The Emperor's Knives: Empire VII (Empire 7) Page 13

  ‘Spare me the history lesson, Dorso, before I allow this sword to taste blood one more time.’

  The praetorian shook his head, the faint smile back on his face.

  ‘You’d be better not leaving any visible wounds, wouldn’t you Centurion? You need make it look like natural causes, I’d say, or the rest of our merry band of murderers will smell a rat and go to ground. I might have chosen to meet my fate head on, but I can assure you that they won’t be as accommodating.’

  The younger man stared at him for a moment before speaking again, his voice edged with disbelief.

  ‘You really knew we were hunting you?’

  The praetorian nodded.

  ‘I had a fairly good idea. Unlike my fellow players in this dirty, bloody game that we play at the emperor’s command, I heard the full detail of what happened in the throne room when Perennis died. You can imagine the chaos in our fortress when the guards on duty who witnessed it came back up the hill, and I was fortunate enough that the officer of the guard on the Palatine that night was a friend of mine, which meant I got to hear the full story, and without any of the interesting detail censored.’

  The praetorian smiled bleakly at Marcus.

  ‘I managed to get him on his own, once he’d been debriefed by Perennis’s senior officers, and he told me the whole story, including the apparent involvement of a centurion from Britannia. He told me how that centurion, who, I should point out, apparently had a fresh scar across the bridge of his nose, looked as if he’d have dearly liked to have been the one that did for the prefect. And then, Valerius Aquila, just when I was wondering who that centurion might be, and why the emperor’s new favourite Cleander had allowed him to vanish off into the night, my friend told me something which gave me the answers to questions I hadn’t even asked. He told me that he was sure he knew that mysterious centurion from somewhere, but he just couldn’t work out where.’

  ‘He knew me from my time with the Guard.’

  ‘Yes. But fortunately for both of us, the two of you didn’t serve in the same cohort. He knew you as a face he’d seen around the fortress, if only he could have remembered, but he didn’t make the connection I did. But then he hadn’t listened as your former tribune suffered under the undivided attentions of the emperor’s torturers. Having taken money from your father to send you away on the false errand that saved your life, the fool sobbed and screamed and bellowed out the place to which your faked orders had sent you, even before they subjected him to the necessary amount of agony to verify his story. And that place was Britannia. Britannia was the key to the puzzle, Valerius Aquila. The tribune told the torturers that your father sent you to Britannia, to the Sixth Legion in the province’s north, and here was a centurion from Britannia bearing that legion’s lost eagle and the severed head of its commanding officer. Your father sent you to the Sixth because of some previous relationship he had with that legatus, am I right?’

  Marcus nodded.

  ‘Legatus Sollemnis was my birth father. Appius Valerius Aquila took me on as a baby to save him the embarrassment and encumbrance of a child.’

  Dorso nodded slowly.

  ‘And so the last pieces of the puzzle slide neatly into place. And when I saw you in the tavern with that rather distinctive scar across your nose, I knew that my time to meet with Our Lord Mithras was at hand.’

  Marcus stared uncomprehendingly at the older man.

  ‘You recognised me, and yet you still chose to come here knowing that it would be your death sentence? Why?’

  Dorso shook his head slowly, rubbing a hand across his face.

  ‘Why just walk into your trap? I’m tired, young man. Tired of committing murder in the name of a man who isn’t fit to be on the throne, tired of watching my fellow murderers indulging their sick fantasies with the innocent members of blameless families. I’m even tired of all this …’

  He looked around at the room’s panoply of antique weapons with a sigh.

