The praetorian to Dubnus’s left took another slow, sliding step, his movement barely discernible, reversing his hold on the spear at his side from the underhanded carry to an awkward overhanded grip. Cleander shook his head, waving a hand at Marcus.
‘And now you intend to murder this man, for no apparent reason?’
‘I heard what you said! It was this man that condemned my legatus to death!’
Horatius bristled, scowling at the chamberlain and, with another slow, stealthy movement, the praetorian next to Dubnus slid his booted foot forward, easing his body back and tensing the muscles of his shoulder in readiness to throw the spear. The soldier tightened his grip on the helpless Marcus’s throat, his scowl daring any of the men around him to make a move. Dubnus stepped forward, crossing his meaty arms.
‘Before you kill my friend, know two things. Your legatus wasn’t the first of Perennis’s sons to die at our hands. His older brother was a fucking traitor too, he betrayed an entire legion in Britannia and we made him pay the price. I put an axe through his spine, and stamped on his head while I tore it free. I left him twitching and drooling blood, so I doubt his death was a quick one. And when you’ve killed my brother, I’m going to do the same to you, only this time I’ll do the job with my bare fucking hands!’
In the instant that Horatius turned to snarl defiance at the big Briton, Cleander nodded smartly at the praetorian, and the soldier took one quick pace forward to hurl his spear at Horatius with nerveless accuracy. The weapon’s long iron shaft penetrated the soldier’s neck right up to the point where it flared to join with the thick wooden shaft, its impact snapping him away from Marcus with the abrupt force of a brutally delivered punch. Choking and spitting blood he sank to the floor, dragged down by the spear’s weight and his grievous wound.
The Roman turned to see the agent of his delivery, as the praetorian stared at the dying man with a look of satisfaction, recognising his face immediately despite the helmet’s disguise.
‘Yes, it’s the retarius who made such short work of Glaucus yesterday.’ Cleander had stepped forward and was standing beside him, looking down at Horatius’s twitching body. ‘When I see the very highest skills on display I’m quick to recruit them to my service.’
He looked down at the dying man with a dispassionate expression.
‘Irony stacked upon irony, it seems. Centurion Aquila looks for revenge on the last of the Knives only to discover that he’s killed the wrong brother. And you, the only man left alive who gives a damn about the fate of the Perennis family, put your sword to a man who has suffered exactly the same loss and wasn’t even the one who killed your sponsor the legatus. And as a consequence for that act of stupidity you end up with a spear through your neck and your existence receding down life’s drain hole. It just goes to show that the thirst for revenge can lead a man to drink some bitter potions, doesn’t it?’
11
The next morning Morban and his barbers opened up soon after dawn, as usual, and if some of them looked a little bleary-eyed it had no effect on the usual swift-forming queue of men who had decided to take advantage of their continuing generosity. Morban strolled out to address them, shaking his head sadly.
‘Sorry gentlemen, but we won’t be cutting hair today as a mark of respect to Flamma the Great, who fights in the arena this afternoon!’
For a moment the men waiting in line assumed that he was joking, but when the burly soldier remained where he was, arms folded and clearly not for moving, an angry clamour broke out. Morban waited for a moment, then cleared his throat ostentatiously before shouting his next words at the top of his voice.
‘Shut the FUCK up!’ His would-be customers stared at him in amazement. ‘That’s better. Now I’ll only say this one more time. We’re. Not. Cutting. Hair. Today. Got it? Now you can either fuck off now quietly or I’ll be forced to tell the lads inside to come out and deal with you. You choose.’
As if on cue, the window shutters were thrown open, and half a dozen irritated Tungrians looked out at the queue, several of them holding heavy wooden clubs. Realising that they weren’t going to be getting a cheap haircut or a shave any time soon, the disgruntled customers dispersed, leaving Morban looking out into the street with a grin.
‘Don’t know what you’ve got to smile at.’
The standard bearer turned to find his neighbour the potter at his side, his expression rather less happy than the last time they’d spoken.
‘Oh, I don’t know. Everyone likes a day off work every now and then.’
The potter shook his head in bemusement.
‘A day off work? You do realise that you’ll have the Hilltop Boys up here within the hour, once the story gets round that you’ve told your customers to piss off?’
Morban’s smile broadened.
‘That’s what I’m counting on. Perhaps you should probably close up your shop and go upstairs for an hour?’
The shopkeeper nodded, his expression telling Morban that had been his intention all along, and the standard bearer glanced along the line of shops to see that his neighbours had all come to the same conclusion, goods hastily withdrawn into their premises and shutters unceremoniously closed to provide the occupants with some semblance of security. Smiling to himself he turned and walked back into the shop.
‘Right then, it’s all gone quieter than a mute with her mouth full out there, so let’s have the weaponry upstairs, shall we?’
He watched impassively as the soldiers lifted the floorboards that covered the stairs down into the cellar, each of them fetching a shield and sword. The last man up the stairs handed him a spear, watching impassively as the standard bearer strolled back out into the afternoon sunshine, propping the weapon up against the wall in the shade of a brick pillar where it was invisible to a cursory glance. A pair of Maximus’s enforcers hurried round the corner, having clearly heard the rumour that the shop had failed to open for business.
‘What the fuck’s going on?’
Morban grinned broadly at the gang member addressing him.
‘A day’s holiday is what’s happening, my old son. We just thought we’d-’
‘Get back to fucking work, you fat bastard!’ The gangster leaned close, putting a finger against Morban’s chest. ‘You’ve got taxes to pay, and if you don-’.
The standard bearer grinned up at him lopsidedly, shaking his head gently as he interrupted.
‘Not really. We’ve decided not to pay any more protection since, to be honest with you, we don’t really need it.’
The man looked at his mate with an amused smile, inviting him to join in the joke.
‘That’s fifteen per cent. Keep talking and I’ll have to go and get One Eye.’
Morban shrugged.
‘You clearly don’t get it. We’re not paying.’
The gangster’s patience snapped, and he jabbed the finger into Morban’s chest with an angry snarl.
‘And you “clearly don’t get it”. We’re the fucking Hilltop Boys. We take whatever we want, and right now what I want most is to stick your fucking head right up your fat arse, smart mouth. So give us the cash or I’ll have to-’
He stopped talking abruptly, as a sliver of cold metal touched the area between his belly and his penis. His comrade was suddenly equally still, his attention fixed on the daggers that had appeared in the hands of the two men behind Morban, their evilly sharp blades glinting in the morning sunlight. Morban pushed the finger away.
‘Yeah, well you may be the Hilltop Boys, but we’re the imperial Roman army. You’ve cut the occasional poor sod that made the mistake of getting in your way, whereas we’ve fought in pitched battles against barbarians who all wanted to skin us alive. So I’d advise you to fuck off, and not come back unless you want to leave with your cocks in your hands.’