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

by Riches, Anthony

  10

  The imperial chamberlain swept into the ludus’s formal reception hall the next evening at the head of a small party of two praetorian guardsmen and a single slave, looking about him at the mural-decorated walls, the intricate mosaic floor and the statues depicting gladiators in fighting poses. Julianus stood in the hall’s centre ready to greet his emperor, dressed and barbered to perfection, the other ludi’s procurators and Scaurus waiting to one side.

  ‘Greetings Chamberlain!’

  Cleander nodded regally to Julianus’s colleagues, then smiled wryly at Scaurus.

  ‘I see you’ve persisted with your urge to watch your man Corvus in action, Tribune Scaurus. How fortunate that you’ll be able to witness one of the most interesting gladiatorial contests in the city for many a year.’ He looked about at the lavish decor. ‘Very nice, Julianus. Very nice indeed. You clearly believe in providing your more aristocratic clients with the feel of quality?’

  Julianus nodded, gesturing at the walls with an air of self-deprecation.

  ‘We operate a spartan enough school, staying as close to the traditions of the founders as we can, but we do always try to make our private clients feel at home when they come here. We hope that a little luxury will differentiate our offering from that which they might experience elsewhere, and encourage them to favour us with their presence on future occasions. I presume that you’ve come in advance of the emperor?’

  Cleander shook his head, waving a dismissive hand at the question.

  ‘Regrettably, Tettius Julianus, Caesar won’t be joining us this evening.’

  ‘There’s probably nothing that I can tell you about my brother that will be of very much use to you. He’s been fighting in the arena for just as long as I have, he’s every bit as good as me, and even with your obvious talents we both know that you’re not going to stand a chance of beating him. After all, you only really fight when your temper’s lit, don’t you?’

  Marcus nodded, keeping his eyes averted as Velox paced across the room towards him with a knowing look to Dubnus and Horatius, who were leaning against the far wall watching the impromptu training session.

  ‘No, you’ll be fighting to minimise the damage he could do to you if you manage to get his back up. Fight defensively, make sure you always have a space to retreat into, and at some point be prepared to take your three cuts and end the fight. Not too quickly, mind you, or Commodus might just order the pair of you to keep going until he’s satisfied that you’ve given your best. Show me your blades …’

  He examined the swords, shaking his head in disgust.

  ‘You’re fighting the Death Bringer, and Sannitus arms you with this rubbish? Fetch my swords!’

  One of the junior gladiators ran for the weapons, and while the four men waited, Velox raised the blades he’d taken from Marcus before him, their points inches from the Roman’s face.

  ‘Now watch carefully. My little brother may be as fast as a striking snake, but he has his habits just like the rest of us, and there are a couple of them that you’ll need to watch out for. Firstly, there’s this …’

  He wristed the right-hand blade in a flashing arc, stopping its swing just at the point where it was poised for a chopping blow at Marcus’s head.

  ‘He threatens your head, you respond with a sword raised to catch the blow and he lunges in …’ He pushed the other sword forward with a swift stamp of his leading foot. ‘And before you know what he’s doing, he’s sliced your forearm open or, if he’s in a really bad mood, he’s cut a chunk out of your armpit and your life’s running down your arm.’

  Velox stepped backwards, resuming his previous position.

  ‘And here’s another little trick he’s particularly fond of.’

  He danced back, his eyes taunting Marcus and drawing the Roman forward, as if they were fighting for real, and as his opponent approached, he took another step back. As Marcus raised his foot to step forward again, the other man sprang off his back foot, his blades suddenly in the Roman’s face in a move so fast that Marcus didn’t know if he could have countered it even if he’d had swords of his own.

  ‘Be ready for that one too. He uses it in most of his fights with men who don’t know his style. Ah, here are my swords …’

  The champion gladiator took his weapons, drawing both blades and discarding their elaborately decorated scabbards. He handed them over and then stepped back, making space for the Roman to swing them. Marcus ran through a swift series of practice cuts and lunges, nodding at the weapons’ excellent balance. Looking closely at the blades, he raised an eyebrow at the gladiator, his eyes hard with concentration.

