The Emperor's Knives: Empire VII (Empire 7)

by Riches, Anthony

  The procurator bowed, opening his hands to gesture his assent to the suggestion.

  ‘It would be my pleasure to donate such a sum to the imperial treasury.’

  Cleander nodded.

  ‘Excellent. And now I really must get back to my duties. I think it’s time we ran an audit of arena gamblers’ takings and losses. I do so like to know exactly what monies are changing hands, and where the throne might request a small percentage as a means of meeting its incessant outflow of gold to safeguard the empire’s frontiers.’

  He turned away but then, exactly as Scaurus had expected, he turned back with a faint smile.

  ‘Tribune Scaurus, you do get around.’

  Scaurus bowed.

  ‘I make a point of introducing my officers to as many new experiences as possible, Chamberlain, and Julius here has never seen the Flavian amphitheatre.’

  Cleander raised an eyebrow.

  ‘And how do you find our entertainment, Centurion?’

  Julius smiled wanly.

  ‘Informative, sir.’

  ‘Informative!’ The chamberlain guffawed. ‘I’m sure you do, given the bestial nature of the lunchtime show. But never fear, there’s nothing more in that line planned for the rest of the day, although I suspect that dear old Glaucus’s death will have left the crowd in the mood for some red meat. Let’s hope your men can provide them with a good-sized portion! Oh, and Scaurus?’

  ‘Chamberlain?’

  ‘I really do think it’s time your men were given a break from all that tedious sitting around and waiting for their next set of orders. I’ll send a man to you in the morning to detail the time of a meeting and we’ll find you something more interesting to do. Something involving travel …’

  9

  Velox led the three friends through the Gate of Life, his face still betraying the fury he was feeling at the death of his friend Glaucus. The gate guards on duty did no more than nod respectfully as he escorted the three soldiers out into the open space between the arena and the gladiatorial schools clustered around its eastern side. The square was almost empty, most of the people who had thronged it a few hours before now in their seats high above the arena’s sand, and those few who remained were easily turned away by the pair of ludus guards walking before them with their heavy knobbed wooden clubs.

  Leading them across the square, his mood seemed to soften slightly as he pointed out each of the gladiatorial ludi in turn, from the Ludus Gallicus’s comparatively humble establishment, to the Ludus Magnus’s massive square-sided barracks, the height of its walls fully two-thirds of the arena which faced it across the intervening open space.

  ‘They’ve got a full-sized arena in there to make the training realistic for the horse boys, and big enough that they can stage chariot fights and massed battles when the aristos want to pay for some private bloodshed. It’s always been the same. The Great School turns out most of the mainstream acts, and so it has all the money and all of the power. The rest of us are always running to catch up.’

  He led them up a side street and into a huge stone building.

  ‘But here’s a place where that doesn’t matter, because these boys are managed by the Flavian procurator, and they treat everyone with exactly the same disdain. You’ll be here a lot over the next few years, getting your gear sorted out before a fight.’

  If the champion’s reputation had the power to open almost any door, there was little sign of that influence in the dour-faced man who confronted them when they reached the arena’s armoury, protected by three sets of heavy iron-studded oak doors.

  ‘Equipment for these three? I was told about it less than an hour ago, so you’ll just have to make do with what we’ve got in store. It’s not as if we’ve not already got enough work to keep us busy for the rest of the week!’

  The chief armourer waved a hand at the ordered chaos behind him, half a dozen muscular men with their heads down over their work, hammering at armour and sharpening the weapons required to equip the men who would fight in the Flavian arena. The air in the workshop was heavy with the stink of sweat, and the four men were barely spared a second glance by the toiling craftsmen. Velox put a hand on their overseer’s shoulder.

  ‘Don’t worry about it, I know your store well enough to find what we need. We’ll bring it back to show you before we carry it off, never fear. After all, if we wait for those idiots upstairs to come and sort it out, these lads’ll be going out onto the sand naked.’

  The armourer nodded, happy to have the problem taken off his hands, and turned back to his workshop with a final admonishment.

  ‘Off you go then, but no trying to sneak off with any of the good stuff!’

  The store was cooler, if no better lit than the workshop through which they had walked to reach it, and the four men walked down its long central aisle looking at the equipment stacked in both sides with an eye for anything military. Velox picked up a sword, testing its edge with his thumb.

  ‘Let’s hope this is going to feel the touch of a stone before it’s used in anger. Of course, once a man’s fought and won a few times he gets to use his own gear, since it makes him more recognisable to the crowds and encourages them to gamble on him, with the arena taking a healthy cut of course, but most of the tiros get something from this rather dull collection thrust at them just as they’re about to go out onto the sand, poor bastards. A few practice swings and suddenly you’re out there face-to-face with another man who has to go through you if he wants to make his way back through the Gate of Life. No wonder so many of them don’t survive their first two or three … Ah, here we are then!’ He waved a hand at the racks of gear that ran the length of the storeroom. ‘Designed by veteran soldiers, tested to destruction in foreign wars and then eventually made by the lowest bidder with the cheapest materials possible, so you’d better make sure that anything you choose isn’t ready to fall to pieces!’

