The Emperor's Knives (12 page)

Marcus looked at him for a moment, and imagined the revolting task of searching the infamous dump, strewn with rotting corpses and infested with vermin and wild dogs.

‘Thank you.’

The two men were quiet for a moment.

‘Your father was tortured, of course. They will have thrown his body in the main sewer to be flushed into the Tiber, I’d imagine.’

Marcus was silent for a moment longer.

‘I’m going to kill them all. Each and every one of the men who did this to my family are going to look me in the eyes as they die, and realise that they are no better than wild animals. And when I’ve killed all four of these Knives, I’ll only have one more man to deal with.’

Cotta put a hand on his arm, shaking his head slowly.

‘Do you remember when I used to tell you never to back down from a fight, or a slur on your honour? To hit any man that threatened you with either first, any way you could, and to keep on hitting him until he’d stopped fighting back?’

‘Yes. My father said much the same thing to me more than once, albeit somewhat less graphically.’

The veteran’s face was deadly serious.

‘Just this once, ignore us both. You have a wife and child, you have friends who respect you and a new life to enjoy. Take that prize and run with it Marcus, and ignore the bloody path that leads to revenge, or you’ll end up losing everything! There are more important things, as you’ll only find out the hard way if you go up against these men.’

He stared at his friend, and Marcus shook his head helplessly.

‘I
know!
Pilinius is too rich, Brutus is too well protected, Dorso lives in the praetorian fortress and Mortiferum is too fast with a sword even if I could get to him! But I have to
try!
Can’t you see that?’

Cotta nodded sombrely, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

‘Yes. Only too clearly. I just wish I could make
you
blind to it.’

The first cohort’s 6th Century were sitting around outside their barracks in the late-evening sun exchanging weary insults, bone-tired from a full day of exercise and training, when Qadir, the centurion commanding the 9th Century, walked around the corner with a dozen men in his wake. Quintus, the century’s chosen man and its leader in Marcus’s absence, leapt to his feet and bellowed for his men to do the same.

‘Attention! Get on your feet, you maggots!’

Qadir, the only one of the cohort’s officers to hail from the eastern end of the empire, waited until the soldiers were all standing erect before speaking, his heavily accented voice deceptively soft as he addressed Quintus.

‘Good evening, Chosen Man, and my apologies for interrupting your evening. The tribune has detailed me to form a small unit of men for a special task, and there are one or two of your men who, your centurion tells me, should have the requisite skills for the job.’

‘Yes, Centurion! What skills are you looking for, Centurion?
’

Qadir smiled faintly at Quintus’s bellowed response.

‘I think the main requirement for the role would be that the soldiers in question must have absolutely no scruples, be possessed of a strong disregard for authority and be willing to do anything, no matter how unpleasant or indeed contrary to accepted standards of right and wrong. I told Centurion Corvus, of course, that he could be describing nine men out of ten in this cohort, but he replied that he had two very special individuals in mind. I presume that you have some idea of who he might have meant?’

Quintus nodded.

‘Oh yes, Centurion, I know exactly who the young gentleman had in mind.’ He raised his voice in a parade-ground bellow again.

‘
Sanga and Saratos, front and centre!
’

3

Excingus presented himself at the barracks’ front gate an hour after dawn, and was only slightly perturbed to find himself being collected from the guardhouse by Dubnus and a half-dozen of his hulking soldiers. The centurion wordlessly escorted him to the headquarters building, their path taking them past a group of twenty or so soldiers, stood rigidly to attention, who were the unhappy subjects of the long and inventive stream of invective being spat at them by an irate chosen man, while their centurion, a man of eastern appearance, stood to one side with a faint smile. The informant felt their eyes on him, every single man doubtless wishing that he were anywhere other than under the lash of the deputy centurion’s tongue. The shouting died away behind him as he entered the headquarters, although the sound of impassioned disgust could still be heard as he waited for Scaurus to enter the room.

