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

sharing a bond, a brotherhood so powerful it might even be called love. Where are you now, my brother? With that dangerous little Judaean beauty in the villa at Fidenae you always planned to return to?
    He tried to remember her name but it escaped him. It had been like this ever since some Flavian trooper put a dent in his skull during the sack of Rome three years earlier. His memory of things long past was as good as ever, but he would forget where he’d left objects or sometimes even whether he’d eaten. When he’d allowed his hair to grow in the Asturian fashion a woman had pointed out the white circle in the centre of the steely grey that turned him, quite literally, into a marked man. So, he’d shaved his head once more and reverted to Serpentius the scarred former gladiator. He ran his fingers across the half inch of stubble on his scalp. It had grown again now, but that was no reason for celebration down here, where the lice bred in their teeming thousands and seemed to favour any tuft of hair or fold in a tunic.
    At some point he must have slept because he woke automatically moments before the jailer appeared in the prisoners’ side tunnel and litthe first lamp. In the glaring flare of light Serpentius watched intently as the man entered a few paces ahead of the guards. They were still half asleep, but wary. This pair were just brutes in uniform, but the Spaniard had identified two former soldiers among the rest who would be more of a threat to his plan.
    ‘Don’t you want your bread?’ the jailer snarled.
    ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’ The Spaniard snatched the mouldy fragment and dashed it in the swill bucket.
    By the time they’d crammed the bread into their mouths the main chain had been removed and the guards kicked them into line to pick up their tools. Serpentius always ensured he slept close to the doorway so he didn’t have to carry a basket and none of the other prisoners had the will to challenge him. The free miners streamed past as he selected his pick. By now the tool was as familiar in his hands as a sword had once been, but before he could accept his oil lamp, someone smashed into him with enough force to knock him to the floor.
    A huge figure loomed over him. ‘I’ve told you before not to get in my way.’
    Serpentius stared up at his tormentor. No point in apologizing. An unmistakable message in the single eye told Serpentius this man meant to kill him. The only wonder was that it had taken this long. He remained the only link to the information Petronius had possessed. The big hammer twitched threateningly in the man’s hands and a little half smile flitted across his coarse features. They called him Cyclops.
    Serpentius pushed himself wearily to his feet and turned away. He sensed the moment the hammer came up to shoulder height in the big, meaty hands. Heard the gasps as it began the plunge towards his unprotected back. With a blur of movement he spun out of range as the iron head smashed with an enormous clang to raise a shower of sparks from the quartzite floor. Cyclops grunted with frustration and raised the hammer for a new attempt.
    It would have been so easy. For Serpentius the falling hammer was as sluggish as a gently turning water wheel. Even in his chains he could step inside it to left or right. A flick of the wrist would allow him tobring the pick head round to pierce the giant’s exposed belly and rip it clear to leave his guts spilling on to the ground. Or a pirouette – granted, not as simple with the iron around his ankles, but still possible – would plunge the point into Cyclops’ kidneys and condemn him to a well-deserved, painful, and lingering death as his piss turned black.
    The thought made him smile, but it couldn’t be. Making the kill look easy would show the guards just how dangerous Serpentius could be, and the mining overseers knew exactly how to deal with dangerous men. They would weigh him down with chains until he could barely move and his chance