The Emperor Series Books 1-5. Conn Iggulden

to this man as his friend died in the heat, alone.

      He attacked again, his thought become deeds, no reflection or decision, simply blows and moves, unstoppable. Red mouths opened on the old body and Marcus could hear the spatter of blood on the dust like spring rain.

      Renius had no time to speak again. He defended desperately, his face showing shock for a second before settling into his gladiatorial mask. Marcus moved with extraordinary grace and balance, too fast to counter, a warrior born.

      Again and again, the old man only knew he had stopped a blow when he heard the clash of metal as his body moved and reacted without conscious thought. His mind seemed detached from the fight.

      His thoughts spoke in a dry voice: ‘I am an old fool. This one may be the best I have trained, but I have killed the other – that was a mortal blow.’

      His left arm hung, flapping obscene and loose, the shoulder muscle sliced. The pain was like a hammer and he felt sudden exhaustion slam into him, like the years catching up with him at last. The boy had never been this fast before, it was as if the sight of his friend dying had opened doors within him.

      Renius felt his strength desert him in one despairing sigh. He had seen so many at this point where the spirit cannot take the flesh further. He warded off the battered blade of the gladius without energy, batting it away for what he knew would be the last time.

      ‘Cease, or I will drop you where you stand,’ came a new voice, quiet, but carrying somehow through the courtyard and house.

      Marcus didn’t pause. He had been trained not to react to taunts and no one was taking this kill from him. He tensed his shoulders to drive in the iron blade.

      ‘This bow will kill you, boy. Put the sword down.’

      Renius looked Marcus in the eyes, seeing madness there for a moment. He knew the lad would kill him and then the light was gone and control had come back.

      Even with the heat of his own blood warming his limbs, the yard seemed cold to the old man as he watched Marcus glide backwards out of range and then turn to look at the newcomer. Renius had rarely been so certain of his own death to come.

      There was a bow, with a glinting arrowhead. An old man, older than Renius, held the bow without a shiver of muscle, despite the obvious heft of the draw. He wore a rough brown robe and a smile that stretched over only a few teeth.

      ‘No one has to die here today. I would know. Put the weapon away and let me summon doctors and cool drinks for you.’

      Reality came back to Marcus in a rush. The gladius dropped from his hand as he spoke.

      ‘Gaius, my friend, is injured. He may die. He needs help.’

      Renius sank onto one knee, unable to stand. His sword fell from nerveless fingers and the red stain widened around him as his head bowed. Marcus walked past him without a downward glance, over to where Gaius lay.

      ‘His appendix has been ruptured, I see,’ the old man said over his shoulder.

      ‘Then he is dead. When the appendix swells, it is always fatal. Our doctors cannot remove the swollen thing.’

      ‘I have done it, once before. Summon the slaves of the house to bear this boy inside. Fetch me bandages and heated water.’

      ‘Are you a healer?’ Marcus asked, searching the man’s eyes for hope.

      ‘I have picked up a few things on my travels. It is not over yet.’ Their eyes met.

      Marcus looked away, nodding to himself. He trusted the stranger, but could not have said why.

      Renius slid onto his back, his chest barely moving. He looked like what he was, a frail old brown stick of a man, made hard but brittle in the Roman sun. As Marcus’ gaze fell on him, he tried to rise, shuddering with weakness.

      Marcus felt a hand press down on his shoulder, interrupting his rage as it grew again. Tubruk stood beside him, his face black with anger. Marcus could feel the ex-gladiator’s hand shake slightly.

      ‘Relax, boy. There’ll be no more fighting. I have sent for Lucius and your mother’s doctor.’

      ‘You saw?’ Marcus stammered.

      Tubruk tightened his grip.

      ‘The end of it. I hoped you would kill him,’ he said grimly, looking over to where Renius bled. Tubruk’s expression was hard as he turned back to the newcomer.

      ‘Who are you, ancient? A poacher? This is a private estate.’

      The old man stood slowly and met Tubruk’s eyes.

      ‘Just a traveller, a wanderer,’ he said.

      ‘Will he die?’ Marcus interrupted.

      ‘Not today, I think,’ the old man replied. ‘It would not be right after I have arrived – am I not a guest of the house now?’

      Marcus blinked in confusion, trying to weigh the reasonable sound of the words with the still swirling pain and rage inside him.

      ‘I don’t even know your name,’ he said.

      ‘I am Cabera,’ the old man said, softly. ‘Peace now. I will help you.’

       CHAPTER SEVEN

      Gaius lifted into consciousness, woken by angry voices in the room. His head pounded and he felt weak in every bone. Pain from below his waist heaved in great waves, with answering throbs at pulse points on his body. His mouth was dry and he could not speak or keep his eyes open. The darkness was soft and red and he tried to go back under, not yet willing to join the conscious struggle again.

      ‘I have removed the perforated appendix, and tied off the severed vessels. He has lost a great deal of blood, which will take time to be replenished, but he is young and strong.’ A stranger’s voice – one of the estate doctors? Gaius didn’t know or care. As long as he wasn’t going to die, they should just leave him alone to get well.

      ‘My wife’s doctor says you are a charlatan.’ His father’s voice, no give in it.

      ‘He would not operate on such a wound – so you have lost nothing, yes? I have removed the appendix once before, it is not a fatal operation. The only problem is the onset of fever, which he must fight on his own.’

      ‘I was taught that it was always fatal. The appendix swells and bursts. It cannot be removed as you might cut off a finger.’ His father sounded tired, Gaius thought.

      ‘Nevertheless, I have done so. I have also bandaged the older man. He too will recover, although he will never fight again, with the damage to his left shoulder. All will live here. You should sleep.’

      Gaius heard footsteps cross his room and felt the warm, dry skin of his father’s palm on his damp forehead.

      ‘He is my only child; how can I sleep, Cabera? Would you sleep if it was your child?’

      ‘I would sleep like a baby. We have done all that we can. I will continue to watch over him, but you must get your rest.’ The other voice seemed kind, but not the rounded tones of the physicians that tended his mother. There was a trace of a strange accent, a mellifluous rhythm as he spoke.

      Gaius sank into sleep again as if he held a dark weight on his chest. The voices continued on the edge of hearing, slipping in and out of fever dreams.

      ‘Why have you not closed the wound with stitches? I’ve seen a lot of battle wounds, but we close them and bind them …’

      ‘This is why the Greek dislikes my methods. The wound must have a drain for the pus that will fill it as the fever strengthens. If I closed it tight, the pus would have