  The soldiers looked up and down the racks of equipment before them, each of them selecting what they needed in their own size. Horatius paused in the middle of buckling on his armour, realising that the Tungrians had both chosen to wear mail rather than the legion standard-issue body protection.

  ‘You’re sure you want to wear that stuff? Plate armour’s better protection against a spear point, because the plates are layered two and three thick. And see, the shoulder guards will hold off a sword blade better as well …’

  His voice trailed off as Dubnus turned a strained smile on him, fastening a thick leather belt tightly about himself to carry some of the heavy mail shirt’s twenty-pound weight.

  ‘On the other hand, see how the shirt protects my thighs, nearly as far down as my knees. And I’m used to this, whereas it could take me days of practice to be able to fight as well with that thing on.’

  Velox reappeared from the back of the store with three helmets piled in his arms.

  ‘Here you go, these look like they’ll do the job.’ He passed one to each of them, watching as they pulled on arming caps to pad out the space between head and helmet, then dropped the heavy iron headgear into place. ‘Now you look like soldiers, and not just particularly well-muscled tourists. Find yourselves some military-looking shields and I think that’ll more or less be you three ready for the sand.’

  Picking out a sword and spear for each of them, he led them back into the workshop. The armourer stared at the three men as they walked through his toiling men, his head shaking slowly from side to side as they stopped in front of him for inspection.

  ‘First time?’

  Marcus nodded, frowning down at the man.

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘How could I tell? It’s in the eyes, lad, in the eyes. You lot are looking about you as if this is some sort of big adventure, rather than the never-ending bloodbath that it really is.’ Having noted the equipment they were wearing and made each of them sign for it, he detailed a slave to carry their spears and swords. ‘If you walk out into the streets carrying that lot you’ll start a bloody p
anic.’

  He turned back to his work, leaving Velox to lead them out of the workshop and back into the sunlight. Their appearance excited somewhat more comment than had been the case earlier, and a small crowd quickly gathered about them as they strode back towards the arena. Their guards pushed through the gathering throng, reinforced by a half-dozen men sent out from the Gate of Life to escort them in, and Velox grinned broadly at Marcus as they pushed and shoved their way to the gate, his previous dark mood forgotten.

  ‘If you’ve ever wondered what keeps men who’ve won their wooden sword coming back, other than they don’t have any other skills, this is it. They love us, these poor bastards with little else to brighten their lives, they worship us and they adore us. And soon enough they’ll be chanting your names … if you win this afternoon.’

  The gate supervisor hurried up to him with a look of near-panic.

  ‘Thank the gods you’re back! One of the men who was scheduled to fight this afternoon has fallen down the steps and broken three fingers of his sword hand and the others aren’t here yet. Once this fight’s finished we’ve got no one else to put onto the sand, so you’ve been moved up the order. Get your lads ready to fight!’

  Velox led them down into the tunnels beneath the arena floor, grinning at the cacophony that reverberated around the dark, enclosed space.

  ‘Just be grateful you’re not down here when the place is packed with animals. All that grunting and roaring, not to mention the stink of their shit …’

  He delivered them to their holding cell with a smile of reassurance. Waiting until they were inside the iron-barred cage whose stone back wall had a succession of heavy wooden beams set into it to form a stairway, he pointed at the spot where the roughly formed stair met the cell’s stone roof.

  ‘When that trapdoor opens, climb the steps and you’ll find yourselves in the sunlight. Take a moment to adjust your eyes to the light before moving forward, or they’ll release the Dacians before you’ve got your bearings. The announcer will probably want to tell the story of what’s going on before you get started in any case, so just stand there looking tough until he’s finished spouting whatever nonsense they’ve made up to justify the three of you facing a bunch of barbarians. Now, when they attack you they’ll come out of the ground just like you will. Let them get out of their cell and once they’re all above ground, anything goes.’

  He paused and looked at them, opening his arms wide and tilting his head with his eyebrows raised for emphasis.

  ‘Anything. All the rules that we follow when it’s gladiator versus gladiator? Forget them, if you ever knew them. If you wound a man and you have the time, finish him. All that stuff about stepping back and waiting for the referee to start the fight again is out of the window as well, because for one thing he’s not going to come anywhere near half a dozen blood-crazed Dacians, and for another, these men have been brought here to provide a little entertainment for the rabble as they die. So get it done anyway that works, kill them all and take the adulation of an adoring crowd. Simple, eh?’

  He grinned at them again, nodding his head as he turned away.

  ‘I’ll drink a cup of wine with you when it’s done, eh? Just make sure you do the Dacian school proud!’

  Velox strolled easily through the barely illuminated passages beneath the arena’s floor, crossing from one side of the broad oval to the other and looking briefly at each holding cell he passed until he found what he’d been looking for. The Dacian prisoners were being herded disconsolately into a cell which was the identical match for the one in which the three centurions were waiting to fight, and for a moment the gladiator stood and looked at them with appraising eyes, until with a start he realised that there were more men being driven into the cell at spear point than he had expected.

  ‘There should be six of them!’

  The arena slave guarding the cell’s door shook his head flatly.

