The Roman turned to see the agent of his delivery, as the praetorian stared at the dying man with a look of satisfaction, recognising his face immediately despite the helmet’s disguise.
‘Yes, it’s the retarius who made such short work of Glaucus yesterday.’ Cleander had stepped forward and was standing beside him, looking down at Horatius’s twitching body. ‘When I see the very highest skills on display I’m quick to recruit them to my service.’
He looked down at the dying man with a dispassionate expression.
‘Irony stacked upon irony, it seems. Centurion Aquila looks for revenge on the last of the Knives only to discover that he’s killed the wrong brother. And you, the only man left alive who gives a damn about the fate of the Perennis family, put your sword to a man who has suffered exactly the same loss and wasn’t even the one who killed your sponsor the legatus. And as a consequence for that act of stupidity you end up with a spear through your neck and your existence receding down life’s drain hole. It just goes to show that the thirst for revenge can lead a man to drink some bitter potions, doesn’t it?’
11
The next morning Morban and his barbers opened up soon after dawn, as usual, and if some of them looked a little bleary-eyed it had no effect on the usual swift-forming queue of men who had decided to take advantage of their continuing generosity. Morban strolled out to address them, shaking his head sadly.
‘Sorry gentlemen, but we won’t be cutting hair today as a mark of respect to Flamma the Great, who fights in the arena this afternoon!’
For a moment the men waiting in line assumed that he was joking, but when the burly soldier remained where he was, arms folded and clearly not for moving, an angry clamour broke out. Morban waited for a moment, then cleared his throat ostentatiously before shouting his next words at the top of his voice.
‘Shut the FUCK up!’ His would-be customers stared at him in amazement. ‘That’s better. Now I’ll only say this one more time. We’re. Not. Cutting. Hair. Today. Got it? Now you can either fuck off now quietly or I’ll be forced to tell the lads inside to come out and deal with you. You choose.’
As if on cue, the window shutters were thrown open, and half a dozen irritated Tungrians looked out at the queue, several of them holding heavy wooden clubs. Realising that they weren’t going to be getting a cheap haircut or a shave any time soon, the disgruntled customers dispersed, leaving Morban looking out into the street with a grin.
‘Don’t know what you’ve got to smile at.’
The standard bearer turned to find his neighbour the potter at his side, his expression rather less happy than the last time they’d spoken.
‘Oh, I don’t know. Everyone likes a day off work every now and then.’
The potter shook his head in bemusement.
‘A day off work? You do realise that you’ll have the Hilltop Boys up here within the hour, once the story gets round that you’ve told your customers to piss off?’
Morban’s smile broadened.
‘That’s what I’m counting on. Perhaps you should probably close up your shop and go upstairs for an hour?’
The shopkeeper nodded, his expression telling Morban that had been his intention all along, and the standard bearer glanced along the line of shops to see that his neighbours had all come to the same conclusion, goods hastily withdrawn into their premises and shutters unceremoniously closed to provide the occupants with some semblance of security. Smiling to himself he turned and walked back into the shop.
‘Right then, it’s all gone quieter than a mute with her mouth full out there, so let’s have the weaponry upstairs, shall we?’
He watched impassively as the soldiers lifted the floorboards that covered the stairs down into the cellar, each of them fetching a shield and sword. The last man up the stairs handed him a spear, watching impassively as the standard bearer strolled back out into the afternoon sunshine, propping the weapon up against the wall in the shade of a brick pillar where it was invisible to a cursory glance. A pair of Maximus’s enforcers hurried round the corner, having clearly heard the rumour that the shop had failed to open for business.
‘What the fuck’s going on?’
Morban grinned broadly at the gang member addressing him.
‘A day’s holiday is what’s happening, my old son. We just thought we’d—’
‘Get back to fucking work, you fat bastard!’ The gangster leaned close, putting a finger against Morban’s chest. ‘You’ve got taxes to pay, and if you don—’.
The standard bearer grinned up at him lopsidedly, shaking his head gently as he interrupted.
