Saviour of Rome [Gaius Valerius Verrens 7] by Douglas Jackson

felt he’d said too much. ‘It is difficult to tell with them. All I can say is that were I in their place I would not be satisfied. And then there are the bandits.’
    ‘I was told they had become more active and daring?’ Valerius invited a more detailed explanation, but the younger man only shrugged.
    ‘That may be the case, sir, but I haven’t witnessed it.’
    ‘You think I was misled?’
    ‘All I can say, sir, is that we – that is my commander – responds to every bandit attack with all the speed and force he can muster. Inevitably, by the time we reach the site the bandits have been fought off or have fled. They are never strong enough to take a full convoy, but one or two wagons will be missing, with perhaps a casualty or two among the wagon drivers or muleteers. The thing is, apart from the usual signs of disturbance around the camp or ambush site, any tracks fade and then vanish within a few hundred paces. It is as if the raiders suddenly take to the air. That’s why we – I mean the more superstitious among the men – talk about The Ghost.’
    ‘The Ghost?’
    ‘Laugh at me if you wish, sir,’ the courier said defensively, ‘but the men have a pure dread of ever meeting him.’
    ‘I would not laugh at you, Marius,’ Valerius said gently. ‘Tell me, does this Ghost have a name?’
    ‘In the Asturian tongue he is called “Nathair”. A man of almost supernatural powers, newly returned from only the gods know where. He can pin a butterfly to a tree with his knife point and is so fast with a sword that anyone who faces him is dead before they even realize he has unsheathed it. They say he cannot be killed.’
    Valerius experienced a chill at the familiar list of accomplishments. ‘Does he have a face, this Ghost?’
    ‘He keeps it masked. Only the shades of his victims have ever seen it.’
    ‘
Nathair
?’ He knew the answer to his question before it left his lips.
    ‘It means Snake, sir.’
    Serpentius?

X
    Serpentius brushed away one of the big rats that sniffed about the sleeping prisoners every night. Large as cats, they lived mostly off dropped food and what had passed through men’s bodies, but they weren’t averse to human flesh. One bite from their foul teeth would be the prelude to a lingering, painful end.
    He willed himself to be strong. Experience had taught him how agonizing this would be, but when the alternative was certain death a man must be prepared to suffer pain. He had no idea how long it would take, or even if he’d succeed. But he had to try. He pulled the short section of shovel handle from his loin cloth, praying the balled piece of linen that passed as a stopper had held. Would it be enough? He’d used Vegeto’s nail to hollow out a cavity in the centre of the ash, but didn’t dare make it too large for fear the frail container collapsed.
    Holding the shaft upright he removed the linen ball and raised his body so he could pour the contents over his lower legs. Frugal with the first: he must share it equally. Mars save him, but there wasn’t much. He rubbed the pitiful dribble of oil he’d stolen from the lamp over his ankles and feet beneath the iron rings of the shackles.
    Now for the difficult part.
    It was a trick he’d learned in his earliest days as a gladiator. Mendestined to kill each other in the arena shared a special bond. As they’d been lying in their irons in the barracks of the
ludus
one night he’d been astonished when one of his companions stood up and walked to the door.
    ‘What’s happening?’ he’d whispered to the man next to him.
    ‘Nestor the
retiarius
has what you might call an assignation with a certain lady.’
    ‘You mean he’s escaping?’
    ‘Not escaping,’ the gladiator assured him. ‘You’re new here. Believe me, there’s no escape. Out there in the city you’d be picked up before the cock crowed three times and then what? I’ll tell you. The cross and a long, lonely death. It’s not a bad life here. Fed and