‘Try anything and my men will open your comrades’ backs, right here.’
Pavo saw Sura’s fingers, coiling into a fist – his arms shaking, as if tensing for some lightning turn and punch. ‘I’ll come,’ he said quickly, waving a calming hand at Sura.
Slowly, he rose, Vitalianus rising with him. The lead Speculator guided him up the steps with a hand on the small of his back, a folded cape concealing the sharp, stinging dagger tip. They ascended towards the arched stairwell mouth between the upper and lower banks of seating from which Pavo and his comrades had entered. All around them, the people cheered, chanted, gasped and gossiped as Themistius warbled on.
‘Scapula had you like this, I hear?’ Vitalianus said in an amiable tone. ‘Knife at your neck, life in his hands.’
‘Scapula discovered the truth at that moment. That the emperor you serve is a demon.’
Vitalianus laughed. ‘What is a demon?’ He nodded towards the imperial box, where Ancholius had interrupted Themistius’ oration, latching onto a mention of Arian heretics and launching into a diatribe of his own. ‘Take Theodosius: he lets his Bishop whip up dissent, commissions his hairless brutes to root out and slay any who threaten the Nicene faith. Think of the families of those three noblemen – wives and children who will never again see their fathers. To them, is Theodosius not the demon? Or take me: it was I who killed Scapula’s brother on Gratian’s order after the events at Sirmium. The wretch had been living in torment for years in the dungeons. To some, my slaying of him might have been the act of a cold killer. To others – possibly even to him – it was an act of mercy.’
‘Do not try to philosophise with me, Speculator. I have combed over it all a thousand times before. I have raked through the ashes of the dead left in Gratian’s wake. That day at Sirmium when Scapula could have killed me but did not: I was there to avenge Gratian’s part in stoking the disaster at Adrianople, in the murder of Tribunus Gallus – a lion in the shape of a man. I did not get my vengeance, but I watched Gratian plot to kill his young stepbrother, Valentinian. I hear tales of him stripping the Altar of Victory from the city of Rome, of hunting slaves for sport. Now I do not expect a member of your wretched brethren to understand this, but that, to me… is a demon.’
‘A fine speech, Tribunus, and one you can polish on your way to meet my master. A wagon awaits outside the arena. It will take you from this city and out across the countryside to meet the approach of the Western forces.’
‘What of my comrades?’ he said, his voice dry and crackly.
‘They will be taken to the wharf and executed, after this address is finished.’
His heart fell into his boots.
‘Your legion too – things do not look bright for them,’ Vitalianus enthused. ‘When Gratian arrives in these parts, he will bring the Eastern legions into his army for the clash with the Goths that is to come. The Claudia will be bravest of all… and first to make battle. I have a strong feeling that not a single man will survive. Fear not, though, they will be remembered and honoured. Emperor Gratian even muses over renaming them – after you are all dead – to XI Gratiana Pia Fidelis. Faithful to Gratian. Wouldn’t that be fitting?’
‘You are overly confident, Speculator,’ Pavo growled, twisting a little towards the man. ‘You underestimate me, and my legion. In any case, Gratian will have no part to play in these lands. Haven’t you heard? Peace talks are underway already.’
The sharp knife point dug into Pavo’s back again, breaking through one loop of ringmail, splitting his tunic and the skin underneath. A runnel of hot blood scampered down his lower back. ‘Face forwards, Legionary, and no more sudden movements. One slight jerk of my hand and your spine will be severed. You will not die, but you will be crippled and we will carry you to my wagon like a drunk. Let’s see you try something then, hmm?’
‘Arians will burn, and the skies above Constantinople will roll with grim clouds of ash,’ Ancholius screamed, leaning over the kathisma balustrade, a stone’s throw to Pavo’s left. The crowds were animated now, punching the air, jerking and jostling in fervent agreement. Not so the band of thirty to Vitalianus’ right. They wore brown cloaks like shrouds and sported sullen faces.
