Emperor's Knife

by Emperor's Knife (retail) (epub)

  The Green quadriga took the final turn and the home straight gently, not attempting to overtake the Red, and he passed the finishing line to an eruption of cheers and boos from the crowd.

  The excitement boiled around the stadium long after the end of the race. Bookies paid out grudgingly, and drink and food sellers circulated, hawking their wares, as did the prostitutes. Greens continued to cheer the victory, as their charioteer performed his victory laps, while the Blues roared their disapproval, and the few fans of the Reds and Whites speculated in muttered grumbles why they ever bothered turning up.

  The victorious charioteer stopped near one section of the crowd, and a broad-chested man with white hair, looking to be in his sixties, hopped over the barrier and with surprising agility jumped in beside him, joining him as the charioteer continued to drive around the track receiving the adulation of the crowd.

  ‘It’s Euprepes!’ said Geta with excitement. Caracalla knew who it was. The bane of the Blues for years. He had been crowned seven hundred and eighty-two times, an extraordinary feat simply to survive that many races given the high mortality rate. He was adored by the Greens and the neutrals, and respected if not loved by the Blues. He was wealthy enough to become an equestrian, though he had never applied, preferring to remain with the people of his roots in the lower classes. Consequently, he enjoyed tremendous influence with the common people, and was well-liked by many in the ruling classes as well.

  The crowd roared with excitement at seeing this legendary hero out on the track again, with many shouting that he ought to come back and show the youngsters how it should be done. It was as close to unifying the arena as had been seen for some time, and Caracalla marvelled at how much real power an important figure in one of the racing factions could hold. If all that pent-up humanity was united, whipped into a frenzy and pointed in one direction, what destruction could be unleashed? Nothing that even the combined strength of the Praetorians, the Urban Cohorts and the vigiles could stop, even if all those units remained loyal to the side of law and order.

  A chill ran down him. He knew Oclatinius had been active on his behalf among the factions, and that the Blue faction, the charioteers, team owners, the associated employees as well as the fans, were his natural allies after his lifelong and vocal support for them. But allies of Geta were bolstering his brother’s standing among the Greens and making overtures to the Reds and Whites. He had considered it something of a sideshow to the real power, control of the Praetorians and the legions, but now he wondered if he had misjudged the situation.

  After two laps, milking the crowd for all he could, Euprepes and the much less famous Green victor pulled the quadriga up in front of the Imperial box. Geta and Caracalla stood to greet the victor and the famous veteran of the Circus, holding their hands aloft for quiet.

  Although it was the winning charioteer’s right to address the Emperor and dedicate his victory however he wished before receiving the Emperor’s blessing, it was Euprepes who spoke into the hush.

  ‘This was a tremendous victory,’ he said in a loud voice, clearly audible to the Imperial box and the front few rows. His words were relayed back and round the stadium like a wave, with shouts and cheers coming at staggered intervals as the message reached different sectors of the Circus seating. ‘It is a victory that I would have been proud of, even in my prime.’

  Caracalla doubted that strongly. It was a fluke, and everyone knew it, but when had a lie ever stopped a good speech?

  ‘Being a charioteer is a profession that requires immense bravery as well as strength and skill. This man has showered his team with honour and dignity today. But he has given me permission to dedicate the victory where I will.’

  Dedications were usually to the Emperor, and then to a revered god, sometimes with the mention of a favourite girlfriend if the charioteer really wanted someone to swoon at his feet, although it would of course cramp his chances with the rest of the adulating women, and indeed men. With two Emperors present, it would be customary to dedicate the victory to both of them.

  ‘This victory I present to a man who has worn the Green, and now wears the Purple. A man who, like his father, has the power, strength, courage and dignity to rule Rome wisely and for many years. I dedicate this victory to Imperator Publius Septimius Geta Augustus.’

  Spontaneous cheers broke out around the stadium, and Geta stepped forward to bask in the adulation. He raised his arms high and wide, smiled broadly, and held the praise for a long while, before lowering his arms again in a request for silence to speak. He turned to Caracalla, smirked at the stunned look on his brother’s face, then spoke in a loud voice.