  ‘I get new order. Another three men put into fight. We only just fetch from cells in time.’

  Velox looked at the Dacians for a moment longer, then turned on his heel and ran, hearing the blare of trumpets and the roar of the crowd from the arena above him as the fight in progress came to whatever end the emperor had decreed. Passing a party of arena guards escorting a pair of heavily armoured murmillos to their cell, he recognised one of them and skidded to a halt.

  ‘Nilo! You still owe me a favour for that tip I gave you on that net man at the last games! Lend me your spear! And you two!’ Seeing the incredulity on their faces he fished out his purse, pulling out a gold aureus and holding it up for them to see. ‘I’ll rent them! An aureus for one fight’s worth of rental! It’s not as if you need them to control this pair of amateurs.’

  They dithered for a moment, looking at each other in bemusement while the murmillos bristled at being described in such harsh terms, and with a snort of impatience he tossed the coin at their feet, snatched the weapons from their unresisting fingers and ran, the wooden shafts clattering in his grasp. Skidding round the corner he saw a rectangle of golden sunlight in the holding cell’s farthest corner, and realised with dismay that the cage in which he had expected to find the three soldiers was empty.

  The trapdoor had risen from its recess with a slow creak, and after a moment’s pause Horatius had led them up the steps, moving to the opening’s left as Dubnus climbed out behind him, turning to the right and leaving the way clear for Marcus. The three men stood blinking in the sunlight, momentarily stunned by the roar of fifty thousand voices beating down on them as the crowd greeted their appearance with the usual barrage of noise. The arena’s tiered seats towered over them on all sides, the waves of sound from their occupants washing down on the dazzled comrades.

  ‘Citizens! Citizens!’

  A man was bellowing out at the crowd from a place beneath the imperial box, and the crowd swiftly fell silent, accustomed to the arena’s pre-fight ritual. When the announcer spoke again it was into a hushed silence, with only the susurrations of quiet conversation and a few coughs to distract from his portentous announcement.

  ‘Citizens, the Flavian Arena and the Dacian Gladiatorial School will now bring you a spectacle unlike anything you have ever seen before!’

  ‘Corvus!’

  The Roman turned, looking about him before realising that the urgent voice addressing him was coming from beneath his feet. Peering down into the trapdoor’s black rectangle he realised that Velox was looking up at him.

  ‘Take these!’ Three spears clattered onto the sand at his feet. ‘You’ve been set up! There aren’t six men coming out to fight you, there are nine of them!’

  He vanished into the gloom, and the trapdoor swung shut as the arena slave who had been waiting behind him pulled at the rope and dropped it back into place, leaving the arena’s surface unbroken.

  ‘For the first time in arena history we bring you not one, not two, but three former centurions from the imperial legions, battle-hardened veterans who have come to test themselves against whatever might be thrown against them! Behold, the finest fighting men of the finest army in the world!’

  The crowd erupted in a bellow of delight, forcing the announcer to fall silent for a moment.

  ‘What did Velox say?’

  Marcus looked at the other two men, reaching down to pick up one of the spears before answering Dubnus’s question.

  ‘The odds against us have been changed. There are nine prisoners waiting to be sent against us.’

  Dubnus nodded, passing a spear to Horatius.

  ‘We’ve fought worse. Here’s your chance to show us whether you could really hit a cat’s arse at twenty paces.’

  The legion man grinned back at him.

  ‘Twenty-five.’

  ‘Citizens!’ The crowd fell quiet again, although this time they were still buzzing with chatter, speculation as to what might be about to happen before them. ‘We are watching a scene from the divine Emperor Trajan’s war against the Dacians, a piece of history well kn
own to any man who fought in that bitterly fought campaign. We are watching the story of … “The Three Centurions!”’

  ‘What the fuck is the man prattling on about?’

  Horatius raised an amused eyebrow at Dubnus.

  ‘I suspect we’re about to find out.’

  ‘The Emperor sent three centurions out with orders to find and kill the general commanding the Dacian forces facing his legions, three men who were the greatest champions in his entire army! Their names were Horatius, a man of Noricum …’

  The crowd roared, and Horatius raised his shield and spears in salute, grimacing at the other two.

  ‘Dubnus, a barbarian from the far-off island of Britannia converted to the emperor’s service!’

  Again the roar, and Dubnus pulled a wry face as he raised his arms.

  ‘Fuck me, a man could get used to this.’

  ‘And Corvus, a citizen of Rome skilled with every weapon and devoted to his emperor!’

  Marcus shook his head at the unintentional irony, lifting his shield and spears to acknowledge the crowd’s roar of approval.

  ‘Together, these three brave men journeyed deep into the heart of the enemy’s territory, unaware that they were in their turn being hunted by the enemy!’

  The announcer fell silent, and Horatius looked at the other two with a grim smile.

  ‘I suspect that it’s time to journey deep into the heart of the enemy’s territory. Heads up! And since the rules seem to have gone out of the window, I suggest we strike first!’

  They stepped forward, pacing towards the arena’s centre with their shields raised, each with a single spear ready to throw and the spare held in their shield hands.

  ‘And then, without warning, the enemy struck!’