Douglas Jackson - Defender of Rome

‘We don’t need this one.’ Rodan ushered the cavalrymen forward. ‘Kill him.’

‘Too frightened to fight me yourself?’ Valerius’s challenge made two of the men hesitate and look to their leader.

‘There’s no glory in killing a cripple,’ the Praetorian sneered. ‘Or a whore. I gave your pretty whore to my century after Torquatus finished questioning her. It was very instructive. I had her first, of course. She was a good fuck, your whore, at least then. I’m not sure if it was the forty-ninth or the fiftieth that killed her.’

The image of Fabia’s obscene death lit a fire in Valerius’s brain and he had to curb the instinct to hack the smile from Rodan’s leering face. Poor Fabia, caught between Torquatus’s threats and loyalty to her friends. When she had been forced to make a choice it had cost her her life. From somewhere deep inside he found control. Revenge would come in its own time. Now he knew without doubt he was going to kill Rodan, and Torquatus too, or die in the attempt. He kept his voice steady so that the Praetorian wouldn’t know he had reached him.

‘I’m no whore, Rodan,’ he taunted the other man. ‘And I only need one arm to beat you. Old women and children are more your style. That’s why you’re afraid to face me.’

Valerius retreated half a step as he spoke. The corridor was only wide enough to allow two men to approach simultaneously and even then they would hamper each other. But no matter how well he fought he couldn’t stay in this position for long, because Rodan would soon find a way to outflank or get behind him. He was close to the corner now. One step from his escape route. He tried to recall the layout of the ground floor. Where could he make his next stand, and the one after that? If he could disable one or even two of them, it would take some of the fight out of the others. But first they had to come to him.

‘Are you women?’ he goaded the two cavalrymen. He spat in the direction of Rodan. ‘If this coward won’t fight me you will have to. I am Gaius Valerius Verrens, Hero of Rome, and I hold your deaths in my hand.’

He recognized the moment of decision. The trooper was lanky and spare and the mail of his auxiliary armour hung on him like an oversized tunic. Valerius guessed that he would have quick hands, but that the mail would slow him. If he had attacked alone he would have had a chance. He could have pinned Valerius in place and worked an angle to allow the second man to reach his undefended right side. But the soldier sensed the danger in this one-armed civilian and he urged his comrade with him.

Valerius saw them come and it was as if he could predict their every movement. He slid to his left and took two steps forward so that the tall man half shielded him from the second attacker. His enemy had expected him to run, or at best try to hold them, and the advance surprised him. The cavalryman was a veteran of the German frontier wars, but his most violent duty in the last five years had been putting down civilian bread riots. Though he wasn’t aware of it, he had lost the edge that means the difference between life and death on the battlefield. He was wary of the confident young man in front of him, but not frightened. Valerius saw the calculations going through his mind. Two against a cripple? It would be over in seconds. But he had never faced a left-handed swordsman, or a man who had been trained by gladiators. Speed was as great a weapon as the gladius in Valerius’s hand. In the split second it took the cavalryman’s mind to work out how to deal with the unfamiliar threat, Valerius was already inside the point of the long spatha. Roaring with the fierce joy of mortal combat he brought the gladius in a raking cut across the cavalryman’s eyes that left him blinded and shrieking in disbelief. As the man clutched at his ruined face Valerius smashed a shoulder into his chest, throwing him back into the second soldier. Ignoring the second man had been a gamble. Already he was swinging the big cavalry sword in a wide arc that would bring the edge down on Valerius’s exposed neck. His comrade’s reeling body had slowed him a fraction, but still the blow should have been deadly. All the long hours of repetition on the hot sands of the ludus had conditioned Valerius to meet any threat from the right with his shield. Today he had none, but the reaction of his right arm was automatic. He brought his forearm up to meet the attack and the edge of the sword bit deep into the seasoned walnut of his artificial hand, carving off a long splinter and slicing its way across the leather socket. Valerius screamed as his arm dissolved in a fiery bolt of pain that seared all the way to the centre of his brain. His mind told him to deal with the insult that had been done to his body, but he knew that to hesitate was to die. He had one chance. The block had opened up the cavalryman’s guard. Valerius speared the point of the gladius upwards into the pale flesh of his exposed throat, spraying a dark rainbow of blood across the white walls of the corridor.

As the man fell a shout of dismay rang out from Rodan, but Valerius didn’t have time to savour his triumph.

He ran.

Torquatus marched into the villa and studied the unaffected opulence around him. Perhaps, when he placed Poppaea’s treason before the Emperor, he would be rewarded with something similar. Nero could be very generous to his friends.

‘Where is she?’ he demanded.

‘We’re searching the house, but we think she’s on the upper floor.’ The decurion in charge of the cavalry detachment’s tone was respectful, but not deferential, which Torquatus found slightly irritating. ‘They’ve barricaded the stairway.’

‘Slaves and servants,’ the Praetorian commander said dismissively. ‘It will be the work of a few moments to sweep them aside.’

The decurion bit back an unwise comment. He’d seen the barricade and didn’t like the look of it at all. One thing was certain, Torquatus would not be the first to the top of the stair testing the defences. Privately, he considered his commander a fool for not waiting for the infantry, but he knew there was no point in arguing. He nodded and drew his sword.

Torquatus accompanied him to the bottom of the polished wooden stairway. He smiled coldly as he saw the pathetic jumble of couches with two or three frightened faces visible behind them. At his back, the decurion formed up his men for the assault.

‘In the name of the Emperor, hand over your mistress and I will spare your lives,’ the prefect shouted.

Above him Marcus, hidden by the Christians he had told to show themselves at the barricade, exchanged glances with Serpentius. If the Praetorians believed Poppaea was with them, he wasn’t going to tell them differently. At least it meant Valerius was still free. ‘Why don’t you come and get her?’ he shouted.

Torquatus recoiled at the challenge. ‘Then in the name of the Emperor I sentence you to death.’ The words brought another disapproving glance from the decurion. He had experience of fighting men who had been given no hope, and therefore had no fear. Better to make them think surrender was possible. Even if it wasn’t.

‘Get on with it!’ the Praetorian commander ordered.

The decurion drew his sword and turned to his men. Fourteen. The others were searching the rest of the house. He pointed to the barricade. ‘It’s nothing but a few pieces of furniture with unarmed slaves behind it. They’ll shit themselves when they hear you coming, so let’s hear you roar when we hit the stairs. Now!’

They ran at the stairway in two columns with the young officer in the lead. He took the steps two at a time, screaming at the top of his voice, but the scream died in his throat when he saw the heavy wooden cabinet being manhandled over the top of the barrier. ‘No!’ he shouted. Too late. Five feet of lacquered oak caught him in the chest on its first bounce and crushed his breastplate. He felt his ribs splinter as he was hurled backwards along with two of the men in the right-hand file. A moment later the cabinet was followed by a bed that smashed the first soldier in the left column over the banister to plummet head first on to the stone floor below. The man just had time for relief that his helmet had taken the impact that would have crushed his skull before his neck snapped like a rotten twig.