David Pilling - The Red Death

He smiled, but I was in no mood for levity. “What happens if we survive all three passes?”

“Swords and shields. After all, one of you has to die. Leo will do his best to finish you off before it comes to that. I am confident that he won’t.”

Belisarius approached the chariot and stroked one of the horses. “Fine beasts,” he said, though in truth they were a pack of nervous, ageing brutes, “if only that old sword of yours could speak, eh? What glories it must have seen.”

I looked down at Caledfwlch. “God willing,” I said, “it will soon see the colour of Leo’s innards.”

Belisarius hesitated, and rubbed his long jaw. “Sentiment is often a fine thing,” he said, “but it has no place in a fight to the death. Leo is taller than you, and will be armed with a spatha. Crocea Mors is just a gladius. You are giving him the advantage of reach as well as height.”

He patted the hilt of the spatha he wore at his hip. “Use this instead,” he offered, “I have plenty of swords. One less makes no difference.”

There spoke the practical, level-headed soldier, but I had a streak of vanity and rashness in my soul, probably inherited from my mother.

I refused his offer. “Thank you, sir, but Caledfwlch once drank the blood of over nine hundred Saxon warriors in a single day. It will soon drink Leo’s.”

I spent most of the night before the duel in prayer. Sleep was denied me. Every time I closed my eyes the old dreams that had plagued my youth rushed back, shadowy images of men locked in battle on some misted battlefield.

As before, the giant with the blazing eyes whom I knew to be my grandfather dominated the scene. Caledfwlch flashed like a deadly star in his hand. As he hacked men down the terrible sword grew brighter and brighter until it was too blinding to look upon.

I woke with a cry, my skin prickling with sweat. It was pitch-dark, but Arthur’s eyes seemed to hang in the night like a pair of burning coals.

Naked and trembling, I knelt on the stone cold floor and prayed for God to preserve me from the shade of my ancestor as well as Leo’s javelins. I felt certain that Arthur was watching me from whatever Otherworld his warlike soul dwelled in.

“You had your vengeance on my father,” I cried out, “must you hunt me as well? Amhar’s sin is not mine! Leave me be!”

There was no answer. I returned to my prayers until the cold was unbearable and I had to crawl back under the rough woollen blankets.

At last my exhausted mind sank into the deepest fathom of sleep. The next thing I knew the light of morning was shining through the bars of the narrow slit window, and a guardsman was shaking me awake.

“Time to go,” he grunted, and stood patiently while I rose and pulled on my tunic and braccae. When I was dressed he escorted me out into the corridor, where three other guardsmen were waiting. One wore the purple cloak and segmented armour of an officer. He held a sword-belt attached to the red leather scabbard Narses had given me. Inside the scabbard was Caledfwlch.

“General Belisarius said this was yours,” he said, handing me the sword, “make sure you use it well today. The general has taken a great risk in supporting you. If you fail, it reflects badly on his soldiers as well as him.”

“I heard that his wife didn’t like it,” remarked the guardsman who had woken me, “Antonina wants you dead for some reason. I wouldn’t like to have your enemies, Briton.”

The officer silenced him with a furious rebuke. I thanked him for returning Caledfwlch to me, and meekly allowed myself to be marched up the steps to the ground floor of the Hippodrome. The place was alive again, as it had been before the Nika riots, and the din of the people in the stands outside made the walls tremble.

“Filling up already,” I remarked.

“People have been queuing outside the gates since dawn,” said the officer, “I’ve seldom seen the like. The church might have outlawed the gladiatorial games, but it can’t outlaw the Roman spirit. We like blood. We demand blood. It’s in our nature.”

He seemed extremely proud of this attribute, and strutted like a peacock as I was taken through the cluster of empty stables and storehouses behind the Starting Gates. My chariot was waiting under the arch of the central gate, and a team of slaves were wrestling the reluctant horses into their harness.

“Where is Belisarius?” I asked, disappointed. I had hoped he would be there to give me a few last words of encouragement.

The officer raised his eyebrows at me. “In the imperial box, of course. Where else? His place is by the Emperor’s side.”

He snapped his fingers, and two of the slaves came forward with a helmet and a shirt of light mail. I took the helmet and weighed it carefully in my hand. It was heavy, and made in an ancient style, with cheek-pieces and a protruding iron rim above the brow.

“The past has come to life,” said the officer as I donned the helmet and mail and buckled on Caledfwlch, “you look like an auxiliary from Julius Caesar’s time.”

“That suits me,” I replied, and startled him with a grin, “I carry his sword, after all.”

The horses were finally manoeuvred into place, though not before one of them stamped on a luckless slave’s foot and broke several of his toes. They were the same animals Belisarius had bought from the horse-merchant. It did nothing for my confidence to know they were ill-tempered as well as old and nervous.

I stepped into the chariot. A slave handed me the reins, and I had to close my eyes for a moment and take in a few deep breaths. It was years since I had last been at the Starting Gates, my pulse hammering with fear and excitement and my ears clanging with the din of a hundred thousand Roman voices. Fate had brought me back here, not to race, but to fight for my life against a man I loathed.

“I’m ready,” I said aloud to no-one in particular. Seconds later a majestic blast of trumpets sounded outside, briefly drowning out the crowd, and the officer gave word for the gates to be opened.

I gave the reins a twitch and stirred the horses into life. The chariot rattled out from under the gateway into the broad, sunlit expanse of the arena and a wall of noise that buffeted me with almost physical force.

“Britannicus! Britannicus! Britannicus!”

They had not forgotten that accursed name, or my exploits on behalf of the Blues. The wearing of team colours was forbidden since the Nika riots, but I glimpsed splashes of blue and green in the crowd, where people wore them in defiance of Justinian’s law. Sport is tribal in nature, and its loyalties and rivalries are even harder to stamp out than religion.

I looked for my opponent and saw his chariot emerging from the furthest gate to my left. Like me, he wore chain mail, but carried his helmet underarm so the crowd might see his face better.

If Leo hoped they would cheer him, he was disappointed. His failed rebellion had brought too much death and misery to the city, and most of his friends and supporters were either dead or scattered. Boos and jeers sounded throughout the Hippodrome, though his critics wasted their breath. It would take more than angry voices to penetrate his iron self-regard. I fingered the hilt of Caledfwlch and reflected that I had just the tool for the job.

I guided my chariot at a steady trot to the imperial box, where the Emperor sat surrounded by his family, courtiers and personal guard. For once Justinian was not outshone by his wife. He was a picture of imperial glory, in robes of purple and gold and a light silver crown on his brow. He also wore an imperial scowl. I guessed that he would much rather be somewhere else, poring over his legal reforms or overseeing the construction of his darling church.