Capito suppressed a smile. Britomaris looked almost too big for his own good. His legs were wide as tree trunks at the thigh and his arm and shoulder muscles were buried under a layer of fat. He tramped ponderously into the centre of the arena, as if every step required great exertion. Capito couldn’t quite bring himself to believe that Britomaris had won five fights. His opponents must have been even worse than he had first imagined. The barbarian wore a pair of brightly coloured trousers and a sleeveless woollen tunic fastened at the waist with a belt. He had no armour. No leg greaves or manicas or helmet. His weapons consisted of a leather-covered wooden shield with a metal boss, and a spear with a blunted tip. The umpire motioned with his stick for the gladiators to stop, face to face. The men stood two sword-lengths apart.
‘All right, lads,’ the umpire said. ‘I want a fair and clean fight. Now remember, this is a fight to the death. There will be no mercy, so don’t waste your time begging the Emperor. Accept your fate with honour. Understood?’
Capito nodded. Britomaris showed no reaction. He probably didn’t even speak Latin, thought the imperial gladiator with a sneer. The umpire looked to the editor in the podium, seated not far from the Emperor himself. The editor gave the sign.
‘Engage!’ the umpire bellowed, and with a swoosh of his stick the fight began.
The barbarian immediately lumbered towards Capito. His swift attack caught the imperial gladiator by surprise. But Capito read the jerk of his opponent’s elbow as he made to thrust his spear and quickly sidestepped, dropping his right shoulder and leaving the barbarian stabbing at thin air. The barbarian lurched forward as momentum carried his cumbersome frame beyond Capito, and now the imperial gladiator angled his torso at his rival and slashed at his right calf. Britomaris let out an animal howl of agony as the blade cut into his flesh. The crowd appreciated the move, cheering at the sight of blood flowing freely from the calf wound and spattering the white sand.
Capito revelled in the roar of the mob.
The barbarian staggered and launched his spear at the gladiator. Capito anticipated the move and ducked. The spear hurtled over him and thwacked uselessly into the sand to his rear. Fuming, Britomaris charged towards Capito, bellowing with pain, rage and fear. Capito calmly jerked his shield up sharply – a carefully rehearsed move practised many times before on the ludus training ground. There was a sudden thud as the iron edge of the shield crashed into the underside of Britomaris’s jawbone. The barbarian grunted. The cheers in the crowd grew feverish, and amid the din the gladiator could hear individual voices. Men and women shrieking his name. Down in the blood-soaked arena, the barbarian hobbled backwards. Blood oozed from his nose and mouth. Sweat flowed freely down his neck. He could hardly stand.
A voice in the lower galleries shouted at Capito, ‘Finish him!’
‘Don’t show the bastard any mercy!’
‘Go for the throat!’ a woman screamed.
Capito didn’t care if the spectacle was a little short. The crowd wanted blood, and he would provide it. He moved in for the kill, stepping towards the barbarian, his shield hoisted and his sword elbow tucked tightly to his side. The barbarian raised his fists, making one last stand as the gladiator closed in. Advancing swiftly, Capito thrust his sword at his opponent and stabbed at an upward angle, aiming just above the ribcage.
But the barbarian stunned Capito by kicking the bottom of his shield. As he did so, the top tilted forward and in a flash the barbarian wrenched it down at the gladiator’s feet. Capito grunted as the metal rim crushed the toes of his left foot. The barbarian ripped the shield away from Capito and kicked him in the groin. Capito staggered backwards, dazed by what had happened, rattled by the same thought as the five gladiators who had faced Britomaris previously.
How could such a large man move so quickly?
The barbarian followed up with a weighted punch that struck Capito on the shoulder and shuddered through his bones. He collapsed on to the sand, and in a flash Britomaris threw himself forward. The two men rolled on the ground, exchanging blows while the umpire stood a few paces away and ordered them both to their feet. But he was powerless to intervene. Capito tried to scrabble clear, but the barbarian smashed a fist into him and sent the gladiator crashing face down into the sand. The blow stunned Capito. He lay there for a moment in dumb shock and wondered what had happened to his sword. Then he felt a powerful blow on his back, like teeth sinking into his flesh. Something warm and wet was draining out of his back and down his legs. He rolled on to his side and saw Britomaris towering over him, grasping a sword. It was Capito’s sword.
Capito became conscious of blood pooling around him, gushing out of his back. ‘What?’ he said disbelievingly. ‘But … how …?’