  ‘I used to come down here with a light heart, overjoyed to own such a fine collection of weapons from some of the most noteworthy periods of both the republic and the empire. See that?’ He pointed to a long sword on the wall to their left. ‘That’s the blade that killed the Dacian emperor, Decebalus. I purchased it last year with my share from the murder of a particularly rich senator. It is an antique of almost inestimable value, and when I bought it I was filled with pleasure, and pride that a man from my relatively humble origins might own such a thing …’ He paused, looking down at the floor and shaking his head. ‘But over the last few months that pride has turned into disgust. Call it religion, call it conscience, but I am no longer able to take any pleasure from treasures purchased with innocent blood. In truth, Valerius Aquila, I’m more than tired. I’m sick, sick at heart, disgusted with myself for the things I allowed to happen in front of me, without intervening to offer some shred of dignity in death for so many innocents. I deserve to die, and offer some small recompense for their suffering.’

  Dorso closed his eyes for a moment, then snapped them open and shot a pleading stare at Marcus.

  ‘You will struggle to believe this, but I am at heart a decent man. My father taught me from my earliest days to do the right thing …’ He waved a hand at the weapons that festooned the walls about them. ‘But I allowed myself to be corrupted by my desire to own Rome’s history, something I could never have achieved on a centurion’s salary. Oh, I might have managed to buy one or two of the pieces you see before you, but I can assure you that this is the finest collection of weaponry you’ll find anywhere in the city. Anywhere in the empire!’ The praetorian’s face, momentarily lit by the pleasure of his private museum, abruptly fell back into despair. ‘And all of it tainted by the blood of those who had no need to die at all, or to undergo the suffering to which they were subjected.’

  He shook his head, his lips twisted in disgust.

  ‘Having accepted the role of imperial murderer, I quickly realised that I had already done too much and seen too much to ever be allowed to end my participation in that evil. The only way for a man to stop being a member of the Knives is for the other three to raise their blades and make a victim of him in his turn, and thereby ensure his silence. And so I participated in crimes of the most despicable nature, in the company of one man who can only be described as insane, another whose urge to prey upon the helpless is as disgusting as any vice I’ve ever witnessed, and a third who is only truly alive when he’s in the act of killing. For all the evil that I have done, and for which I am truly disgusted with myself, I can assure you that what you will find when you track them down will be infinitely more base and revolting. I caution you, Valerius Aquila, to be careful that in dealing out the justice that you so badly desire, you do not find yourself taking on their worst character traits.’

  He took a deep breath.

  ‘And now, if you will, all I ask is that you make my end swift. When I’m gone I suggest that you burn this place, and destroy these grisly instruments of slaughter. It used to be that their antiquity, and what I assumed would have been their honourable use in defence of the city and people of Rome, provided me with some small measure of relief from the nagging self-hatred that my role as an imperial executioner caused me to feel. Now all I can feel is revulsion at the potential atrocities that may well have been committed with them in Rome’s name with these weapons. Their destruction can only be for the good.’

  Marcus walked away from Dorso, looking about him at the shadowed ranks of weapons that lined the walls around them.

  ‘I had intended for you to die slowly, in an apparent eternity of agony, but it seems to me as if you’ve undergone much of that suffering already.’ Marcus picked up the large jar of oil from which the lamps were refilled each night. ‘There is a quick way for you to die, and one which will give little clue to your comrades that their destiny is upon them. Do you believe that you could tolerate the pain?’

  The praetorian looked across the room at him with a grimace of ant
icipation.

  ‘I can only accept the challenge. Spread the fuel around liberally though. Once I’m alight I want this whole grisly showcase to burn with me.’

  Marcus showered oil across the floor in splattering arcs, soaking the thick rugs and curtains with it, then carried the jar over to Dorso. The older man took it from him, swiftly upending the clay container over his head and soaking himself with the remaining fluid. Large drops ran down his face and dripped from his beard onto the mosaic floor, and the two Tungrians backed away as he nodded at them, reaching up to take a torch from its sconce and hold the flame out before him.

  ‘You see? I am ready to make amends for my sins, and I go to meet the Lightbringer! When next you pray to Our Lord, remind him of my sacrifice, and ask him to pardon my sins in recognition of my sacrifice in his name. And you, Valerius Aquila …’ Marcus watched in horrified fascination as Dorso put the torch’s blazing head to his tunic, the oil smoking furiously for an instant as it swiftly heated towards the point where it would burst into flame. ‘Please forgive me! Forgive—’ The praetorian’s last word was lost in the sudden roar as the oil took fire.

