I rise, drawing the gladius from Onyxx’s corpse and raising it high to all in salute.
I do not notice the crowd has hushed to silence until I see through the flames, the figure of the emperor approaching me, sword in hand. Guards are circling, dampening the flames, and giving me a clearer view. Through the trails of smoke, I see him grinning.
‘Well fought, Centurion!’ Titus, the emperor of Rome, yells from the sands so that all can hear. He never once takes his eyes from me.
‘The House of Hader is blessed to have you among their number,’ he says. ‘I know more of you than most. Your Dominus tells me of your past with my own father – a story that leads to your slavery and this arena, where you have been – so far – victorious.’
My stomach lurches. I have won. Surely the rules are not to be so unfairly swayed. I’m about to protest, but he has started to address the audience once more. ‘But, Centurion, your victory is short, your battle not done. This day, you will face one more test. You will fight in the primus.’
There is a mixed response from the crowd, and clearly it is not the response the emperor had been hoping for. I take advantage of the quieter moment to ask,
‘And who will be my opponent?’ I can barely get the question out. My breathing laboured and my body screaming in agony and exhaustion.
‘Your emperor,’ he replies with a dark grin.
The sound of thousands of spectators gasping sounds like soughing reeds. This is the end of my story; this glorious moment. There is no way I can win, whatever I do. Death is the only victory on offer to me today. I am exhausted. The Emperor’s victory is assured – and with it, his fearsome reputation.
‘Fail to do as commanded and my guards will see you from this life Centurion,’ Titus warns me quietly, not wishing to break his well-choreographed play. ‘Fight me with the skill and wrath we have all witnessed. You have proven yourself a mighty warrior. If I should fall, it is my dying wish that your freedom be granted and ten thousand gold coins your prize.’
What am I to do? For one moment, I consider falling on my sword, taking a noble way out – but Lucilla…
‘With the gods as my witness,’ the Emperor swears. ‘Fight me and do not hold back for I shall not.’
There is a murmur running through the stadium, which builds into an almighty roar of excitement.
I look to the praetorian guard, hands upon blade and spear, ready to strike me down. The prefect is among them, the man who tortured me, who executed the last of my legion. I see in his eyes, the same anger and hatred still burning.
No matter what Titus offers, his guard will not let me live.
‘We shall stand as equals this day,’ the emperor declares, raising his hand to the golden laurel wreath upon his head and throwing it to the ground. ‘Let me prove myself as an equal to your skill, or fall in glorious attempt.’
This is my chance to claim freedom, but doubt remains if his words will be honoured. If Titus falls to my blade, surely my life will be forfeit. Choice is not given to me as he paces closer, shield and gladius raised.
I hurriedly grab my armaments from the sands before he can close, our shields slamming as we both reach for vantage; blades probing, but neither finding purchase. He barges his shield again into mine, forcing us apart before bringing his blade round in a wide arc and striking mine from my grip, sending it clattering to the ground. I am so tired. With all my last remaining strength, I charge with my shield, catching him unaware and striking him in the face, sending him sprawling to the ground with a broken and blooded nose.
He does not surrender. The fight is real. Rolling away and swinging out his blade, he catches my thigh, cutting it deep. I stagger back, picking up a fallen spear and hurling it at him as he begins to rise to stand. The emperor, still fresh in battle, leaps at the last moment over the missile, garnering an almost deafening roar from the crowd. I gather my sword from the sands just before he is on me again. Blades and shields clatter dozens of times as we fight. We are both veterans of the legion, both eager for victory – and life.
Titus charges. I let him come at me, hammering upon his shield and striking back when opportunity is granted; I am defensive, and it will get me killed. We stumble over the bodies of the fallen and I use them to my advantage, leaping from Onyxx’s crumpled form to stab down at my emperor. He reacts at the last moment again, blocking the attack and sending me falling to the ground. With momentum, I rise up, my shield lost to me, now armed with only my gladius. More wounds are taken, cuts to my arm, chest and face but none deep enough to end the co
ntest. I draw blood from him also, cries of shock emanate from the crowd around us, but he is no longer my emperor – he is my death.
‘You truly are skilled, Centurion,’ he calls to me through his blooded grin. ‘You do the legions great honour, especially for one so young in years.’
Something within me snaps. Blood of the man who tore my legion asunder, who now talks as if there is honour in him.
‘Your father ripped the beating heart from my legion!’ I yell back at the emperor, striking at him with my gladius. My sword is unpredictable and he loses his footing, dancing from it. ‘He executed my men and desecrated all honour and glories of the Legio IX Hispana!’
‘My father made many mistakes in his lifetime,’ Titus says, regaining his balance. ‘But by the gods, I am not my father!’
He charges, our blades clashing in what I know will be the final time. He strikes, catching my left arm above the elbow; the wound is deep and the limb numb. I roar in anger, summoning what little strength I have, and ignoring my wound, I ram the pommel of my gladius into the emperor’s face. He falls, dazed, and I am on him, my blade resting on his throat.
‘You did well, Centurion,’ he states, spitting blood from his mouth to the sands at our feet.
‘As did you, Emperor,’ I state, barely able to keep my gladius raised.
‘Emperor defeated by slave, it is a glorious tale for all to behold,’ he says bitterly.
I see his hand twitch, two fingers about to rise in the missio. He surrenders.
The crowd is silent. There is to be no celebration in the emperor’s humiliation.
Dozens of the praetorian guard fall on me, protecting their emperor. I defend myself for as long as possible before my gladius is torn from my grasp and I fall to my knees, weak with the loss of blood, as spears and blades are raised to end my life, the prefect at their lead. When Vespasian passed judgement, it was this man, commander of the praetorian guard, who destroyed the Legio IX Hispana and condemned me to slavery.
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