The crowd went deadly quiet. Capito felt sick. His mouth was suddenly very dry. Blotches bubbled across his vision. The crowd implored him to get up and fight, but he couldn’t. The blow had struck deep. He could feel blood filling his lungs.
‘I call on you, gods,’ he gasped. ‘Save me.’
He glanced up at the podium in despair. The Emperor stared down with cold disapproval. Capito knew he could expect no mercy. None of the gladiators could be granted a reprieve – not even the highest-ranking imperial warrior. His reputation demanded that he accept death fearlessly.
Capito trembled as he struggled to his knees, clamped his hands around the solid legs of Britomaris and bowed deeply, presenting himself for execution. He stared hopelessly at the bloodied sand as he cursed himself for underestimating his opponent. He prayed that whoever faced Britomaris next would not make the same mistake.
His limbs spasmed as the sword plunged into his neck behind his collarbone, and tore deep into his heart.
T
he officer raised his head slowly from his cup of wine and focused on the two Praetorian Guards standing in front of him, dimly lit by the dull glow of a single oil lamp. Outside the inn, the street was pitch black.
‘Lucius Cornelius Macro, optio of the Second Legion?’ the guard on the left barked. The officer nodded with pride and raised his cup to the guards. They wore plain white togas over their tunics, he noticed, which was the distinctive garb of the Praetorian Guard.
‘That’s me,’ he slurred. ‘Come to hear the story behind my decoration too, I suppose. Well, take a seat, lads, and I’ll give you every grisly detail. But it’ll cost you a jug of wine. None of that Gallic swill, though, eh?’
The guard stared humourlessly at Macro. ‘You’re required to come with us.’
‘What, right now?’ Macro looked at the young guard on the right. ‘Isn’t it past your bedtime, lad?’
The young Praetorian glared with outrage at the officer. The guard on the left cleared his throat and said, ‘We are here on orders from the imperial palace.’
Macro sobered up. A summons to the imperial household, well after dusk? He shook his head.
‘You must be mistaken. I’ve already collected my award.’ He proudly tapped the bronze medals strapped across his chest, which he’d been presented with by the Emperor before the festivities at the Statilius Taurus amphitheatre earlier that day. The defeat of Capito had cast a cloud over proceedings and Macro had left his seat as soon as the gladiator had fallen, sensing the mood of the crowd was about to turn ugly. He’d sunk a skinful of wine at the Sword and Shield tavern not far from the amphitheatre. It was a stinking hovel with foul wine, redeemed by the fact that the owner was an old sweat from the Second Legion who insisted on plying Macro with free drinks in recognition of his decoration.
‘The Praetorian Guard doesn’t make mistakes,’ the guard said bluntly. ‘Now come with us.’
‘No use arguing with you boys, is there?’ Macro slid out of his bench and reluctantly followed the guards outside.
The crowds had taken their anger out on everything in the streets. Market stalls had been overthrown. Carved miniature statuettes of Capito with their heads smashed off littered the ground, and Macro had to watch his step as he ambled down the covered portico of the Flaminian Way towards the Fontinalian Gate. The Julian plaza stood at his right, its ornate marble facade commemorating Caesar. To his left stood rows of extravagant private residences.
‘What’s this all about, then?’ Macro asked the guards.
‘No idea, mate,’ the one at his left shoulder replied, blunt as the spear Britomaris had been equipped with. ‘We were just told to find you and bring you to the palace. What you’re wanted for is none of our business.’
Gods, thought Macro as the guards escorted him through the gate towards the Capitoline Hill. A Praetorian who wasn’t sticking his nose where it wasn’t wanted? He couldn’t quite believe it.
‘You never get used to the smell here, I suppose,’ Macro said, creasing his nose at the fetid stench coming from an open section of the great sewer that carried the city’s filth out from the Forum.
The guard nodded. ‘You think it’s bad here,’ he said, ‘wait till you visit the Subura. Smells like a fucking Gaul’s arse down there. We steer well clear of the place, thank the gods. Spend most of our time up at the imperial palace, being in the Guard and all. Clean air, fresh cunny and all the figs you can eat.’ He grinned at the other guard to Macro’s right. ‘And that fifteen thousand sestertii bonus from the new Emperor came in very handy.’
