Chapter 78
If she closed one eye, Tilla could see down into the stable yard through the gap in the glass. The chant was coming from the men crowded around the outside. One man knelt in the middle, head bowed. He wore only a plain tunic and boots. His hands were tied in front of him and there was rope around his chest. Above him stood Marcus, the tattoo twisting up his arm like a live snake in the flickering torchlight.
“Silence!” Marcus bellowed in Latin to the crowd. Then when this had little effect, he added in British, “Shut up! We haven’t got long!”
Finally the chanting died down. Turning to look round at his audience, he shouted, “Men, we are honoured by the presence of Tribune Accius and Medicus Gaius Petreius Ruso!”
Tilla stared in horror as Marcus saluted two of the figures standing in the shadows. The rest of the men followed suit. “For your entertainment this evening, sirs, we present … Centurion Dexter!”
Whatever the guests of honor might be saying was lost beneath the roars of approval. Marcus stepped back, raising his right arm. He held a spear. The point hovered just above his victim’s head. The audience cheered. Ignoring shouts of “Spike him!” Marcus eased the spear down behind Dexter’s back. Dexter glanced round in alarm and Tilla saw the fear on his face. For a moment she was puzzled. Then she realized.
“Stand up for the tribune, Centurion!”
Encouraged by a kick, he staggered to his feet.
“How many turns before he tells the truth about Sports Night?” yelled Marcus. “Place your bets!”
Men were shouting out numbers. One roared, “Kill the bugger!”
“Are you ready?”
“Yes!”
“Are you ready?”
“Yes! Yes! Yes!”
Tilla realized the empress was calling to her from the corner of the room, asking what was happening. Without taking her eyes off the figures in the courtyard she said, “They are trying to get justice.”
She wished they were not so very obviously enjoying it.
Marcus bent sideways. He seized the spear by both ends and turned it upside down as if he were winding up a crank. Dexter jolted. The rope around his chest tightened. “One!” roared the audience, with several immediately adding, “Two!” and “Get on with it!”
Marcus bent down to his victim. “Anything to say?” From the way he jerked his head away, Tilla guessed Dexter had spat in his face.
“You must stop this!” cried a voice from the shadows.
Accius was no coward. Even outnumbered by wild barbarians, he was doing his best to defend his man. “This is mutiny! Stop now, before-”
“Before what, sir?” demanded Marcus, one hand on the spear and the other wiping his cheek. “Before he tells the truth?”
“Men, this is Tribune Accius!” As if they would not recognize the cultured tones of his Roman education. “Listen to me. I order you to release that centurion and disband immediately!”
“We would, sir,” Marcus told him calmly, “but this is Sports Night. Normal rules don’t apply. Do they, Dexter?”
He upended the spear again.
“Two!” roared the crowd.
“This is outrageous!” cried Clarus from the safety of the corner in the upstairs room. “The empress can’t be expected to listen to this! Tell your men to stop immediately!”
Tilla glanced back into the room. “They will stop when he confesses,” she said, wondering if they would.
“I confess there was gambling, sir.” Dexter’s voice was clear, if not as strong as before. “Betting on fights. Harmless fun.”
Several cries of “Ha!” and “Liar!” from the crowd almost drowned out Dexter’s next words: “Geminus took it too far.”
“Only two turns!” Marcus called out. “Pathetic.” He looked around at his jeering comrades, though Tilla supposed he could barely see them in the darkness around the pools of torchlight. “I’m betting one more and he’ll tell the tribune all about Dannicus. What do you think?”
Chapter 79
The spear had turned five times now. Dexter could hardly stand. He had confessed about the betting on Dannicus and Sulio crossing the river. He had admitted that Geminus had forced Tadius and Victor to fight to the death and that he had done nothing to stop it. The crowd seemed to be growing restless.
The men who had been holding Ruso back against the wall next to Accius (“for your own safety, sirs”) had slackened their grip and were looking round as if they were not sure what to do next. Accius had fallen silent as he listened to Dexter’s confession. For once he seemed to have nothing to say.
Ruso elbowed his way out of the men’s grasp and stepped forward into the torchlight. “Let him go, Marcus. He’s told you everything he knows. He had nothing to do with Geminus’s death.”
“We know that, sir. He is a coward who left the killing to the Praetorians.” Marcus turned to address the tribune. “Sir, even now this man has not told the whole truth. Ask him about tonight.”
Ruso lowered his voice. “Marcus, have some sense! This is suicide. You can’t get away from here, and the Praetorians are waiting outside. Do what the tribune tells you: Stop now and some of you might live.”
“It is suicide to stop now,” Marcus retorted.
“Let me pass!” Accius’s voice cut through the rising discontent of men whose entertainment had been interrupted. He appeared at Ruso’s side. “Centurion Dexter, I order you to tell me about tonight.”
Dexter mumbled something.
“What? The watch captain let you down?” Marcus shouted in his ear. “I don’t think so! Speak up so the tribune can hear!”
The crowd hushed to listen. But all anyone could hear was the centurion gasping to Marcus, “Should have-run when-you had the chance. You’re a-dead man.”
Marcus leaned down and hissed to the sagging head, “And so are you!” He looked up at Accius. “We are not as stupid as he thinks, sir. He is afraid of what we will say about him to the officers at Deva. He tried to frighten us about what will happen if we go there and then arranged to have the gates unguarded so we could desert.”
It sounded ridiculous, but suddenly several things made sense. The sight of Dexter sitting calmly by the fire, eating bacon, while the watch was nowhere to be seen. The amazing ability of the Britons to overpower half a dozen guards in complete silence. The curious lack of any serious injuries amongst the guards, none of whom had managed to wriggle out from under the hedge until they were found.
Ruso took hold of the spear and prized Marcus’s fingers away from it. Dexter, wheezing, slumped sideways as the rope slackened around him. Several hands caught him and lowered him to the ground.
“We are tired of being afraid, sir,” Marcus was saying above him. “We will go to the next world as men rather than live in this one as cowards.”
Crouched beside Dexter, concerned about broken ribs and internal injury, Ruso heard the centurion mutter a feeble, “Fools.”
“Does it hurt when you breathe?”
“They’ll be sorry-they were born.”
“They had reasons. What happens when you cough?”
“Half-wits!” Dexter gave an experimental cough, took another gulp of breath, and carried on talking. “They’ll be-nailed up. Threatening-the empress.” He rolled over and swore. “Hercules’s balls, that hurts.”
But clearly it didn’t hurt as much as broken ribs would. Ruso left him to recover. The recruits were milling about in the faltering torchlight, not sure what to do now that their complaints had been heard. The smell of beer
