Path of the Tiger, стр. 416

two scimitars in a tight space, it was almost impossible to block. Since this had been in the days before Viridovix had started his gladiatorial career, Kurush was quite certain that his opponent would not have seen it before – and would thus not be able to defend himself against it.

With a sudden shout he leaped into the attack, whirling his scimitars in great slashing transverse figure-of-eight patterns, the blades scything through the air as they travelled in their deadly, crisscrossing circular arcs, aimed right at the hapless Viridovix, who was as a rabbit in the path of a dive-bombing eagle … except that suddenly, the gladiator wasn’t there. The world turned abruptly upside down, and Kurush felt a strange and solid thump on both sides of his skull, almost as if he were somehow rolling. He had no idea how this had happened, or why, or what to make of it, but after a disorienting blur of motion, he found himself staring at Viridovix’s feet. How had he ended up mere inches away from them? And then the awful realisation came rushing in, through the rapidly fading light, the cloying shadows, the drowning, swallowing, suffocating, all-consuming dark…

Viridovix dropped to his knees when he saw the life fade from the eyes of Kurush; eyes possessed of a look of sheer confusion just before death glazed them over. It was almost as if, Viridovix thought, Kurush had not even realised that his head had been severed from his body before he had had the chance to complete his leaping figure-of-eight manoeuvre. It may have worked against many other opponents Kurush had faced before, but against Viridovix the gamble had failed, and he had paid the ultimate price.

It was of no consequence now; Viridovix’s opponent was defeated, and now he had just one more mission to complete before he could slip into that comforting sleep, that overwhelming weariness that was pressing with such ruthless gentleness at the edge of his consciousness. He staggered up onto his feet, gasping and spitting blood, and stepped over the decapitated body on legs that felt as if they would buckle beneath him at any moment. He then held up his armoured forearm to shield himself from the heat of the bonfire beneath the brazen bull, and heaved open the door of the bull’s flank so that he could pull Lucius out and give him the mercy of a quick death.

However, it was not Lucius Sertorius that emerged from the hellish depths of that brazen bull; the moment that Viridovix hauled open the door, a great grey wolf sprang out – the same wolf that had haunted his dreams and nightmares all these years. His eyes were crazed with agony, his fur all burned off around the joints of his legs, as well as in huge, bloody patches around his back and flanks and head, and his feet were but stumps of charred meat. With furibund madness the wolf lunged for Viridovix’s throat with its gaping red mouth and wicked fangs, but despite the sudden shock of the attack he managed to turn away, leaving the beast to sink its teeth into the unarmoured flesh of his right bicep. With a shout of pain he dropped his longsword and staggered back, but he managed to punch his steel bear-claws into the creature’s flank, and the metal talons penetrated deeply between the wolf’s ribs. Man and wolf fell to the ground, thrashing about in a desperate struggle. It was then that Viridovix remembered that he had one remaining carving knife tucked into his belt.

He whipped out the blade as he tried to fight off the pain-maddened beast, and then stabbed the knife straight through the creature’s eye into the core of his brain. Death was instantaneous, and the light quickly faded from the wolf’s remaining eye as his body grew limp on top of Viridovix. He allowed his head to rest on the marble floor, bleeding heavily and feeling crushingly exhausted and utterly spent from the intensity of the struggle and the duel with Kurush. A blackness was now gathering at the edges of his vision, and an irresistible weariness was weighing down his limbs, as if all of his muscles had turned to dense mud. Through his fading senses he heard the sounds of victory cries: his brother gladiators. He smiled a tired smile and closed his eyes, thankful that all of this had not been in vain. He would die in a few moments, that much was true, but he would die a free man, a free man who on his last day of life had fought for honour, had fought for brotherhood, had fought against tyranny and oppression. He could die with a smile upon his face and greet the gods of rock, stream, tree, earth and sky in the Great Forest standing tall and proud.

The sound of footsteps approaching him roused him, and he opened his eyes to see the General, Oenomaus, Crixus, Spartacus, and all of the other gladiators who had survived the battle, standing around him. All were bloodied and wounded, but all had joyous smiles upon their faces. The General gazed into Viridovix’s eyes, and as he did so tears filled his own dark orbs and rimmed them with bitter red.

‘You are still with us, my brother,’ he said softly. ‘Praise be to the gods.’

‘Not … for long,’ Viridovix whispered hoarsely. Even talking now seemed like it required a herculean effort. ‘My wounds … are surely … fatal.’

‘Oenomaus, help him,’ the General murmured, his eyes locked on his friend’s pallid face.

Oenomaus nodded and hauled the horribly burned body of the wolf off of Viridovix, and then gently lifted Viridovix and propped him up, using the body of the wolf as a pillow.

‘I thought they’d put a man in that thing,’ Oenomaus rumbled as he pointed at the brazen bull. ‘But it were just a wolf. Bloody huge wolf, but no man.’

‘It … was … a man … I’m sure … of