Douglas Jackson: Sword of Rome

His gaze drifted back to the double team. By the gods, they weren’t bad. A tall spare bullwhip of a fighter with a long sword that seemed to have a life of its own, and a stockier man — no, not stocky, just not as tall as the other — who fought with a short sword and shield. So quick and coordinated that at times it seemed they fought as one man, entertaining the crowd with spectacular executions and imaginative ends, quite literally carving their way through their opponents. Vitellius thought he recognized something in the taller man. He had seen him fight before, he was certain.

Amusing. What would happen when …?

Valerius seemed to see the world through a red veil and a mist of scarlet droplets coated every inch of his skin and clothing. How many men had he killed? It didn’t matter. All that mattered was to kill the next one, and the next. Make it look good, but make it quick. They deserved that at least. He was glad Serpentius had insisted they stay away from the other prisoners and that he had never learned their names, otherwise … well, otherwise didn’t mean anything now. He fought on, always conscious of Serpentius’s immense presence at his side, not immense in mass, but in speed and style and efficiency. With a thrill of fear he realized the red mist had cleared and only one man faced them. The big man who had fought beside his friend, right until the moment he’d stabbed him in the back.

‘Come on, Lucius, let’s get it over,’ Serpentius coaxed. Valerius saw a moment of recognition in the other man’s face, and then he ran. The crowd shrieked their disgust and within five paces a dozen arrows from the archers on the walls had pierced his body.

Valerius stood, head down and panting, until he realized the attention of the entire crowd was focused on him. A wall of sound pounded him from every quarter. He turned to find the Spaniard four paces away, with his sword at the ready.

‘Remember,’ Serpentius said quietly. ‘Fight hard and die well.’

He fought hard, because Serpentius made him fight for his life. He only lived because Serpentius made it so. This was a different Serpentius from the man he had faced on the training ground so many times. An implacable, stone-cold killer who could have finished it at any time of his choosing. Valerius looked good because Serpentius made him look good. A dozen times he was able to avoid a killer stroke by the merest whisker, because of the Spaniard’s whispered instructions. A dozen times he stepped back, amazed to be alive, with the cheers of the crowd ringing in his ears. But it couldn’t last. There had to be an end.

Gradually, he realized that Serpentius was manoeuvring him to the precise spot he had chosen for the kill. As he fought for his life, he wondered how many other men had experienced this despairing hopelessness. This feeling of being a fish in a tank chosen as someone’s horribly eviscerated supper.

‘Now!’

The long sword came down in an arc that chopped the shield from his right hand. He heard a shout from somewhere in the distance, but already the Spaniard’s wrist had twisted to deliver the counter-stroke and Valerius’s short sword was an age too slow to parry it. Lightning seemed to flash in his brain and he experienced a terrible pain. As he fell, he felt an odd relief that it was over.

Aulus Vitellius had seen the shield drop to reveal the wooden hand. For the first time he realized the identities of the two men and instinctively he heaved himself to his feet shouting: ‘No!’

Too late. The sword flashed a second time and the stockier man’s head exploded in a cloud of bright scarlet. He went down like a stone, but such was the bloodlust of his opponent that he hacked at the fallen body with his sword and reached down to tear the viscera from the corpse, raising it high to the ecstatic roars of the crowd.

When the cheering subsided, the fighter trudged wearily through the carnage to where Vitellius sat beside Aulus Caecina Alienus in the Imperial box.

‘You fought well,’ the Emperor congratulated him — was there a hint of regret in his voice? — ‘as did your … friend.’

The gladiator, his skin streaked with the blood of his last victim, fell to his knees in supplication. ‘I would ask a favour of the Emperor.’ The harsh voice was respectful, but not pleading. Aulus Vitellius doubted this was a man who would ever plead.

Beside him, Caecina growled and started to rise, but Vitellius placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Ask it.’

‘I beg the right to bury my comrade with the honour he deserves.’

It was too much. ‘You have your life, traitor,’ Caecina snapped. ‘Be satisfied with that or it will be taken from you. Do not try your Emperor’s patience.’

But Vitellius only sighed. His eyes roamed the arena, testing the mood of the crowd. Finally, he nodded.

‘I grant you that right, gladiator.’ He reached up to his neck and there was a collective gasp as he unclipped the golden brooch holding his cloak. Aulus Vitellius Germanicus Imperator raised his voice so his words echoed around the walls. ‘He was a nobleman, I think, and a Hero of Rome. Let him be buried in the purple.’ He threw the heavy cloak to Serpentius. The Spaniard gave a curt nod and stalked back to where Valerius lay. Taking the utmost care, he wrapped his friend in Imperial purple and, with a last baleful look around the arena, picked up the body and carried it to the doors with the cheers of the crowd ringing unwanted in his ears.

Valerius opened his eyes, but the darkness was as total as the grave. So, not Elysium, then, but the inside of a tomb.

‘How does it feel to be dead?’

He started at the unexpected voice in his right ear. ‘Better than the alternative, but my head hurts. Did you have to hit me so hard?’

‘Another scar to add to your collection.’ Serpentius rose and went to the door, drawing back a ragged curtain to allow a shaft of moonlight into the hut. ‘I made it look real, that’s all that matters. Everything went as we planned. I turned the blade at the last moment, but they needed to see blood. It helped that we were fighting on top of two who’d gutted each other — one man’s guts looks exactly the same as another’s.’

Valerius lay back and closed his eyes. His throbbing head cleared for a moment and he felt as if a spear had pierced his chest. She was lost to him for ever. ‘So it’s exile then,’ he said wearily. ‘A new life. I have always wanted to see the mountains of your home and you have always wanted a servant.’

It was an old jest and should have brought a smile, but when he finally spoke Serpentius’s voice was grave.

‘Word reached the village yesterday that the legions of Syria and Egypt have hailed General Titus Flavius Vespasian as Emperor and the Balkan units who would have fought for Otho have joined them. They say they’re already marching on Italia to bring Vitellius to battle.’

So, more war, more bloodshed and more death, but, oddly, Valerius felt a wellspring of hope. There was still a chance. He would do what he did best, fight, and defeat his old friend. He would regain his honour and win back Domitia. He turned to the Spaniard.

‘So it begins again.’