‘Not really. We’ve decided not to pay any more protection since, to be honest with you, we don’t really need it.’
The man looked at his mate with an amused smile, inviting him to join in the joke.
‘That’s fifteen per cent. Keep talking and I’ll have to go and get One Eye.’
Morban shrugged.
‘You clearly don’t get it. We’re not paying.’
The gangster’s patience snapped, and he jabbed the finger into Morban’s chest with an angry snarl.
‘And you “clearly don’t get it”. We’re the fucking Hilltop Boys. We take whatever we want, and right now what I want most is to stick your fucking head right up your fat arse, smart mouth. So give us the cash or I’ll have to—’
He stopped talking abruptly, as a sliver of cold metal touched the area between his belly and his penis. His comrade was suddenly equally still, his attention fixed on the daggers that had appeared in the hands of the two men behind Morban, their evilly sharp blades glinting in the morning sunlight. Morban pushed the finger away.
‘Yeah, well you may be the Hilltop Boys, but we’re the imperial Roman army. You’ve cut the occasional poor sod that made the mistake of getting in your way, whereas we’ve fought in pitched battles against barbarians who all wanted to skin us alive. So I’d advise you to fuck off, and not come back unless you want to leave with your cocks in your hands.’
The enforcers fled, and Morban turned back to his supporters.
‘Start counting. I’ll give two to one we’re toe to toe with them in less than five hundred. And no gabbling it either, nice measured counts. Those odds working for anyone? Two to one? Five to two?’
After a few moments of waiting in the morning’s growing heat, they heard the sound of footsteps echoing distantly up the hill, swelling quickly from a mutter to a clamour of leather slapping on stone, and Maximus rounded the corner at the head of a dozen of his men. Seeing Morban waiting for him he spread his arms wide, gesturing to his companions to spread out to either side.
‘Well now, here’s Fatty enjoying the sunshine. Isn’t that nice boys? It’s a shame that every fucking shop in the street’s had to close as a result though.’ He stopped in front of Morban, an angry sneer plastered across his face. ‘I ain’t got the heart to slap you about, Fatty, ’cause I reckon if I do you might just burst. I’ll have to make do with a temporary increase in your tax rate to say …’ He made a show of thought. ‘A hundred per cent for the day. If you open that door right now, and put your boys back to work, I’ll settle for a day’s takings as your fine. How’s that, Fatty, or do I have to make my point even clearer? Even the fucking “imperial Roman army” can’t be that stupid.’
Morban nodded slowly, putting a hand on the shop’s door handle, and the enforcer turned to his comrades with a triumphant grin.
‘Like I’ve always said, you let them get out of line and you always end up having to slap them around to compensate for being too lax in the first place!’
He turned back as Morban swung the door open and stepped aside, his eyes widening as he saw the first of the Tungrians come through the opening with his shield raised, the polished tip of his sword’s blade winking in the sunlight, and another man at his heels. In the moment of the gangster’s distraction, Morban reached for the spear propped up beside him and stabbed the weapon’s sharp pointed head down into the gang
leader’s sandal-clad foot, feeling the crackle of small bones parting under the iron’s remorseless thrust. Maximus screamed in agony, and while his mouth was hanging open, the standard bearer released his grip on the spear with his right hand and swung a bunched fist into the helpless man’s gaping jaw, hard enough to break the bone with a rending crack.
‘Hold!’
The gang members, caught between the obvious need to fight back and the overwhelming urge to flee, froze at Morban’s bellowed command, their eyes fixed on him as he pointed to the soldiers facing them.
‘If you fuckers run, these lads will chase you down and stab you in the back. D’you want that? Drop your fucking knives!’
The gangsters looked from the standard bearer’s implacable mask to the writhing body of their leader, then back at the hard faces of the soldiers, clearly ready to spill their blood at the slightest excuse. One weapon fell to the floor, swiftly followed by another, and then the rest of them allowed their iron to drop to the cobbles, their faces red with the shame.
