‘Why do you ask?’
The Briton shrugged easily.
‘Professional curiosity. I’m Dubnus, and this is Marcus, and we’re both …’ He grimaced at the sudden realisation of their changed circumstances. ‘Or rather we were, centurions with an auxiliary cohort in Britannia.’
‘Were?’
Marcus stepped forward and offered his hand in turn.
‘We’re on our way to the Dacian Ludus, to sign up as gladiators.’
The man they had rescued shook his head in dark amusement, holding up his hands in the face of Dubnus’s growing irritation.
‘Forgive me for laughing.’ He bowed to them. ‘I owe you both my life, and I won’t forget that debt. Perhaps I will have the opportunity to pay it off sooner than you think, for I too am bound for the ludus. I had thought to join the Gallic School, but the chance to join alongside two men such as yourselves isn’t one to turn up. I’m Horatius, former centurion with the Tenth Twin Legion and now simply a man seeking his destiny.’
Dubnus looked at Marcus, who nodded slowly.
‘You would be welcome to join us, although I will warn you, Horatius, that we seek the blood of a man who resides within the ludus, and while his death is nothing less than a sacred duty for me it is likely to end in my own demise, and that of any man that stands alongside me.’
Horatius laughed softly.
‘My life is already forfeit. By rights I should have died in Pannonia a month ago, and the gods have doubtless only allowed me to escape for the purpose of revenge. Although how I am ever to achieve that aim is beyond me.’
Marcus nodded.
‘Then we have the same aim, you and I. But I must warn you again, my success is likely to condemn us both to death, and quite possibly yourself by association.’
The former centurion nodded.
‘I’ll take that risk.’
The three men walked in silence beneath the aqueduct’s tiered arches, emerging a moment later into the huge open space that was the setting for the Flavian Arena. The massive structure’s stonework was catching the first light, its gaudy paintwork gleaming in the pale illumination, and to the arena’s left the hundred-foot-high bronze statue of the Sun God that had originally borne the head of the emperor Nero played its blank-eyed gaze down on them. They walked around to the arena’s right, and across the open square that stood between its eastern side and the training schools that fed it with gladiators.
‘The ludus is up here. And it appears that there are already enough applicants to provide the school with any recruits for a month.’
Marcus led the two men up a long flight of steps, at the top of which two dozen or so men were waiting in front of a gate guarded by a pair of burly men. The rearmost of the group of would-be gladiators opened his mouth to speak to the newcomers, only to be interrupted by the creak of the gate opening.
‘Silence! If you want to enter the Dacian Ludus then your first task is to shut up and listen!’
A hush fell across the waiting men. Marcus craned his neck, and could just see the stocky man who had planted himself in the gateway. The skin of his shaved head was riven by a long scar that ran from his right eyebrow to his left ear, the top of which was missing.
‘My name is Sannitus, and I am the chief lanista of this ludus. Whatever I say inside these gates is law, with no judge other than me and no right of appeal! If you want the chance to live under my law, you’ll have to convince me that you’re fit to enter these gates. So, if you want to enter the ludus, strip! I want to see your muscles, and I don’t have the time for you to undress one at a time!’
He waited for a moment while they pulled off their tunics to reveal bodies of all shapes and sizes, a few preserving their modesty with loincloths while the remainder were naked.
‘Now, one at a time, stand in front of me and show me what you’re made of.’ The men formed a jostling, buzzing queue, presenting themselves to the lanista in turn. ‘No, too fat. No, not enough muscle. Lift some weights at your local bathhouse for a month and come back. Yes, you look right enough.’ He gestured to the successful candidate to move off to one side, turning a forbidding scowl on the next man. ‘No, not you. I told you last time that you’re never going to be strong enough for the arena, although it seems I also underestimated your stupidity. Go back to the farm and stop wasting your time and mine here!’
The judgements continued, swift and merciless, with only three men admitted from the twenty or so who had presented themselves, until the would-be gladiator in front of Horatius was sent away disappointed, and only the three soldiers remained. Sannitus stared at them for a long moment, then shook his head slowly in apparent disbelief.
‘Every now and then, once or twice a year, the gods see fit to send something a little bit different to this gate, something I’ve not seen before. Last time it was a dwarf so vicious that we had to keep him locked in a cell when he wasn’t training, such a little bastard that the boys eventually got tired of his antics and decided that he should have the misfortune to fall on a spear during training. Before that it was a high-class aristocrat who’d decided to slum it for a while, and show off his virtuosity with a sword from behind the anonymity of a mask. He was good too, until he pissed off the wrong fish man and ended up with a foot of sharp iron sticking out of his back. And now …’
He studied the three men with a pitiless gaze.
‘You’re all muscles, scars and tattoos, aren’t you lads, even you, the wiry one, combat trained and ready to fight at the drop of a handkerchief? Perfect for us, eh? No training needed, beyond a few short sharp lessons as to the dirty tricks that get pulled in the arena. You’re all expert with the sword, right, shield trained, and I’ll bet you can all put a spear up a cat’s arsehole at twenty-five paces. But here’s the problem, boys …’
He paused for effect.
‘You’re all spoken for. The army owns you, and any lanista that takes you on is risking losing his licence, his school and most likely his balls into the bargain if he gets caught fielding serving soldiers.’ He shook his head. ‘Sorry lads, but you’re too much of a risk for my liking.’
As he turned away Horatius stepped forward.
‘I don’t know about these two, but I’m already officially dead.’
Sannitus stopped, thought for a moment and then turned back with a quizzical look.
‘You’re dead? How does that work?’
The former centurion shrugged.
‘I got caught up in something that I’d have been best avoiding, if I’d ever known how to stay out of it. Now I’m just another anonymous body with all the right skills to make you a fortune in the arena. Try me.’
Sannitus nodded slowly.
‘I just might. You can provide me with your former name and rank, and I’ll make some quiet enquiries about you. In the meantime, you can come in with these three, and we’ll see if you’ve got the stones to back up that claim.’ He shot a glance at Marcus and Dubnus, neither of whom had moved. ‘I don’t suppose either of you are going to try to tell me that you’re dead as well?’
While Marcus was still weighing the best approach Dubnus stepped forward, his massive frame towering over the lanista.
‘We’re honourable discharges from the First Tungrian auxiliary cohort, bought and paid for.’
Sannitus frowned up at him.
‘Really? At your ages? Neither of you looks a day over thirty, and now you mention it, your mate here looks more like a twenty-year-old.’
The Briton smiled, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together.
‘Wars in far-off provinces tend to have some side benefits, once you get past all the obvious stuff like having to kill thousands of screaming barbarians who all want your cock for a belt decoration. Like gold. Me and my brother in arms here …’ He hooked a thumb back at the impassive Marcus. ‘We made it our job as centurions to be out in front of the legions when it came to hunting down the tribal chiefs who were stupid enough to start the whole thing. And when we captured Calgus, the biggest bastard of the lot, he was carrying enough gold to finance our release from service with plenty left over.’ He grinned down at Sannitus’s look of disbelief. ‘Our tribune took our gold and dismissed us honourably as too badly wounded to continue.’