‘All this,’ Vitalianus continued breezily, ‘the bother with the Goths, the battle of faiths, the struggle to survive, even, will fade away for you. You will have no troubles to bear. Survival will not be your concern any more. Emperor Gratian has crafted a fine new underground complex at Mediolanum, where I can guarantee you, you will not die. At least not for a long, long ti-’
With a sudden spasm of movement and an explosion of shouts from his right, Pavo felt a sharp blow to his shoulder. He fell to one knee as boots and flowing brown robes barged before and behind him. The knife at his back was gone… Vitalianus too. Bewildered, he looked back to see the lead Speculator, flailing on his back on top of a packed mass of seated public. The brown-robed bunch had surged between him and Pavo. This group then shed their garments and cried aloud as they hoisted the javelins concealed underneath. ‘For the true faith, from the lips of Arius himself!’ they screamed, then hurled their missiles towards the imperial box.
The missiles whacked into the side of the imperial box, one ripping down a purple awning and missing Ancholius’ face by a finger’s-width. Pavo cared not a bit, springing up from his crouch then pivoting to face Vitalianus. The lead Speculator had thrashed clear of the crowd and now fell into a crouch about three steps below Pavo, his blade hand weaving and his hips swaying like a cat about to pounce. His normally-immaculately swept-back hair hung in loose coils across his face, going well with the maddened look in his eyes. Pavo fell into a similar poise, with a slight height advantage but without a weapon.
All around them, the crowds were on their feet, barely noticing the altercation, roaring louder than at any chariot race, all eyes on the Arian rebels and the commotion at the kathisma. ‘Inquisitors!’ Bishop Ancholius howled from somewhere over there.
Pavo snatched a look over his shoulder: to the exit arch.
‘If you even try,’ Vitalianus hissed, ‘your friends will die, here and now.’
He shot a look past Vitalianus, to Saturninus, Eriulf and Sura a few rows further down, still pinned with knives at their backs by the skull-faced one and the other pair. The henchmen had not noticed what was going on behind them. If he could lunge past Vitalianus he might save his comrades…
‘Oh now that would be truly foolish,’ Vitalianus chuckled, swiping his hair back into place with his free hand.
But just as he said it, Theodosius’ Inquisitors came barging along the row upon which the henchmen sat. People leapt clear, yelped, or were trampled as they cut towards the Arian rebels like a ramming ship. They barged right between the three Speculatores and Pavo’s three comrades, the latter group disappearing from sight behind the Inquisitors as men on the far side of a street might be obscured behind passing wagons. ‘Sura, run!’ Pavo roared over the commotion.
Vitalianus, back turned to all of this, paled. He flicked his head back for a heartbeat to see what had happened. Pavo tore off his helm and threw it, fin-first at the man, then turned and raced up the remaining steps, hearing Vitalianus’ bark of fright as the weighty helm struck him. He reached the shady exit arch and descending staircase and skidded to a halt: the opening down at the street end was an arch of light, and there he saw a parked wagon. Black, like the robes of the two Speculatores standing there. Where were the Lancearii who had been guarding the entrance on the way in?
‘No way out, Legionary,’ Vitalianus growled, thundering up behind him.
Pavo looked both ways at the massed, impenetrable crowds either side of the exit, then leapt up to catch the lip of the archway, hoisting himself up and feeling the wind of Vitalianus’ knife slicing through the spot where his legs had been. Men seated on the upper tier, above and behind the exit tunnel gasped in shock as Pavo sped along the tunnel roof and ploughed into them like a runaway wagon. He hopped and picked his way up
through the upper rows until he came to the stairs between two seating sections.
‘I’ll sever your spine the moment I catch you,’ Vitalianus rasped, speeding in his wake.