  His body was abruptly consumed by a column of flame that momentarily licked at the ceiling high above them. With a hideous shriek of agony the dying man tottered forward into a rack of spears and knocked it over in a toppling clatter, sprawling headlong into the puddle of the oil which Marcus had spilled at his request. With another concussive ignition, the floor around his writhing body was alight, and Dorso’s screams strengthened from those of a man in agony to the pure, bestial howl of a creature from which any hint of humanity had been scoured by the flames.

  Dubnus put a hand on his friend’s shoulder and dragged him away.

  ‘Come on! Before the whole place goes up, and we find ourselves having to explain to the urban cohorts why half the street’s on fire!’

  They fled, Marcus looking back as Dubnus pulled him into the alley and started shouting that there was a fire, seeing the flames flickering brightly at the museum’s high windows. The glass popped and tinkled to the ground in a glittering shower, and Marcus realised, with a combination of gratitude and regret, that the praetorian’s screaming had stopped, replaced by the fire’s terrible, powerful roar.

  4

  ‘And then he simply set fire to himself?’

  Excingus’s voice, usually so carefully controlled in tone and inflection to give every impression of complete imperturbability, was as incredulous as the expression on his face. He’d appeared at the barracks’ gate that morning soon after dawn, unbidden but clearly eager to know what had happened with Dorso. Marcus looked across the table at him, painfully aware that there was only a feeling of emptiness where’d he’d expected some sense of triumph in the wake of the praetorian’s demise.

  ‘As strange as it sounds, yes. From what he said before he put the torch to himself, he was suffering from an attack of conscience.’

  The informer put his head to one side as if trying to work out what the word meant.

  ‘And it sounds as if he was expecting you to make an appearance?’

  The young centurion nodded.

  ‘Yes. He’d learned enough about the circumstances of Perennis’s death from the praetorians who were on duty when the prefect was murdered by Commodus to realise that I was back in the city.’ Marcus grimaced. ‘We were lucky. If he’d not had such a strong death wish then Dubnus and I would probably have been walking into a trap. As it was, I genuinely believe that he was marking himself for death.’

  Excingus nodded slowly.

  ‘And now you’re not feeling quite as satisfied with the state of affairs as you thought you might, given his death, are you Centurion? You didn’t want contrition, did you? You wanted a fight, and the chance to carve Dorso into ribbons with one of his own swords.’

  Scaurus frowned at the informant, but Marcus shook his head.

  ‘All I want is for the four men who murdered my family to suffer some measure of their misery and agony. And Dorso’s death wasn’t an easy one.’

  Excingus laughed tersely.

  ‘Apparently so. His screams were heard half a dozen streets away, I’m told. So, honour is satisfied to some small degree, and as far as the authorities are concerned it’s a simple enough fire, which ought to stop the others taking fright. So, now that you’ve seen off one of them, are you sure you want to continue? If, of course, I could deliver another of them to the point of your sword?’

  Scaurus’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘If? Share what you have, Informant.’

  Excingus tipped his head to one side again, considering the tribune’s demand.

  ‘Really? I ask a question of the man seeking vengeance and you answer for him? I could wonder which of you feels the most strongly motivated …’

  Scaurus turned to Marcus.

  ‘He’s right, loathe though I am to admit to it. This is first and foremost your concern. So, do you wish to continue?’

  His centurion stared blankly at the table for a moment.

  ‘I have no other choice. What do you have for us, Varius Excingus?’

  The informant raised an eyebrow at the use of his name, but spoke quickly nonetheless.

  ‘The gang leader Brutus has taken to the streets. It seems that there’s another group of thugs who go by the name of the “Dog Eaters” encroaching on his territory, stripping away whole city blocks from his control and attacking his main business in each neighbouring block in turn.’

  Julius spoke, having sat quietly throughout the previous discussion.

