Douglas Jackson: Saviour of Rome

In that moment it occurred to him that a life condemned to eternal darkness was what Harpocration deserved. But that was not Gaius Valerius Verrens’ way. He lifted the sword and plunged the point into Harpocration’s throat with enough force to sever his spine. Blood spurted the length of the blade and the Parthian jerked and flopped like a stranded fish before going still.

Looking down at the dead man, Valerius felt terribly weary, weary unto death. Then he remembered Serpentius.

The Spaniard lay on his back a dozen paces away with Tito kneeling at his side. The younger man had his head bowed as if he was listening. Valerius approached them and Tito looked up, his hatchet face a rictus of anguish and his cheeks wet with tears. Shaking his head, he rose slowly to his feet and walked away.

Valerius took his place, wincing at the dark stain on the Spaniard’s tunic; he’d never felt such helplessness and despair. He reached to pull the torn cloth aside but Serpentius’s hand came up and his fingers gripped Valerius’s wrist so fiercely the Roman thought they would tear the flesh.

‘No point.’ The former gladiator managed to open his eyes. ‘I’ve killed enough people to know when I’m dead. My sword?’

Valerius reached for the fallen blade and placed it in his friend’s hand. ‘Hold on,’ Valerius whispered. ‘Pliny will send his personal medicus .’ Serpentius closed his eyes and gave a grunt that might have been a laugh. Valerius had always thought of the Spaniard as a big man; now he realized that his size was an illusion created by his strength and his speed and his presence. He bit back the sob that filled his chest and turned it into a cough.

Serpentius’s eyes opened again and he stared at Valerius’s face as if memorizing it. ‘Cold.’ The word was so indistinct Valerius almost missed it. The Spaniard let out a long sigh and Valerius had a moment of panic-stricken terror, but the grey eyes brightened a little and the gravel voice rallied. ‘You saved me.’ A desperate urgency filled Serpentius’s words. ‘And you freed me. But I was never so free as when I fought by your side.’ His voice faded and he sounded almost puzzled. His final words emerged as one long sigh. ‘I’m going home.’

Slowly, the iron grip slackened and the lifeless fingers fell away. When Valerius could bear to look the Spaniard’s grey eyes had already dulled. Gaius Valerius Verrens knelt over the body of Serpentius of Avala, a prince of his tribe, a slave, a gladiator and a friend, and wept.