Pavo staggered on up to the topmost row of marble seating and beyond the highest ring of spectators. Up here, a broad walkway ran the length of the arena’s top, edged with an arched gallery from which the sail canopies jutted. He raced along the walkway, shafts of sunlight flashing over him as he passed each arch, until he realised there were no pursuing footsteps. He glanced back – no Vitalianus. No sight or sound of him. Indeed, it was eerily quiet up here, with all the crowd noise being directed down and inwards: the whooping and cheering as sounds of clashing steel rang out from somewhere further down – along with the occasional wet scream of dying Arian rebels. All that commotion down in the packed trough of an arena, yet up here, the awnings creaked in the hot, gentle wind. There were sailors dotted here and there too – some sleeping, some sitting in the portico arches eating and dreamily gazing out over the city and at the summer sky beyond. He slowed as he looked along the walkways that stretched the length of the straight, eastern edge of the arena: Lancearii guards were stationed in every tenth arch in the gallery to protect against Hippodrome spectators straying up here – for the Imperial Palace ward abutted this side of the arena. He knew they would kill any man not authorised to be here and so he backed away, retracing his steps, heading instead around the southern curve. No way out. Nowhere to go, unless he waded back down into the baying, shrieking crowds. Unless…
He stepped into one of the gallery arches and had to place a hand on the supporting column to steady himself, for a death plunge lay beyond – into the wide, flagged concourse that hugged the southern end of the arena – supported by arches and twice as tall as any other part of the facade. Striped market stalls, men, ponies and carts ambled down there. It sent flashbacks of his aqueduct walk scampering through his mind, twisting his guts. Beyond the drop, an end of rope danced and twirled lazily in the hot wind, hanging from the back of one of the sail-awnings. The sight almost made him sick with vertigo. Just then, behind him, he heard the merest hiss of breath, and threw himself against the arch’s supporting column, back pressed there tightly, breath pegged in his lungs. Nothing. Silence. Then…
Like a shadow creeping across the day, Vitalianus stalked past, dagger held overhand, head switching to and fro in search of his prey, his every step utterly silent.
He hasn’t seen me, Pavo realised as Vitalianus went on by. But damn if I had a sword or even a stick, he then thought, cursing his lack of weaponry as his gaze hung on the Speculator’s unarmoured back. The moment of murderous lust passed, and he realised he could get out now: with Vitalianus up here, he could head back down through the seats to another exit tunnel – one without Speculatores waiting outside. He could find Sura, Eriulf and Saturninus and they could plan how to track these agents down – now that most of them had shown their faces. Perhaps even-
Something sighed, right next to him.
The blood in his veins turned to ice. He twisted his head a fraction to see the shape of a man, wedged in a tight nook right by his shoulder. His skin crept as he turned a little more towards the figure… only to see cauterised, ruined eye sockets and a face smashed beyond recognition. Almost. Herenus, he mouthed, seeing the corpse slip a little in the nook, forcing another ghostly sigh of trapped air from his lips. Now he understood how the Speculatores had known exactly where he would be sitting. Poor Herenus had paid dearly to keep his silence on the matter for some time, going by the state of the poor man’s remains. I’m sorry this happened to you, he mouthed, placing a hand on the corpse’s shoulder. The slight touch was enough to send the wedged body slithering from the nook and scraping down onto the ground, into a sitting position.
The breath halted in Pavo’s throat. The sound of Vitalianus’ gradually departing and almost inaudible steps halted too. Then Pavo’s eyes grew wide as moons as he heard a sudden pitter-patter of rapid steps, coming back this way.
Oh, fu- he mouthed, then lunged clear of the arch just a breath before Vitalianus’ arm shot out like a striking cobra to hammer the dagger into the stonework where Pavo’s belly had been moments ago. He rolled twice and sprang up to his feet, set on running for another exit when, from just along the high walkway, Skull-face appeared. Pavo skidded to a halt, then spun on his heel, seeing Vitalianus blocking the other direction. He took one look at the crowd and saw the two other Speculatores shoving up through the top rows of seating, closing in on him likewise.
‘It’s over,’ Vitalianus said, smiling.
Pavo spun to the haze of the summer’s day and the wretched drop, mouthed an oath to Mithras in the same breath, then bounded forward and leapt from the edge. Legs cycling, hands clawing, he kept his eye on the swinging end of rope, praying that the sailor who had tied this rope had fixed it well. The fingers of his right hand skimmed past, missing it entirely. In that instant, he saw an army of faces: of his father; of dead comrades – Gallus, Felix, Zosimus, Quadratus and scores more; of dead lovers – Felicia, Runa… all waiting for him to join them.
And then the fingers of his left hand snatched the frayed ends of the rope. His body jerked and the momentum took him and the rope round in a crazy arc, out over the drop above the flagged concourse, bending west and then north. He saw Vitalianus and his cadre vanish behind the portico wall, faces wrinkled in disgust. A crazy gasp of laughter spilled from his lips… until he felt the rope swing back in towards the arena, and another gallery arch. Vitalianus, Skull-face and the other pair hurried over to position themselves here, hands ready to grab their prey.
