Marcus let out a bellow of laughter. ‘He’s a gladiator. He could die in the ring tomorrow or the next day. He’s a slave and you are a fucking overfed, underworked lawyer. He wants to kill you, and what are they going to do to him if he does? It’s not a question of will I let him. Will you let him?’
Valerius nodded. ‘You’re right.’ He started to get up, but Marcus put a hand on his shoulder.
‘Don’t fight like a one-handed man, or a two-handed man. Fight like a killer.’
Serpentius heard Valerius laugh out loud, and wondered what the joke was. The Roman wouldn’t be laughing in another few minutes. He was tired of waiting. It was time to finish it.
Valerius waited for the command. Think like a killer. Don’t think like a cripple. Think like the man who stood before the bridge at Colonia and dared Boudicca’s hordes to come to him. Think like the man who slaughtered the bastards by the dozen. He remembered the tattooed champions, tall and proud, who’d fallen before his sword. He remembered a man with burning eyes who ran a hundred paces to kill him, but had died under his shield. Think like a killer.
‘Ready.’
Before Serpentius could move he smashed the shield towards the Spaniard’s body with all his weight behind it and felt the satisfying crunch as the layers of seasoned ash hit solid flesh. If the shield had been equipped with a metal boss he might have disabled his opponent, and as Serpentius retired he kept up the onslaught, always following and never allowing him to set his feet for an attack. He knew he couldn’t maintain this pace for long, but it was enough for now to keep him on the run and make an occasional touch with point or edge. Batter forward with the shield to pull in Serpentius’s sword, then twist to attack from his undefended side. Always moving. Dictate. Cripple the bastard if you get the chance. No. Kill him if you get the chance.
Serpentius was surprised by his opponent’s recovery, but not concerned. His feet would keep him out of serious trouble and he knew he was still going to win. A man carrying a shield had to tire before a man who didn’t. All he had to do was bide his time. He’d make the Roman pay for the bruises.
But the Roman was turning out to be tougher than he’d thought. Valerius was still moving when Marcus called the next break, even though he could barely speak when the former gladiator came to stand at his side and he didn’t dare crouch in case he couldn’t get up again. Instead, he leaned on his shield like a drunkard.
‘Better,’ Marcus said. ‘You’re wearing him down.’
Valerius smiled at the joke, but it hurt his eyes. Dried sweat caked them as if he was staring out of a salt mask. Above, the sun beat down from a cloudless sky and his flesh felt as if it was on fire. ‘If I don’t finish it soon he’s going to kill me.’
‘Then finish it.’
From the word of command, Valerius attempted the same tactic as he had in the second session, but this time it was obvious to everyone watching that he was too slow. The other fights had come to a halt as the gladiators were drawn to the epic, mismatched contest between the crippled former tribune and the born killer who hated every Roman. They whispered bets to each other and no man put his money on Valerius except old Marcus, who accepted the odds with the distracted air of a gambler who knew he had already lost. You could almost feel sorry for him.
Each time Valerius attempted to use the shield to pin Serpentius back, the Spaniard was able to skip clear and launch an attack from another angle. Time and again it appeared he had made the decisive strike, but somehow Valerius always managed to get sword or shield in the way, just enough to avoid what would have been a broken bone or gouged eye. But it couldn’t last. Serpentius was laughing now, mocking his opponent as a coward and a cripple, mimicking the staggering steps as Valerius attempted to stay on his feet. Then he saw his opening. It was the shield. Valerius had held it shoulder-high all the heat-blasted morning, his arm a single bar of agony and the pain in his stump long since transformed into a silent scream. Now the shield wavered and fell to one side and Serpentius swept past it with a snarl of pent-up frustration, the point of the heavy gladius aimed not for the eyes but in a killing blow at the throat that would leave Valerius choking on his own blood. At least the Spaniard’s mind told him he was past it. The Roman could barely hold the shield, never mind move it. So how could the upper edge be slicing towards Serpentius’s jaw, and his head be jolted backwards with a force that made the sky fall in and darkness come several hours early? When he regained consciousness he found he couldn’t raise his head and his throat felt as if it had someone’s boot on it. He opened his eyes and far above him at the end of the long pale slope of the shield was a red-eyed vision of Hades.
‘What is it you do with a snake, Marcus? Cut off its head?’
Serpentius heard Marcus laugh. The pressure on his throat increased and he said a choked prayer to Mars, at the same time cursing the fickle god for deserting him.
Valerius stared down at the pinned man. He only had to shift his weight to break Serpentius’s neck. But the killing rage was gone. With a grunt of effort, he lifted the shield from the Spaniard’s throat.
‘Die in your own time.’
VI
Valerius found two men waiting in the atrium when he returned home after a frustrating day at the courts, and he glared his annoyance at Tiberius, the steward who had invited them in. His body still ached from his bruising encounter with Serpentius and his temper wasn’t helped by the fact that the smaller of the two men, a greasy, overweight youth who couldn’t have been more than eighteen, addressed him as if he were the owner of the house and Valerius a none too welcome guest.
‘You are Gaius Valerius Verrens, former tribune of the Twentieth legion?’ he demanded in a high-pitched, petulant voice.
‘Gaius Valerius Verrens, holder of the Gold Crown of Valour,’ Valerius corrected, winning a smirk from the taller of the two, whose broad shoulders and quiet alertness marked him as a bodyguard, as did his face, which had collided with solid objects more often than was good for it. ‘And who might you be?’
The plump youth fumbled beneath his cloak. ‘Claudius Helvius Collina,’ he announced, brandishing the gold ring bearing his seal of office like a betting ticket. ‘Imperial messenger.’
Valerius reached for the ring and noticed the big man tense. He didn’t have any doubt it was genuine, but it didn’t do to make life easy for pipsqueaks with ideas above their station. The messenger snatched it away, but Valerius insisted and eventually Collina handed it over, although he maintained his grip on the chain.
When he was satisfied, Valerius gave the ring back. ‘Very well. What message do you have for me?’
‘You are to attend the gatehouse at the Clivus Victoriae tomorrow at the second hour.’
‘I don’t want to hear it, I want to read it.’ He held out his hand.
‘The message is to be relayed orally. This man is here to confirm that it has been done and the wording is correct.’
For a moment Valerius felt like someone who hears a rumbling in the distance and knows it is an avalanche, but finds he can’t move his feet to get out of the way. A summons was bad enough, but one without written confirmation hinted at trickery, or worse. This was no invitation to a reception or one of the Emperor’s recitals. He considered his options and quickly decided he didn’t have any.
When the two men had left, a kitchen slave asked when Valerius would want his evening meal, but he discovered he wasn’t hungry. He knew he should go to Olivia, but he felt as if he were sitting on a volcano and if the volcano erupted it would consume Olivia just as it would consume him. He needed time to think. Who knew everything that went on in Rome from the Palatine to the prison cells below the Castra Praetoria? A silken voice whispered inside his head and he had a vision of a beautiful face.
Fabia.
How much should she say? Fabia Faustina handed Valerius a gilded cup and lay back on her couch. When the servant had arrived asking for an appointment her heart had lurched like a fourteen-year-old virgin’s. What was it about the young soldier that made her feel this way? Yes, he was handsome, with the determined features of a young Caesar. And he had the hardened physique that only military service or manual labour gave a man. But many of her clients were handsome men with fine bodies. The missing arm didn’t disgust her, quite the opposite, but neither did it account for this unlikely infatuation. He was brave and honest, but these were not attributes she necessarily found attractive. Not his courage nor his looks, then. It was something inside; the melancholy he tried
