He wristed the right-hand blade in a flashing arc, stopping its swing just at the point where it was poised for a chopping blow at Marcus’s head.
‘He threatens your head, you respond with a sword raised to catch the blow and he lunges in …’ He pushed the other sword forward with a swift stamp of his leading foot. ‘And before you know what he’s doing, he’s sliced your forearm open or, if he’s in a really bad mood, he’s cut a chunk out of your armpit and your life’s running down your arm.’
Velox stepped backwards, resuming his previous position.
‘And here’s another little trick he’s particularly fond of.’
He danced back, his eyes taunting Marcus and drawing the Roman forward, as if they were fighting for real, and as his opponent approached, he took another step back. As Marcus raised his foot to step forward again, the other man sprang off his back foot, his blades suddenly in the Roman’s face in a move so fast that Marcus didn’t know if he could have countered it even if he’d had swords of his own.
‘Be ready for that one too. He uses it in most of his fights with men who don’t know his style. Ah, here are my swords …’
The champion gladiator took his weapons, drawing both blades and discarding their elaborately decorated scabbards. He handed them over and then stepped back, making space for the Roman to swing them. Marcus ran through a swift series of practice cuts and lunges, nodding at the weapons’ excellent balance. Looking closely at the blades, he raised an eyebrow at the gladiator, his eyes hard with concentration.
‘These are …’
Velox grinned.
‘I think the word you’re looking for is incomparable. And you’d be right. They’re a pound lighter apiece than the usual weapons we’re issued with, and they’re edged with some special iron that stays sharp longer in a fight. They’re my arena swords, saved for occasions when I need to put on a bit of a show, but perhaps they’ll help to even up the advantage my brother will have over you.’
Edius appeared in the training room’s doorway and beckoned to Marcus.
‘Time to fight.’
In the ludus’s arena, Cleander was putting on a show of apology for Julianus and his guests, but if his words were those of a contrite man, neither his tone nor his expression were doing very much to support them.
‘My apologies, Julianus. What can I say? When I left him the emperor was somewhat … preoccupied, shall we say? I felt it best not to interrupt the important matters that were demanding of his full attention.’
Julianus nodded, knowing all too well the sort of ‘matters’ that the chamberlain was describing, but any distaste he might have been feeling was submerged in a deep-seated sense of relief so profound that it was all he could do not to sigh.
‘I completely understand, Chamberlain. And, under the circumstances, I’m sure the emperor will be happy to save his money, given that he’s not here to see the-’
Cleander shook his head briskly, with a smile that made it all too clear how well he understood Julianus’s short-lived relief.
‘Far from it, Procurator. Far from it! Knowing that I am possessed of an excellent recollective skill, Caesar simply implored me to bring him back the most precise account of the fight possible. I shall therefore take a seat here …’ Cleander pointed to the ornately gilded wooden seat that had been positioned ready for the ludus’s exalted guest. ‘And attempt to do such a titanic bout some small degree of honour with my description.’
Julianus’s mouth opened in consternation.
‘We’re to continue without the emperor?’
Cleander’s response was delivered in a cheery tone, but there was no mistaking the command implicit in his words.
‘Indeed we are, Procurator! After all, the price for the bout has been set and paid, and the fees that will be owing in the event of either the serious wounding or indeed the death of either participant are equally clear and, I should add, ready to pay out.’
He glanced behind him at the shaven-headed slave, still flanked by a pair of praetorians, at whose belt a good-sized pouch bulged with coin.
‘Dacian gold, Procurator, freshly minted. And after all, Julianus, who are either of us to risk the wrath of our emperor by disregarding his instructions? Bring on the contestants, and let us see what it was that Caesar had in mind when he commanded this match, shall we?’
Marcus was led into the arena first, looking around the surprisingly small fighting space with an expression of wary appraisal. Finding Scaurus in the group of imperial officials, he nodded his recognition, then stared back at the gladiators who were standing behind the ludus’s guests. Hermes was one of the men favoured with the opportunity to watch the bout, and he grinned at Marcus without any trace of humour in the expression.
‘Not quite what you were expecting, eh Centurion?’
He turned to the small group of men gathered at the opposite end of the room, recognising the chamberlain’s urbane tones. Walking towards them, he stopped ten paces short and bowed as he had been instructed by Edius, digging his toes into the sand.
‘It’s not as grand as some other places I’ve fought, Chamberlain, that’s true, but it makes a pleasant change to have clean sand underfoot rather than what I’m rather more accustomed to.’
‘And what would that be?’
He smiled bleakly.
‘Mud that’s been stamped into foam so deep that a man who falls wounded is likely to drown before he bleeds to death, stinking with the blood, piss and shit of the men who are fighting and dying around me. This is a holiday, by comparison.’
A door in the arena’s wall opened, and Mortiferum stepped out onto the sand, walking easily across the fighting surface until he was standing half a dozen paces from where Marcus stood waiting for him. A mirror image of his brother in both height and musculature, his hair had been greased back to give him a sleek, deadly appearance. Sannitus stepped forward with a forbidding look, his usual rough tunic replaced by the white garb of a referee and the customary long stick held in one big hand.
‘Gladiators, this bout has been commanded to be a blood match, with the first man to cut his opponent and draw blood three times being named as the winner. The prize is one thousand sestertii, ten gold aurei donated by the emperor himself. When a cut is inflicted you will step apart and allow me the time to make an examination of the wound. If I deem the wound to be too serious for the fight to continue then I will declare the wounded man to be the loser, and the fight will be over. However, in the event of such a serious wound being inflicted, the winner’s prize will be retained by the ludus, as his punishment for damaging valuable property. This is to be a display of gladiatorial skill, not a fight to the death. Do you both understand?’
Both men nodded, and the lanista turned to look to his master.
‘If you and our guests are ready, Procurator?’
Julianus nodded tersely, still preoccupied with the potential for needless injury to either man.
‘Continue!’
Sannitus stepped backwards, smartly waving his hands for the gladiators to close on each other.
‘Fight!’
The two men eyed each other over the blades of their levelled swords, Mortiferum raising an amused eyebrow as he slid his feet across the sand, crabbing round to his right and eliciting a matching response from Marcus.
‘So, Corvus, how does it feel to be blade to blade with the most famous gladiator in Rome? How long do you think you can stand against me?’
Marcus stared back, his face expressionless as he matched the other man step for step, the two of them slowly circling, watching each other with eyes narrowed in concentration.
‘I thought your brother was the most famous gladiator in Rome?’
The champion opened his mouth as if to speak but leapt forward instead, wristing his right-hand weapon in a savage arc aimed at his opponent’s head, just as his brother had predicted. Rather than lifting his own blade to parry, Marcus spun to his right, slicing his right-hand sword at the other man’s thigh, forcing Mortiferum to hop neatly backwards with a delighted laugh.