  ‘These are …’

  Velox grinned.

  ‘I think the word you’re looking for is incomparable. And you’d be right. They’re a pound lighter apiece than the usual weapons we’re issued with, and they’re edged with some special iron that stays sharp longer in a fight. They’re my arena swords, saved for occasions when I need to put on a bit of a show, but perhaps they’ll help to even up the advantage my brother will have over you.’

  Edius appeared in the training room’s doorway and beckoned to Marcus.

  ‘Time to fight.’

  In the ludus’s arena, Cleander was putting on a show of apology for Julianus and his guests, but if his words were those of a contrite man, neither his tone nor his expression were doing very much to support them.

  ‘My apologies, Julianus. What can I say? When I left him the emperor was somewhat … preoccupied, shall we say? I felt it best not to interrupt the important matters that were demanding of his full attention.’

  Julianus nodded, knowing all too well the sort of ‘matters’ that the chamberlain was describing, but any distaste he might have been feeling was submerged in a deep-seated sense of relief so profound that it was all he could do not to sigh.

  ‘I completely understand, Chamberlain. And, under the circumstances, I’m sure the emperor will be happy to save his money, given that he’s not here to see the—’

  Cleander shook his head briskly, with a smile that made it all too clear how well he understood Julianus’s short-lived relief.

  ‘Far from it, Procurator. Far from it! Knowing that I am possessed of an excellent recollective skill, Caesar simply implored me to bring him back the most precise account of the fight possible. I shall therefore take a seat here …’ Cleander pointed to the ornately gilded wooden seat that had been positioned ready for the ludus’s exalted guest. ‘And attempt to do such a titanic bout some small degree of honour with my description.’

  Julianus’s mouth opened in consternation.

  ‘We’re to continue without the emperor?’

  Cleander’s response was delivered in a cheery tone, but there was no mistaking the command implicit in his words.

  ‘Indeed we are, Procurator! After all, the price for the bout has been set and paid, and the fees that will be owing in the event of either the serious wounding or indeed the death of either participant are equally clear and, I should add, ready to pay out.’

  He glanced behind him at the shaven-headed slave, still flanked by a pair of praetorians, at whose belt a good-sized pouch bulged with coin.

  ‘Dacian gold, Procurator, freshly minted. And after all, Julianus, who are either of us to risk the wrath of our emperor by disregarding his instructions? Bring on the contestants, and let us see what it was that Caesar had in mind when he commanded this match, shall we?’

  Marcus was led into the arena first, looking around the surprisingly small fighting space with an expression of wary appraisal. Finding Scaurus in the group of imperial officials, he nodded his recognition, then stared back at the gladiators who were standing behind the ludus’s guests. Hermes was one of the men favoured with the opportunity to watch the bout, and he grinned at Marcus without any trace of humour in the expression.

  ‘Not quite what you were expecting, eh Centurion?’

  He turned to the small group of men gathered at the opposite end
of the room, recognising the chamberlain’s urbane tones. Walking towards them, he stopped ten paces short and bowed as he had been instructed by Edius, digging his toes into the sand.

  ‘It’s not as grand as some other places I’ve fought, Chamberlain, that’s true, but it makes a pleasant change to have clean sand underfoot rather than what I’m rather more accustomed to.’

  ‘And what would that be?’

  He smiled bleakly.

  ‘Mud that’s been stamped into foam so deep that a man who falls wounded is likely to drown before he bleeds to death, stinking with the blood, piss and shit of the men who are fighting and dying around me. This is a holiday, by comparison.’

  A door in the arena’s wall opened, and Mortiferum stepped out onto the sand, walking easily across the fighting surface until he was standing half a dozen paces from where Marcus stood waiting for him. A mirror image of his brother in both height and musculature, his hair had been greased back to give him a sleek, deadly appearance. Sannitus stepped forward with a forbidding look, his usual rough tunic replaced by the white garb of a referee and the customary long stick held in one big hand.