Outside, Quintus waited until the headquarters’ door was firmly shut before pausing for breath, clenching a fist around the brass-bound and knobbed pole that was both his symbol of office, and his means of pushing his men into their places in the century’s formation.

‘So that was him, gentlemen. You all got a good look at the man, now store his face away in your tiny little minds and I’ll march you away for your morning of playing at being informants yourselves.’ He swept a withering glare across their ranks. ‘Informants? I wouldn’t trust any of you to know the crack of your arses from the cleft in your fucking chins! You’ll all be back with your centuries by lunchtime! Anyway …’

Shaking his head in apparent disgust he took a deep breath and then reverted to parade-ground volume.

‘Stand still, you
monkeys!
Right …
turn!
Quick …
march! Your left, your left, your left, right, left! You with the fat arse! Get in fucking time or I’ll tickle your fucking piles with the end of this fucking pole!
’

Inside the headquarters, Excingus raised an inquisitorial eyebrow at Dubnus, who had dismissed his men and now waited, still silent, in a corner of the room.

‘So, Centurion, do you intend to persist in this attempt at intimidation for the rest of the day?’

The massively built Briton shook his head in disgust.

‘I have nothing to say to you. Shut your mouth or I’ll loosen a few of your teeth and give you a reason for silence. When the tribune arrives you can talk all you like, but until then—’

Scaurus walked briskly into the room and took a seat behind the desk, Marcus and Julius following him in and taking positions to either side of their tribune.

‘Sit down, Informant, and tell me what it is you have for us that presents so great an opportunity?’

Excingus wordlessly unrolled the large scroll that he had carried into the fort, and Scaurus weighted down the paper’s corners while the informant smiled tightly at the men gathered around him.

‘You will recognise this map as a plan of the city, Tribune, but your provincial colleagues may not share your familiarity with Rome.’

He pointed at a spot to the south of the city’s walls.

‘We, Centurions, are here.’

His finger moved, indicating in turn a succession of points on the map.

‘This is the Palatine Hill, where the emperor has his city palaces. This is the Flavian Arena, where the gladiators fight, this—’

Julius leaned forward and put his face close to Excingus’s, his voice heavy with irony.

‘We know, Informant, that gladiators fight in the arena. We’ve seen the Palatine, and the Great Forum, and we know that these …’ He pointed to a massive shape on the map to the north of the Colosseum. ‘Are the Baths of Trajan. Dubnus had his purse stolen there and spent an hour threatening various lowlifes with violence before he gave up on the prospect of ever seeing it again. Get to the point.’

The informant smiled cheerfully back at him.

‘So nice to hear that you’re assimilating quickly, you’ll be surprised at the number of men from the provinces who can never get past how many prostitutes there are in the city.’ He met the first spear’s narrow-eyed gaze with a look of innocence. ‘So, without the lesson in the city’s landmarks, here’s the thing. This …’ He pointed again, ignoring Julius. ‘Is the praetorian fortress. I mention it because it’s important, and because I very much doubt that you’ve ventured all the way across the city just to look at yet another fortress, although you really should. It’s a rather impressive pile of stones – although I’m forgetting, Centurion “Corvus” here began his military career in there, didn’t you, Centurion?’

Marcus locked stares with him, and the informant quickly decided that coming to the point might be the most sensible choice.

‘Anyway, as you know, one of the men you’ve decided to hunt down and kill lives in that fortress. And while you might just manage to get in there, dressed in the right uniform and with a great big smile on your plan from Fortuna herself, I really can’t see you getting out again, even if you managed to find and kill him which, I have to admit, I think unlikely. For one thing, you have no idea where his quarters are in the fortress, and for another, there’s always the risk that the hard-eyed young centurion here will be recognised by one of his ex-colleagues as a former praetorian who left informally and under something of a cloud.’

‘And?’

‘And, First Spear, I happen to have come by some information that I think will provide you with a rather less risky alternative. Would you like to hear it?’