  ‘Euprepes, hero of the Circus, your loyalty to your Emperor is as strong as your loyalty to the Greens. And I know what a passion you have for the Greens. I accept your dedication, and I pledge to rule Rome wisely, the way you have spoken. I will use my power, my strength, my courage and my dignity to bring Rome glory, honour and riches.’

  Caracalla stared at his brother in disbelief. He had gone beyond angry to a cold, calm, calculated fury. Geta stood there receiving the acclaim of the roaring crowd. The sun was angled so Geta’s shadow fell on Caracalla.

  Nobody casts a shadow over me.

  Caracalla turned and swept from the Imperial box, the noise of the cheering crowds seeming to mock his exit.

  Chapter Nine

  The three Arcani walked into the tavern in the early evening and stopped just inside the doorway. Atius had scouted the place out already, as the one looking most like a customer, and they knew exactly how many clients, employees and guards were present, and where they were situated in the room. It took them a brief moment to confirm there were no major changes, and another moment to allow their eyes to fully adjust from the evening twilight to the more profound gloom of the tavern’s interior.

  Silus thought there were about twenty customers. Half were drunk, and the remainder were either gambling or chatting to the bar staff, who doubled as prostitutes of both sexes. On top of this, there were six bulky men whom Atius had spied out as being Sidetes’ muscle. Silus recognised the three men from his apartment the night before, including the big one who had first assaulted him. He bit the inside of his cheek to control his emotions. His buttocks clenched involuntarily with his anger, and he winced at the pain, making him even angrier.

  And there, sitting before the bar, was Sidetes. At his feet in the dirty straw knelt a slave boy, with a metal collar and a large tag. Sidetes was ignoring the miserable wretch and arguing with the barman about the day’s takings which were spread on the bar before them.

  Little notice was taken of them at first. A couple of nearby men had leered at Daya. One drunk customer had cursed them for being in the way when he wanted to go into the street to relieve himself and they had let him pass. Then one of the men who had been in Silus’ apartment noticed him. He squinted before elbowing his neighbour in the ribs and pointing. The neighbour looked across at them, then opened his eyes wide in surprise. He pushed his way through the customers and other guards towards Sidetes.

  Others began to take notice of the commotion. Sidetes’ guards muttered, moved their hands towards nearby clubs and axes. They were uncertain, finding it hard to see how the two men and the little girl could be a threat, but bemused by their confident air. The customers and staff in the tavern quietened down as they realised something was up, and made calculations whether it paid to stay and be entertained, or to flee to avoid the possibility of being hurt in whatever was about to happen next.

  The tavern was now quiet enough that only Sidetes’ voice could be heard.

  ‘Listen to me, you foul leper’s vomit. I am telling you that there should be more in the cash box than that, and if you don’t produce it for me immediately, I am going to have your testicles—’

  ‘Boss,’ said the thug. ‘Look who’s here.’

  Sidetes turned with anger across his face.

  ‘What is it?’

  The thug pointed to the three
Arcani.

  Sidetes stood slowly, in wonder. Then he broke out into a low, mocking laugh.

  ‘Isis and Serapis, what a surprise. Silus. It seems I wasn’t clear enough.’ He walked towards the Arcani, his hands spread. ‘Last night wasn’t the start of a negotiation. And we aren’t going to be friends or colleagues. You are not to drink here, you are not to come and find me, you are not to talk to me. You are to follow your instructions to the letter, or you will die. Horribly.’ His face twisted into a snarl as he spoke, pronouncing each word individually and precisely. ‘Do. You. Understand?’

  Silus took a stride forward, the knife concealed in his tunic sleeve dropping into his grip, and in one smooth motion buried it to the hilt in Sidetes’ eye socket before withdrawing it neatly.

  The Egyptian didn’t even have time to flinch. His body stiffened, and he toppled slowly backwards, falling on the floor with a crash that was deafening in the silence.

