The Emperor's Knives (39 page)

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 known 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!
’

With the announcer’s last words, almost shrieked above the crowd’s rising growl of tension, a trapdoor in the sand before them flipped open. Men armed with swords and small round shields started to stream up the steps and out into the light, their bearded faces screwed up against the sunlight, long, dank hair tied back into braids in readiness for the fight. While they were still blinking at the sudden bright daylight, clustered around the trapdoor while more men mounted the steps behind them, Horatius stamped forward and slung his spear into their midst. He clenched his fist as the weapon’s iron head slammed through a man’s shield and gutted him, sending him staggering backwards, the ground beneath his feet dropping away as his third step found the door’s empty space. Chaos reigned in the barbarians’ ranks for a moment, the cries of the men still trying to ascend the steps as their comrade’s spitted body fell into their midst barely audible over the crowd’s roar of delight.

Marcus and Dubnus stepped forward to throw their own spears, and the Dacians’ battle experience showed as three men stepped forward in front of their comrades and raised their small shields to meet the weapons in flight. One threw down his shield, having managed to stop one of the flying spears, holding the board away from him to prevent the protruding blade from striking his body. The other was less fortunate, as a massive throw from Dubnus slammed its iron head through the shield and then, as if the layered wooden boards were no more substantial than smoke, cleaved deep into his face. He staggered backwards to fresh cheering from the crowd around them, and while the barbarians were still attempting to order themselves, Horatius bellowed a single word at his fellow centurions.

‘
Phalanx!
’

They went forward to meet the Dacians quickly, their paces synchronising as Marcus and Dubnus fell in on either side of the legion man, their shields locking together as they accelerated to a run.

‘
Hit them hard, before they can flank us!
’

Marcus picked a target as they closed with the milling barbarians, drawing his second spear back as the three men smashed into the Dacians, then snapping it forward to strike at his opponent’s face. The other man managed to deflect the blow over his head with his shield, but the centurions’ charge had blasted through the Dacians’ straggling line, and as his target staggered backwards Marcus struck again, leaping high into the air with practised grace and punching his shield’s iron boss down into the reeling man’s face. As he landed, he stabbed the spear’s iron head into the stunned barbarian’s neck, wrenching it free in a shower of the dying man’s blood as the prisoner slumped to his knees.

The flicker of a shadow made the Roman flinch backward, turning his body to gain some protection from the shield and raising his spear to meet the new threat, but before he could bring the weapon to bear something hit the spear’s shaft hard enough to almost tear it from his hand, the blade hammering at his shield an instant later. Looking down the weapon’s length he realised with a shock that the blade was missing, cleaved away by the blow intended for his head, and he threw it at the man in front of him to make him duck away, springing back to get some space as he drew his own sword. A pair of tribesmen were advancing on him with murder in their eyes, while his friends were deep in their own fights. He hefted the unfamiliar shield momentarily, before shaking his head and throwing its unwieldy weight at them. Stepping back swiftly to the twitching corpse of one of their fellows, he scooped up the dying man’s sword with his left hand and turned to face the pair as they battered the shield aside and came for him.

The man to his right was leading his comrade by a pace, having deflected the flying shield into his path, and the Roman met him blade to blade, allowing the Dacian’s long sword to skate harmlessly out to his left while the barbarian shaped to smash his small shield into the Roman’s face. As he punched the shield forward, Marcus pivoted backwards on his right foot and leaned back to allow the blow to spend itself on empty air, as he wristed the sword in his right hand high into the air above his shoulder. Hacking it down at the hapless Dacian’s extended shield arm, he severed the limb cleanly below the elbow, tearing a bloodthirsty roar from the crowd.

The maimed tribesman staggered backwards, dropping his sword and cupping the brutal wound with his right hand in a futile attempt to stop the blood that was pouring from the stump. His comrade quailed at the look on Marcus’s face as the Roman pushed the helpless man aside, tearing his throat out with a swift thrust and twist of his left-hand sword without ever taking his narrowed eyes off the surviving Dacian. Stalking forward, Marcus barely broke his stride as the prisoner charged forward with an incoherent scream, smashing away the Dacian’s sword and hacking a lump out of the rim of the terrified man’s shield, sending him backwards with blood leaking from a cut down the front of his rough prisoner’s tunic where the sword’s point had torn his flesh as it ripped through the layered wood of his tattered shield.

Their eyes met again in that instant before Marcus struck again, the Dacian’s gaze suddenly calm as if he knew for a certainty that he was facing his death. The Roman’s long sword swept out again, cleaving the shield almost in two, while the prisoner’s attempt to counter-attack was child’s play to parry. He stepped back and raised the shield’s boss and the remnant of board clinging to it with a look of terrified resignation, his sword’s blade barely level with the ground, and Marcus knew his opponent would not survive another attack.

His anger abruptly burned out, he reached out with his left-hand sword and tapped hard at the prisoner’s weapon, jerking his own blade to one side to indicate that the other man should discard it. For a moment the Dacian was confused, but then a look of understanding crept onto his face, his eyebrows rising in puzzlement as he looked back at Marcus. Before he could comply with the Roman’s silent instruction, the hapless prisoner staggered forward a pace, his face contorting in agony as Horatius dropped him to the ground with the blade of his spear buried in the prisoner’s lower back. He stared at the Roman for a moment before speaking, his words almost inaudible over the crowd’s roar.

‘Hasn’t anyone told you it’s not right to play with a man you’re about to kill?’

Marcus looked back at him with an expression of mystification, but before he could reply the crowd’s tumult coalesced into a one-word chant that had them staring at each other in surprise.

‘
Corvus! Corvus! Corvus!
’

Horatius raised an eyebrow, looking up at the mob of humanity bellowing out Marcus’s name.

‘I was wrong, it seems. Apparently playing with the man you’re about to kill is exactly what these bastards want from us.’

The three centurions turned as they were hailed by the referee, who was careful to stay outside the reach of their weapons.

‘
Sheathe your swords and drop your spears!
’

They did as they were bidden, arena slaves hurrying past them with buckets of white sand and scattering it across the blood that had been spilled during the fight. Other men were dragging the dead Dacians away towards the Gate of Death, each of the corpses receiving a shattering blow to the head from Charun’s hammer before they were carried away towards the tunnel that led to the spolarium. Relaxing a little, the man in white stepped closer, pointing with his hand to direct their steps.

‘Now go and make your bow to the imperial box. And don’t be fooled by the archers. They may look bored, but they’ll turn you into pin cushions if you give them the slightest excuse.’ He pointed up to the spot where Commodus stood, having risen from his seat to applaud when the last of the barbarians had fallen to Horatius’s spear thrust. ‘Bow nice and deep and wait for him to signal for you to leave, then walk to the Gate of Life. You’ll be disarmed by the guards and then someone from your school will take you back there. Move.’

Obeying the commanding note in his voice, the three men walked across the sand until they were close enough to the imperial box to make their bows, seeing the threat implicit in the archers who were staring at them from openings in the arena wall below the box with arrows nocked to their half-drawn bows. Bowing deeply, they waited until Commodus raised a hand in recognition, turning to speak to the man at his side who Marcus instantly recognised as his chamberlain Cleander, before raising their heads. The chamberlain looked down with a knowing smile, and Marcus knew immediately that the man who guided the emperor’s every decision had without any shadow of doubt identified him despite the heavy iron helmet’s partial disguise.

Turning away as bidden, they marched in step towards the Gate of Life, allowing themselves to be disarmed by the arena guards who, clearly used to men still seething with the potent emotions stirred by combat and bloodshed, kept their spears to hand as they accepted the three men’s bloodied swords and battered shields.