A bewildering array of smells fanned over the officer. Although the markets had closed a few hours earlier, the potent aroma of cinnamon and pepper, cheap perfume and rotten fish lingered in the air, mixing with the smell of the sewers and conspiring to churn Macro’s guts. He hated being in Rome. Too much noise, too much dirt, too many people. And too many bloody Praetorians, he thought. Acrid billows of dull grey smoke wafted up from forges and blanketed the sky, rendering the air muggy and leaden. It was like walking through a giant kiln. Fires glowered dimly in the dark. Apartment blocks tapered along the distant hills and valleys, their blackened upper storeys barely visible against the night sky.
‘All the lads in the camp are talking about your award,’ the guard said, his voice carrying a hint of jealousy. ‘It’s not every day that his imperial majesty personally decorates a lowly officer, you know. You’re the toast of Rome.’ He narrowed his eyes to slits. ‘You must have some friends in high places, I suppose.’
‘Afraid not,’ Macro replied drily. ‘My boys and I were part of a punitive expedition against a tribe from across the Rhine. We got caught in the thick of it. Killed three hundred of the wildest-looking Germans you could imagine. I led the men back after our centurion copped it. All in a day’s work for the Second. Honestly, I don’t know what all the fuss is about.’
The Praetorian swapped an impressed look with the second guard. Macro felt a sudden hankering to be back on the Rhine Frontier. Rome disagreed with him, even though he had lived there in his childhood. He’d left the city under a cloud some thirteen years ago, after avenging the death of his uncle Sextus by slaying a violent gang leader. He had journeyed north to Gaul and enlisted for twenty-five years at the fortress of the Second Legion. He’d not expected to ever return to the city, and being back felt strange.
‘Yes,’ he said, patting his stomach. ‘It’s tough being a hero. Everyone buying you drinks. Tarts fawning over you, of course. The ladies love a man with a shiny set of medals.’ The guard glanced back enviously across his shoulder. ‘Especially the posh ones. They can’t resist a bit of rough.’
Macro struggled to match pace with the guards as they weaved their way through a wave of exotic faces – Syrians and Gauls, Nubians and Jews. Synagogues and a variety of temples he hadn’t seen before loomed between the tenements along the main thoroughfare.
‘A word to the wise,’ said the guard. ‘From one soldier to another. Things aren’t like they used to be around here. A lot’s changed.’
‘Oh?’ Macro asked, his interest piqued. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Claudius may be emperor, but his accession hasn’t exactly been smooth. That unfortunate business of Caligula getting the chop a few months back caused a bit of a mess.’
‘As I recall,’ said Macro frostily, ‘it was one of your own who stuck his blade into Caligula.’
News of the assassination of the previous emperor in January had been greeted with a mixture of dismay and relief by the men of the Second. Dismay that there was a chance they might return to the days of the Republic, but relief that Caligula’s reign had ended. The Emperor had been dogged by scandal. It was common knowledge that he’d committed incest with his sisters and turned the imperial palace into a brothel, and an attempt on his life from the offended aristocracy and Senate had been all too predictable. In the end, a trio of officers from the Praetorian Guard, led by Cassius Chaerea, had taken matters into their own hands. The conspirators had stabbed Caligula thirty times, slain his wife and smashed his young daughter’s head against a wall to end the bloodline. For a short while, a new Roman republic had seemed on the cards. Until the Praetorians turned to Claudius.
The guard stopped in his tracks and, turning to face Macro, lowered his voice. ‘Look, between you and me, old Chaerea was a decent bloke, but he never had much support among the Guard. He forgot the golden rule. Praetorians stick by the Emperor through thick and thin.’ He paused, took a calming breath and continued. ‘Anyway, after Caligula died, a few unsavoury types crawled out of the woodwork, announcing that they were opposed to Claudius becoming emperor. One or two of them had the idea that they deserved the job instead. Or worse, wanted to turn Rome into a republic again! To have us return to the dark days of civil war and bloodletting on the streets …’ The guard shivered at the thought. ‘Obviously the Emperor can’t rule with dissent in the ranks.’
‘Obviously,’ Macro said.
‘Right. So we’ve had to spend these last few months rooting out the ones who were opposed to Claudius and making them disappear.’
Macro made a face. ‘Disappear?’
‘Yes,’ the guard said, his eyes darting left and right to check no one was snooping on their conversation. ‘We quietly take them off the streets, bring ’em to the palace and deal with them.’ He made a throat-slitting gesture. ‘Senators, knights, magistrates. Even the odd legate. The sons get exiled, or worse, thrown into the ludus. The list seems to grow by the week. No one is safe, I’m telling you.’