  ‘Gladiators, this bout has been commanded to be a blood match, with the first man to cut his opponent and draw blood three times being named as the winner. The prize is one thousand sestertii, ten gold aurei donated by the emperor himself. When a cut is inflicted you will step apart and allow me the time to make an examination of the wound. If I deem the wound to be too serious for the fight to continue then I will declare the wounded man to be the loser, and the fight will be over. However, in the event of such a serious wound being inflicted, the winner’s prize will be retained by the ludus, as his punishment for damaging valuable property. This is to be a display of gladiatorial skill, not a fight to the death. Do you both understand?’

  Both men nodded, and the lanista turned to look to his master.

  ‘If you and our guests are ready, Procurator?’

  Julianus nodded tersely, still preoccupied with the potential for needless injury to either man.

  ‘Continue!’

  Sannitus stepped backwards, smartly waving his hands for the gladiators to close on each other.

  ‘Fight!’

  The two men eyed each other over the blades of their levelled swords, Mortiferum raising an amused eyebrow as he slid his feet across the sand, crabbing round to his right and eliciting a matching response from Marcus.

  ‘So, Corvus, how does it feel to be blade to blade with the most famous gladiator in Rome? How long do you think you can stand against me?’

  Marcus stared back, his face expressionless as he matched the other man step for step, the two of them slowly circling, watching each other with eyes narrowed in concentration.

  ‘I thought your brother was the most famous gladiator in Rome?’

  The champion opened his mouth as if to speak but leapt forward instead, wristing his right-hand weapon in a savage arc aimed at his opponent’s head, just as his brother had predicted. Rather than lifting his own blade to parry, Marcus spun to his right, slicing his right-hand sword at the other man’s thigh, forcing Mortiferum to hop neatly backwards with a delighted laugh.

  ‘Nicely done! Perhaps this won’t be quite as boring as I’d exp—’

  Something in his complacent smile triggered a response in Marcus, a sudden kick in the pit of his stomach, and he found himself going forward with a growl of anger, meeting his opponent’s waiting blades and driving him backwards in a flurry of cuts and parries. Staring into the other man’s eyes, his swords seeming to move of their own volition as he hammered at the retreating gladiator’s defences, he saw the first hint of concern in the other man’s face. And then, as if his opponent had simply decided enough was enough, he glared at Marcus and stopped retreating, fighting back with a speed and skill the Roman had rarely experienced.

  Cleander clenched his fist as the fight’s tempo escalated, banging a palm on his chair’s arm in approval.

  ‘Now we can see what these men are made of! This is a fight!’

  As they watched, Mortiferum parried a flurry of blows and then, in the brief moment when Marcus’s defence was opened by his ferocious attack, sprang forward in a straining lunge and jabbed the very tip of one of his blades into his opponent’s leg just below the knee. The gladiators lining the walls cheered loudly at the first blood, and Sannitus stepped forward, bellowing a command at the two men.

  ‘Stop fighting!’

  At the ludus’s main door a heavy fist banged twice on the woodwork, jolting the slave on duty out of his comfortable reverie. He slid open the thin vision slit carved into the thick beams, speaking though it without even bothering to see who it was that had disturbed his doze.

  ‘Fuck off and bother someone else. The ludus is closed to the likes of you for the night.’

  ‘Really, Piro? Closed to the likes of me?’

  The doorman started, half recognising the voice from a memory that he hadn’t revisited for years. It was deep and commanding, filled with an arrogant disregard for anyone else, the voice of a man who had faced death a hundred times and walked away unharmed.

  ‘It’s not …’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Fuck me …’

  ‘Not while there are dogs on the street. Now open this door and let me in, unless you’re keen to see the colour of your own liver before you go to the underworld.’

  Sannitus stepped in between the fighters, prodding at Mortiferum with his long stick to push him out of sword reach before bending to examine the wound. A slow seeping runnel of blood was oozing down Marcus’s leg, and the lanista nodded with a look that spoke volumes as to his desire to get the fight finished before one of them badly hurt the other.

