Albinus fumed, raising his voice to shout at the hard-faced guard.
‘Of course I don’t have a fucking invit-’ He stopped in mid-sentence. ‘Back entrance?’
Marcus sucked in a lungful of the cool night air as he was ushered through the door, looking about him at the house’s torchlit rear garden as the guard half turned to close the door behind him. Where the front of the domus had been adorned with groups of trees and bushes, the rear was little more than a well-ordered open space. Its lawns were edged with white stone, and the drive that led to the gate was surfaced with gravel that made a pale grey ribbon in the moonlight. There would be no chance of stealth, he realised, pivoting to grasp the guard’s hair and smash his temple brutally forward into the door he had just closed, jerking the head back and knuckle-punching the stunned man in the throat before he could recover his wits to call for help. Allowing his choking victim to slump to the ground, he stamped down hard on the man’s exposed neck with his boot’s edge, feeling the spine snap beneath his heel. Swiftly stripping off his toga, he manhandled the corpse out of its belt and tunic, dressing himself in the dead guard’s uniform before turning to head for the gate with a purposeful stride. The gravel crunched noisily beneath his booted feet, and as he came within a dozen paces of the gate another guard stepped forward from the wall’s shadow, his voice thick with the accent of the slums.
‘Stop for a wank, did you? I suppose they’ve started fucking and cutting up the-’
The knife he’d taken from the dead guard’s sheath was rammed up into the oncoming bodyguard’s throat before he even saw the threat, the point lodging deep in the base of the hapless man’s skull, and he sagged bonelessly onto the gravel.
‘What the …’
A second man came out of the gate’s shadows with a long spear held out before him, taking in the scene with a snarl of anger, and as he opened his mouth to call for help Marcus threw the handful of dust and gravel he’d scooped up a moment before. Half blinded and choking, the momentarily disoriented guard stabbed blindly out with the spear, but the young centurion dodged to his left as he lunged in with a flat palm that smashed his assailant’s nose, throwing him back against the gate with a heavy thud. The dazed guard staggered forwards only to meet his assailant’s half-knuckled fist with a crack of cartilage, his windpipe collapsing under the blow’s power, dropping to the gravel and choking noisily to death as his killer hauled the domus’s back gate open.
‘You took your time.’
Cotta stepped out of the gloom to his right, waving an arm in command, and his men rose from their crouching positions behind him. Each of the dozen veterans was equipped with a short infantry gladius and a small round shield, their faces rendered terrifyingly anonymous by the dark shadows cast by their helmets. In their wake Julius walked through the gate, pushing it shut and shooting the bolts while Cotta handed Marcus his belt and swords, looking about him at the villa’s garden as his former pupil armed himself.
‘Anything we need to know?’
Marcus shook his head at the veteran’s laconic question, smiling despite the gravity of the situation.
‘Nothing really troubles you, does it?’
Cotta shrugged.
‘Not really. You of all people ought to know by now that once a man’s faced thousands of screaming murderous bastards across a battlefield and come out of it sprayed with their blood and that of his mates, nothing ever really seems all that serious. So, Centurion, shall we do what we came here for?’
The younger man nodded.
‘There are ten or twelve guards inside, lightly armed, and thirty or so guests, most of whom will be carrying knives as well. The slaves they’ve brought here to slaughter are all wearing either white or black tunics.’
Cotta turned to his men.
‘If a man runs at you, put him down. If he’s running away but he’s not wearing a black or white tunic, put him down. And watch out for the women, they won’t be able to tell the difference between those bastards and us, and they may manage to arm themselves. We’ll be outnumbered three to one by the sound of it, so we’ll do this in the approved manner, in line and by the numbers. You two …’
A pair of his men stepped forward, hard-faced and dead-eyed.
‘You keep telling anyone that will listen how you could give Velox and Mortiferum a run for their money, here’s your chance to prove it. Once the fighting starts you shout the tribune’s name, you fight your way through to him and you keep him alive, right? There’s a gold piece each on top of what you’re already getting if you succeed.’ He turned to Marcus. ‘You’ll be throwing yourself about, I presume?’
Marcus nodded at the question.
‘It would be a shame to waste all that expensive education in fancy swordplay our mutual friend managed to drum into me, wouldn’t it?’
Cotta’s return stare was almost paternal in its concern.
‘Just remember that most men who throw themselves into crowds of unfriendly natives tend to pay for the extravagance of their gesture in blood. That rule holds as true here as it does anywhere else in the empire.’
The younger man held his stare for a moment before replying.
‘My mother and sisters were brought here, taunted, degraded, raped and murdered, Cotta. So you would do what in my place exactly?’
The veteran put a hand on his shoulder, shaking his head.
‘Nothing different. Just make sure that you don’t join them before your time, eh?’
Inside the hall, Scaurus and Avenus watched, the former numb with horror while the other crowed exultantly as another piece was removed from the playing board, the woman dragged kicking and screaming away by two of the guards to where another of the guests waited in the shadows, his knife a pale line of grey in the darkness.
‘Marius Priscus. A disappointing individual, in more ways than one, given that his distant ancestor was consul no less than three times. Spends most of his time boasting about his achievements in the German War.’ Avenus turned to Marcus with a look of disgust. ‘Did you know that he even paid a noted scholar to write a book about the brilliance of his generalship? Not only is he the most ghastly individual, but he has no class whatsoever when it comes to these gatherings. He could have won Perennis’s wife just then and still all he’d want would be to open her throat and watch her die. I wonder what on earth it is that makes our host persist in inviting him. In fact, I think I’ll go and ask Asinius Pilinius myself. Come on, we’ll go and pay our respects!’
Scaurus nodded equably, forcing what he fervently hoped was a cruel smile onto his face.
‘Why not? You go, and I’ll catch you up in a minute. I just want to see that bitch die.’
Avenus laughed, shaking his head.
‘Gods below, not another one! What is it with you soldiers? Very well, go and satisfy your need for blood, but just mind you don’t get too close to him while he’s holding a knife, he’s got a fearful temper!’
He slapped the tribune on the shoulder and advanced into the press of men, making a beeline for their host, while Scaurus walked quickly across to where the retired legatus had clearly won a brief and one-sided fight with his prize. Seeing the younger man approaching him, he froze with his knife ready to strike and barked out a question, his grip on the battered woman’s hair enough to hold her quiescent in her semi-conscious state.
‘What the fuck do you want?!’
Scaurus kept walking, his face set in an expression of respect and his empty palms spread wide.
‘Simply to express my respect for your achievements, Legatus. I read your book on the German Wars and was most taken with the brilliance of your tactics.’
Marius sneered and turned back to the woman, raising his knife to make the kill.