Having thanked Quintus for his part in the charade that had enabled the trackers to take a good look at their target, Qadir dismissed him back to his duties and looked about the soldiers standing in ordered lines in front of him.

‘Fall out and sit down.’

He waited until they were all sitting on the ground in front of him, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and excitement at the unexpected change in their routine.

‘Tribune Scaurus has a task in mind for you men, or for some of you at least. If you take it on, and if you’re successful in mastering the necessary skills, then you’ll all be granted immune status and awarded a rise in pay to one and a half times basic.
But
…’ He waited until the interest generated by the last statement had died away before speaking again. ‘I have to warn you, not all of you will be capable of the task the tribune has in mind. And if you don’t have the skills, I will return you to your centuries without hesitation. So I suggest that you pay very close attention to the lessons that I am about to teach you, for it will be by their application that you will either succeed or fail. Follow me.’

He led the group up the transit barracks’ narrow main street until they reached the stone wall at the far end.

‘Divide into two groups.’ Once the brief period of confusion caused by his command had been resolved, he ordered one group to stand behind him. ‘The rest of you, I want you all to walk away towards the headquarters. You two, stop at the end of the first barrack. You three, at the end of the next block, and you four stop after three blocks. Is that clear?’

The soldiers shuffled their feet and looked at each other, trying to work out what was so difficult about this that they risked being sent back to unremitting sword drills and the lost chance to boast about their increased pay and status to their tent mates. Qadir stared at them in silence for a moment.

‘If you spend half the day pondering the meaning of my instructions then you will all fail this test, and so you will all go back to face the inevitable rough humour that will result from your failure. So, I will ask one more time, and any man that does not answer me quickly and clearly will be our first dropout. Is that
clear
?’

The men standing before him chorused their understanding, and the Hamian nodded slowly.

‘Very good. Now, when I wave my arm, the pair must hide behind the barrack beside which they are stopped, when I wave it again the trio must hide, leaving only the group of four in view. When I call out to you then you must all return here. Clear?’

Again the agreement was swift and loud, his gently posed threat clearly having sunk into the soldiers’ minds.

‘Then do it. The rest of you, turn and face the wall while they do as I have bidden.’

While the second group walked back down the street, Qadir spoke to the men gathered before him, his quiet, assured tones forcing them to listen with the utmost care.

‘The first lesson that we will learn is that in this game which we will be playing, distance is our friend. Every fifty paces that a man moves away from you makes him seem that much smaller and insignificant, and, unless he wears bright clothing, every step makes him that much less visible, as you will see in a moment.’

With the other men in their various places, he spoke again.

‘When I give the word you may turn, just for a moment, and look over your shoulder, in the manner of a man who wishes to see if there is anyone behind him. Just for an instant, mind you, the quickest glance possible and as casually as you can manage. Now!’

The soldiers looked around, then flicked their gazes back to Qadir.

‘You all saw the men one block away without any problem?’

They nodded, looks of puzzlement on all but a couple of faces. Qadir waved his arm, waiting until the closest men had taken cover.

‘Now!’

The soldiers turned and looked again, a few more of them turning back with looks of understanding, and again the centurion waved his arm, waiting until the three soldiers had moved into hiding, leaving only the group of four visible.

‘Now!’

This time when the men turned back from peering over their shoulders they were nodding and exchanging knowing glances as men will when the obvious dawns upon them.

‘You see? The closest men stood out very clearly, the next closest were obvious enough, but the third group?

Saratos was the first to speak, his face still thoughtful.

‘They hard to see with quick look. If they tunics not red be even harder.’

The Hamian nodded approvingly.

‘Exactly. Well done soldier. Now we’ll repeat the lesson, and this time you men will be the ones standing in the street. Off you go, and send the others back here to me.’

‘So there you have it. If you still want to mete out whatever it is that you consider to be justice to one of the Knives, you have the perfect opportunity.’