  The customers, the staff, the guards, all stood frozen in shock at the sudden and shockingly violent death of the man who had ruled over them all with terror for as long as they could remember.

  But the Arcani did not freeze. Atius and Daya were moving the moment Silus struck. Six guards, and within a few heartbeats, two were down. The first had taken a blade through the ribs to the heart from Daya, and the second had his skull broken by Atius’ club.

  The remaining four scrambled for their weapons. Daya and Atius moved forward as Silus confronted the nearest thug. This one held a club with nails through the end, and without hesitation he swung for Silus’ head. The weapons were mismatched, the club having superior reach, blocking power and ability to inflict damage than the knife. But one was in the hands of an Arcanus, the other in the hands of an unskilled thug from the slums. The thug feinted forwards twice, jabbing the jagged tip of his club towards Silus’ face. Then he pulled the club back and swung it round in a wide arc aimed somewhere between Silus’ shoulder and head.

  If it hit, it would be fatal.

  But Silus was not standing still. He bent his knees, ducked beneath the arc of the blow, then exploded upwards with both hands around the hilt of his knife, thrusting it up through his attacker’s liver and into his chest. He turned to see Atius backing one of the other thugs into a corner with careful swings of his own club, while Daya was on the back of another, her garotte around his neck. Silus watched for a moment as the large man tried to shake the small woman from him, to check that she didn’t need assistance. She didn’t, of course. Silus felt a glow of pride as he watched Daya finish her victim off. Pride, and something else? For fuck’s sake, Silus, get hold of yourself. You are in the middle of a fight!

  As if to confirm his self-admonishment, he was hit in the midriff with a shoulder tackle that sent him flying backwards. He landed on his back with the thug who had nearly strangled him in his apartment on top of him. Silus lost his knife in the fall, and the big thug’s club was useless at such close quarters. Silus fended off blows to each side of his head as the thug knelt astride his abdomen and punched him with fists like hammers. Silus tried to strike back, aiming for throat, eyes, groin, but he was in the wrong position to make the contact tell. He bucked and thrashed, trying to dislodge him, but the thug was too heavy and was mad with rage. Broad fingers closed around Silus’ neck and he started to choke as they tightened. He gripped the wrist and tried to prise them away, squeezing his eyes shut in an attempt to fight off approaching unconsciousness.

  Suddenly he felt warm liquid sprayed into his face, into his eyes and open mouth. At the same time the grip around his neck loosened. He opened his eyes, squinted through a red blur in time to see the thug topple sideways, crimson still pumping from the rent in his neck. Daya stood behind him with a reddened blade and a self-satisfied smile.

  She put out a hand and helped Silus to his feet. He felt dizzy as he stood, and instinctively reached out his hand. She put her arms around him to steady him, and for a brief moment they shared a hug. Her firm, slight body against him did nothing to dispel his dizziness, but he pulled away despite this.

  He wiped his eyes with the back of his tunic sleeve, and looked around him. All of Sidetes’ men were as dead as their leader, who still lay on his back with blood and goo oozing from his ruptured eye. The rest of the occupants of the tavern were like statues, frozen in shock at the suddenness and completeness of the fight.

  Silus cleared his throat and spoke to them.

  ‘I’m not from round here. I don’t know how things are done in Rome. But this is how we do things where I come from. I just wanted peace and quiet. This idiot,’ he pointed to Sidetes, ‘decided to disturb me. Hopefully the word will get out now. Leave me alone.’

  He picked up his knife, and walked gingerly out of the tavern, Daya and Atius following. Once he was out of sight and earshot of the tavern, he groaned, leant against a wall and clutched his backside.

  ‘Fuck, my arse.’

  ‘Seriously, Silus,’ said Atius. ‘I don’t think you should let anyone fuck your arse for a while.’

  * * *

  Silus thought that was enough excitement for the night, but Atius’ blood was up, and he begged Silus to come for a drink or two. Daya sneered at the boyish behaviour and declared she was returning to her quarters and going to bed. Silus thanked her for her help and watched her go for a little too long, unwelcome thoughts flashing through his mind, until his reverie was broken by Atius slapping him on the backside, causing him to yelp in pain as his buttocks clenched.