A flash of instinct seized him and he betrayed every other emotion to let go before the rope swung him towards them. Like a sling releasing its shot, he flew straight out, westwards and away from the arena. Weightless, he fixed his eyes and hopes on the red-tiled roof on the far side of the road hemming the Hippodrome’s western wall. A luxuriant, two-storey complex owned by the Greens, he realised, delighted to remember that this pseudo-political gang had once placed a perpetual price on his head. Very well, I’ll deal with the Greens. Just let me hit the damned roof first, he pled. With a crash and a shattering of tiles, his wish was granted, followed by a rapidly accelerating rat-tat of an adult man clad in ringmail sliding, fast, down them and towards the roof’s edge.
Dazed, it took him a moment to realise he was falling. He clawed at the tiles – shooting rapidly upwards in front of him. One snapped off in his hand, and the rest evaded his grasp. Then his fingers caught in a groove between two and his entire body jolted to a halt, legs dangling over the roof’s edge. Panting, he looked back towards the Hippodrome, seeing Vitalianus craning from the high gallery, watching, a loose lock of hair dancing in the summer wind, mouth moving in clipped commands. An instant later, Skull-face and the two other Speculatores vanished from sight. A few breaths later, he saw them spill from one of the western exit tunnels and onto the street. Skull-face peered up and waved his henchmen on to the ground floor entrance of this building.
Pavo tried to haul himself back onto the roof fully, but found no purchase. The tile groove would not hold for long, either, he realised. Edging his head back, he risked a peek down. A balcony! A short drop below. The decision was made for him when the tile he was holding snapped. He fell, landing in a crouch on the small veranda. The shutter doors were open, and inside was a bedchamber. For a moment he could not move or even breathe, only stare: three slave girls stood, heads bowed, naked. One had a freshly broken nose, and the other held an arm, whimpering. The third sported a black eye. A mean-faced brute strode to and fro before them, judging them, muttering to himself, evaluating them like nags.
Mutius, Pavo realised. The gang-leader of the Greens who had once tried to claim the bounty on his head.
One of the three girls saw Pavo and half-gasped.
Mutius spun round.
‘You? Numerius Vitellius Pavo?’ he spluttered. ‘I lost a toe because o
f you.’ He plucked a short sword from his belt and stepped towards Pavo, gleefully.
Just then, a clattering of boots on stairs rang out, along with gruff shouts, growing louder. Skull-face and his helpers, Pavo realised.
‘What’s wrong? Other people coming for you too?’ Mutius chuckled. ‘Well I’ll leave them a piece, maybe,’ he said, falling into a sprinter’s crouch. His feral grin bent and he jolted as if to leap forward… only for his eyes to roll up in their sockets as a dull tonk sounded. He staggered, the slave girl behind him staggering with the follow-through of her swing, the copper pan in her hands dented, so heavy was the blow.
She pointed to this room’s door and across a corridor to the doorway into another chamber. ‘Get out of here,’ the slave girl gasped. ‘Go through there. There is a rooftop terrace that leads all the way to the Forum of Constantine.’
He glanced at the open window in the far room and the shutters there, then back at her. ‘I’ll come back, I’ll deal with Mutius. I’ll-’
‘Go!’ she yelled.
He caught sight of Skull-face and the other two reaching the top of the stairs just as he passed across the corridor. They were halted in their pursuit when a naked and dazed Mutius skidded out in pursuit of Pavo and straight across their path.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ Mutius roared at Skull-face.
Pavo hesitated long enough to look back and see, with a hiss, Skull-face’s sword cut cleanly across Mutius’ neck. The thug stumbled around, clutching at the deep wound, gouts of red lurching from between his fingers, before he pitched over the bannister and dropped down the well of stairs like a stone.
Mutius gone, Pavo saw that just a dozen paces separated him from the Speculatores. They plunged towards him, into the far room. Pavo swung towards the shutters and shoulder-charged them. They shredded as he fell outside in a tumble, across a rooftop garden. Vines, pots and wooden frames everywhere, and… a narrow walkway. It was as the woman had promised, conjoining various other buildings of a similar height, picking its way around domes and across tiled roofs. He sped like a deer, vases of flowers falling and smashing in his wake, some tumbling out onto the streets. He pulled over wooden racks and knocked over benches.
The Blood Road (Legionary 7): Legionary, no. 7 Page 11