‘On your way then. And no looking back, or you might just find it brings us down on you!’
He waited until the last of them was round the corner and out of sight, then took a firm grip of the spear’s shaft, experimentally tugging at it. Maximus groaned with the pain.
‘No …’
‘Well as it happens … yes!’
Morban wrenched the spear from his victim’s foot, tearing a moan of agony from the thug’s shattered mouth, then squatted down to speak conversationally.
‘Well now, One Eye, my old mate. All this time you’ve been calling me nasty names and taking my money, and suddenly here we are with the roles reversed. Now you’re the one with the problem, aren’t you, with one foot all torn up and your face in pieces. I don’t suppose it could get much worse, not unless …’ He put a finger to his chin and adopted a pensive expression. But surely nobody would be that inhuman. Would they?’
He levelled the spear at the helpless gang leader, easing it forward until the blade was an inch from his eye.
‘We do get an amazing amount of training in the army, of course, especially with this little beauty. I can hit a man with it at thirty paces, or I can just stick it into him an inch or two and watch him bleed to death. I bet I could pop that other eye of yours without killing you, if I wanted to.’
Maximus moaned again, but this time it was more from fear than pain.
‘And you know what they say, don’t you, about bad things coming in threes?’
Morban looked down, his face wrinkled with sudden disgust. He jerked the spear sharply, driving the point into the good eye. The gangster screamed, his entire body rippling with the pain, while the standard bearer looked down at him dispassionately.
‘Consider that as your payout for all the extortion, and rape, and murder you’ve visited on these people over the years. Let’s see how compassionate they feel towards a crippled, blind beggar who can’t even chew his own food, shall we?’
He gestured to his men.
‘Right then lads, pick up those knives, drop the weapons back into the shop and let’s be away to leave old ‘No Eyes’ to consider the error of his ways!’
He turned to find the potter standing close behind him.
‘You’re going to leave all those swords in the shop?’
Morban nodded.
‘They’ll be safe enough until someone comes to collect them. I’ll lock the place up and I can’t see anyone being brave enough to break in given the obvious penalty for crossing me and my lads.’ He offered the shopkeeper his spear with an impetuous grin. ‘Want to finish him off? Be my guest! After all, think of all the times the bastard’s taken money off you, or pawed your wife.’
The other man shook his head.
‘Part of me wants to, wanted to the second I saw you put the iron into his foot … but I can’t.’
Morban nodded, giving the weapon to a passing soldier.
‘I know. I would have been the same, a long time ago …’ He sighed. ‘And now I’m just a murdering animal. Only every now and then I get to do some killing that actually feels good. Be lucky, friend, and when Maximus’s replacement turns up, and you know he will, you just remember that the only thing keeping them on top of you is your willingness to be stood on. Show ’em your teeth and they’ll soon fade.’
He locked the shop and headed off down the hill towards the Ostian gate with the last of his men, a grizzled veteran from his own century who had waited for him while he chatted to the potter.
‘You think they’ll stand up for themselves, do you, next time the protection boys come knocking?’
The standard bearer shook his head sadly.
‘Not a chance.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘See, I’ve worked out what it is I like so much about this place. It’s civilised. Good food, good wine, whores wherever you look. It’s just nice. Problem is, you introduce animals like us to somewhere nice and before you know it everyone’s paying a percentage just to keep their guts on the inside, or to avoid having their daughters fucked in the street. And that’s sad, mate, more than sad, it’s a fucking tragedy. All we can do is console ourselves that at least we did a little bit of good today, and gave them one less horrible bastard to worry about.’
His fellow soldier nodded.
‘And not only that, you also gave me something to tell the lads back in barracks.’
Morban puffed his chest out.
‘You mean when I put that spear to him?’
The soldier shook his head.
‘No mate, when you told him you could kill him from thirty paces with it. You couldn’t hit a barn door with a bolt thrower!’