  ‘You’re a cock, Atius.’

  ‘Maybe, but I think you owe me at least a cup of wine for tonight’s work.’

  They chose a different tavern from the one in which they had fought, and selected a table in a corner. Like many taverns, this one served the multiple purposes of drinking establishment, gambling den and brothel.

  Within moments of arriving, Atius had availed himself of the first two functions, and was making plans to utilise the third. He pulled out some knucklebones, and called for challengers. A couple of young men, beards sparse, no chest hair protruding from their tunics, joined them, and Atius took out his purse with a smile.

  The game of tali could be played in two ways. One was by throwing the bones into the air and trying to catch as many as possible on the back of your hand, a game of skill. Gamblers preferred the other version, a game of chance, where your score was decided by which side up the bones landed. Because of their uneven shape, some sides were more likely than others, and it was not possible to land on the two curved ends. The four other sides were numbered I, III, IV or VI. The best throw was the Venus throw, where all four bones landed on different sides, and the worst was the Dog throw, where all the bones showed a I.

  Atius reckoned himself an expert in the game, though Silus was convinced it was entirely chance. Nevertheless, Silus’ friend was soon doing well, significantly up on his starting stake, and the two young men grumbled and made insinuations about cheating, although they weren’t brave enough to outright accuse him.

  But this being gambling and chance, and Fortuna being a fickle goddess, the game changed and swung against Atius. Silus had been gambling moderately, just enough to keep his friend company without taking any particular risks, and his purse was no heavier nor lighter than when he started. Atius, however, had watched his winnings grow, then shrink, until he was left with only a small pile of copper coins.

  ‘Let’s make it interesting,’ said Atius, a few drinks inside him enough to slur his speech and alter his judgement. ‘Everything on a Venus Throw. Everyone all in.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Atius,’ said Silus. ‘That will wipe you out.’

  ‘Only if I lose.’

  ‘I’m out,’ said Silus, taking his coins off the table.

  ‘I’m in,’ said one of the young men, throwing his whole stake into the middle of the table. The other hesitated, then also added his coins to the pile.

  Atius picked up the knucklebones and shook them in his cupped hands. He spat on the
m, shook them again. Then he said out loud, ‘O Christos, bringer of light and life, look down on this your faithful servant, and guide these bones, that my good fortune can glorify your name.’

  He gave Silus a confident wink, and threw the bones across the table.

  He looked at the result.

  ‘Shit.’

  Two Is, a III and a IV. The young men smiled and took the winnings, splitting it between them.

  ‘Thanks for the game,’ said one. ‘Any time you want a rematch, let us know.’ They stood and walked off, laughing and clapping each other on the back.

  Atius looked disconsolate. ‘I can’t even afford a whore now,’ he said.

  Silus tried to be sympathetic, but he was actually tired down to his bones, and was desperately wishing for his bed. ‘Let’s hit the road, friend. There will be other nights.’

  A thin man with a long grey beard and a bald head who had been watching the game leant in to them. ‘I know how you can make your money back.’

  ‘Thank you, but—’ began Silus.

  ‘How?’ asked Atius.

  ‘You look like a strong man. Can you fight?’

  Atius smiled. ‘I have been in the occasional brawl.’

  ‘I know a boxer looking for challengers. There is a fat reward for besting him.’

  ‘Take me to him.’

  Silus’ attempts at dissuasion fell on deaf ears, and so he dutifully tagged along with his friend as they followed the stranger down some winding streets to a scruffy-looking tavern. Their guide left them to talk to a plump, well-dressed man sitting in a corner with two burly-looking slaves attending him. They spoke in whispers, and cast sidelong glances towards Atius, who straightened his back and tried to look intimidating.

  The plump man came over to them and shook Atius’ hand. ‘I’m Nicator. I’m something of a lanista, but my gladiators aren’t slaves, and they don’t fight with swords.’