  ‘Blood! One to Mortiferum!’

  He stepped back, waving the two men together.

  ‘Fight!’

  ‘Go on Death Bringer, put the tyro in his place!’

  The veteran gladiator nodded at Hermes’s shout and stormed into the fight, his face set in determination at the realisation that nothing other than the best of his skills and commitment would be enough to defeat this new and unexpectedly effective opponent. Their swords flickered and clashed with such speed that the watching audience could scarcely follow the fight’s progress, but it seemed to Velox’s trained eye that while his brother was attacking with all of his ability, Marcus had retreated back into himself again, and was fighting on the defensive without any sign of the necessary impetus to go forward and take down his enemy.

  The ferocious duel continued, the two men entirely focused on each other’s faces as Mortiferum constantly probed for an opening, Marcus comfortably parrying his blows without any sign of taking the fight back to him. Procurator Novius pulled a disparaging expression, shaking his head slightly.

  ‘Your man Corvus seems to have rather lost interest since taking that cut. I must profess myself a little disappointed. I thought your new boy had a little more in him …’

  ‘Oh, I’m not so sure …’ They looked around at the seated Cleander, his eyes still intent on the fight. ‘This looks more like strategy than tactics to me.’

  He waved away their bafflement, watching as Marcus allowed himself to be manoeuvred around the small arena. At length Mortiferum managed to lever an opening in the Roman’s defence, more by brute force than any subtlety with his blades, whipping a blade in under Marcus’s defence to prick a skilful cut into the top of his thigh to the renewed cheers of the gladiators lining the walls.

  ‘Stop fighting!’

  ‘Well now, Edius.’

  The assistant lanista whipped round, his eyes narrowed at the sound of his challenger’s voice. He stepped closer to the newcomer, screwing up his eyes and staring hard at him in the corridor’s gloom. The ludus slave standing behind him put a startled hand to the hilt of his sword, then froze at the look of wolfish anticipation on the stranger’s hard, scarred face as he wagged a forbidding finger.

  ‘If you air that iron, one
of us will die before your next breath is expelled. Do you choose to die, here and now?’

  The terrified man eased his hand away from the weapon’s hilt, swallowing audibly.

  ‘Wise. And you, Edius? Do you and I have to fight?’

  The lanista shook his head, raising his empty hands before him.

  ‘I’m no more of a fool than I was the last time we met.’

  The big man nodded, putting out a hand.

  ‘I’ll be needing weapons, Edius. I’ll make a start with your man here’s blade, and I’m sure you can find me another quickly enough, eh?’

  The lanista turned, taking the sword from the guard’s scabbard and pointing down the corridor.

  ‘Fetch him another. Quickly. And tell no one else.’ He turned back to the big man. ‘I’ll not get in your way. But why come back now?’

  The newcomer’s answer was accompanied by a shake of the big man’s head.

  ‘I’ve been asking myself the same question.’

  Sannitus put himself between the two men for a second time, examining the puncture with swift professionalism.

  ‘Blood! Two to Mortiferum!’ He looked at Marcus, perturbed at the unconcerned look on the Roman’s face. ‘Nearly there. Just behave yourself and take the third cut and we’ll have this done.’

  He stepped back from them.

  ‘Fight!’

  Mortiferum, smugly secure in the certainty of his impending victory, frowned as Marcus held his hands up to raise his swords until they were level with his face, forcing the other man to look him in the eye. The gladiator shook his head in bemusement, his lips twisting in the grin of a man who knew he already had the fight in the bag.

  ‘You’re good, Corvus. Very good. You’re the only man I’ve ever met, other than my brother, who can watch his opponent’s eyes and leave his swords to their own devices. But you’re not quite good enough to stop me, are you? No one’s ever come back against me in a blood match once the first hit was called, never mind two. So be a good boy and—’

  Marcus cut him off, his voice hard with hatred and disgust.