Scaurus and Marcus made their way through the crowds surrounding the Flavian arena with their usual escort of barbarians and Cotta’s men in close attendance. Both men were immaculately turned out, Scaurus wearing a toga bearing the single narrow stripe that indicated he was of the equestrian class, while Marcus was dressed in a simpler garment and walking a careful half-pace behind him. Striding up to the guards barring the entrance that led up to the senatorial level, the tribune announced his invitation by the imperial chamberlain himself to witness the afternoon’s bouts. After a swift reference to the list of guests for the day, they were admitted, leaving their escort to wait for them in whatever shade they could find, while Cotta made his way over to the next entrance to take his seat in the section reserved for army veterans. Climbing up to the senatorial balcony, they were greeted at the entrance to the imperial box by Cleander himself.
‘Rutilius Scaurus! It was good of you to make the effort. I wasn’t sure that you’d take me up on the invitation, given the fact that your young colleague’s mentor will die on that sand very shortly.’
Marcus returned his smile with an impassivity that he was far from feeling, allowing the tribune to answer on his behalf.
‘My officer recognises the inevitability of the situation, Chamberlain, and has sworn to Mithras to witness Flamma’s last bout with the dignity and reserve expected of a Roman officer. It’s not as if we’re barbarians, after all.’
Cleander nodded, raising his eyebrows at the younger man.
‘Impressive discipline, Centurion. Accept my sympathy, if you will, and my respect for your stoicism. You’re an example to some other members of the imperial establishment.’ He looked pointedly across the box to where Julianus stood wringing his hands. ‘If a certain procurator isn’t careful, he’ll find another man occupying his office. You’d think he’d be happy, given the fact that I gave him permission to place a few thousand on his own man, but apparently his lanista is convinced that Flamma will rip Velox apart in short order, agreement to take the final dive or no. What do you think, Centurion? After all, you know him best of anyone here?’
Marcus stared at him bleakly for a moment before finding his voice, the words numb in his mouth.
‘The Flamma who taught me to fight was a man of the greatest honour, and I see no change in him despite the brev
ity of our reunion. If he says that he’ll lose the bout, then you can be assured that he’ll die here this afternoon.’
Cleander nodded.
‘As I thought. Certainly the man gave me no indication of anything but the strongest of intentions to go through with his offer. It’ll be over soon enough and we’ll all be able to get on with our business, me to running the empire and you two gentlemen to defending its frontiers. I have something in mind for—’
A blare of trumpets interrupted him, and the three men turned to stare down at the arena’s sand as the referee led out a pair of lightly armoured figures. Both men were wearing a manica on their right arms with the mail-sleeve-secured straps running to a heavy leather pauldron on their left shoulders. Velox had chosen to fight bare chested, while Flamma had donned a light mail shirt to provide some protection against the edges of his opponent’s swords. Both men had eschewed a helmet, their heads left bare to grant them the breadth of vision necessary for the fluid fighting style of the dimachaerus, and each had a pair of swords strapped to their waists on wide leather belts. Flanked by an honour guard of a dozen spearmen with brightly plumed helmets and shining breastplates, they strode out towards the arena’s centre, gazes fixed forward as if neither was willing to recognise the other’s presence. The announcer was struggling to be heard over the crowd’s sudden deafening roar of appreciation, and after two futile attempts at introducing the bout, he fell silent, waiting as the two men strode out across the clean white sand. At some prearranged signal they stopped, both turning to acknowledge the crowd’s fevered applause with raised arms. After several moments of shouting and clapping, the crowd gradually fell silent in the face of their heroes’ patient inactivity, allowing the announcer to make another attempt. Raising his voice to a hoarse bellow, he shouted his scripted introduction to the fight over the audience’s continuing hubbub.
‘Beloved Caesar! Noble senators! Roman gentlemen! Citizens! People of Rome! The Flavian Arena bids you welcome to this, the third day of the Roman Games! Today we are doubly blessed by the presence of the two greatest fighters of our age!’
The Emperor's Knives: Empire VII (Empire 7) Page 34