  ‘And his main business is …?’

  ‘The same as every other gang you’ve ever run across, taking a piece of anything and everything he can muscle his way into. Protection money, prostitution, theft … As their name suggests, it’s a dog-eat-dog life at that level of society, and it seems that an even bigger dog has decided to eat dear old Brutus’s dinner.’

  ‘And what do you mean by “taken to the streets”?’

  Excingus turned back to Scaurus.

  ‘Exactly what it sounds like. He’s fighting a war for survival, and in a war the last thing the general wants is for the enemy to find and overrun his headquarters. He’s gone underground – possibly quite literally so – and is directing his army from a place that should be safe from attack since nobody knows where it is.’

  ‘And in reality?’

  The informant grinned savagely.

  ‘I have an … associate, shall we say, although associating with him is a little like making a pet of a viper. He lives and practises what I will euphemistically call his trade in the Aventine district, with a loose affiliation to one of the smaller gangs that supports Brutus. It seems that they have been contracted, secretly and under threat of a slow and nasty death, to secure a secret hideout for Brutus and his senior men, somewhere from which they can direct the fight for their ground without the risk of being disturbed by unfriendly strangers. My man Silus, expensively purchased I can assure you, not only knows the location of this place, but has agreed to take a small party of men to it, when the time is right. And word has reached them that Brutus intends taking occupation of this clandestine headquarters for a day or two from tonight. He only stays in each safe house for a short time, choosing the next location at random, but with every change he has to give his men a few hours to make sure that his networks of runners and soldiers can be realigned to keep him informed and protected. So, gentlemen, tomorrow night would appear to be your best opportunity, if you want to put your heads into the lion’s mouth?’

  Later that morning, Julius looked around the shop that Cotta had rented, pulling a disgusted face at the state of the space in which he stood. The shop’s floor was little more than a selection of warped and mismatched boards laid over the rough dirt beneath them, while the coating of plaster that had originally adorned the walls had long since been reduced to a few patches that clung stubbornly to the bricks, fragments of paint giving some hint as to their original brigh
t decoration.

  ‘What a fucking dump! This place can’t have seen a copper coin’s worth of maintenance since Hadrian was on the throne. And we paid how much for this shithole?’

  The veteran centurion standing beside him grinned at their surroundings.

  ‘Your expectations are a little out of alignment with the reality of Rome, First Spear. What we’re paying per month for this place wouldn’t normally cover the cost of a shop like this for a week, but then it’s not really in the best spot and, as you say, it is a little basic …’ He waved a hand at the shop’s dilapidated state. ‘But then we’ve got an asset that’ll make short work of even this mess.’

  The other man looked round at him with a snort of incredulity.

  ‘You think my soldiers can sort this out? We’re fighting men, not the assorted collection of plumbers and plasterers that you were chasing around in your legion cohort.’

  Cotta smiled, tapping his purse.

  ‘In which case I’ll have a wager with you that we can have this place tidied, painted and ready for business inside a day, once the groundwork’s out of the way. I’ve got just the men lined up, since your Centurion Dubnus was kind enough to find me some volunteers who are the least likely to leave a customer looking as if he’s had his hair cut by a butcher. You leave me to it and I’ll have the first customer in here and on his arse being asked how he’d like his hair cut before sunset tomorrow, if your ditch diggers don’t hold the whole thing up. Shall we call it ten sestertii?’

  The first spear shook his head hurriedly.

  ‘No, we fucking well won’t call it ten sestertii. If you’re that sure you can get my lads grafting that hard then you must have some secret weapon up your sleeve. On you go then, I’ve got military matters to be discussing, and no time to bandy words with a man who clearly missed his way in life. A shopkeeper is what you should have been …’

  Cotta grinned, calling out into the street for his volunteers. The soldiers filed into the shop with a barrel-chested soldier at their head, the veteran looking about him with eyes that were as alert to the possibilities of the situation as always, and his first spear raised a knowing eyebrow.