The Sacrifice Stone (24 page)

The gaggle of punters dispersed and I pushed my way towards the exit, along with what seemed like most of Arelate. It always took a long time to get out if you waited till it was all over, which was another reason why I usually left early.

There was no point in trying to hurry, but that hadn’t stopped the group behind me from trying: I’d been aware of pressure at my back, and was about to turn round and say something sarcastic like, ‘Why don’t you go first if you’re in such a hurry?’ when I felt a new, sharper pressure.

It felt as if someone was holding a dagger to the small of my back.

With a sharp blade very close to your skin, the one thing you don’t do is make a sudden movement. Very carefully I turned my head, letting my shoulders follow the turn, until I saw a muscled arm and the sleeve of a leather tunic.

‘Gaius!’ I said, trying to sound as if I’d been hoping all day I’d bump into him. ‘Did you enjoy the games?’

‘Some of them,’ he said. He, too, sounded friendly. More friendly, anyway, than you’d expect from someone holding a knife to your back. ‘Not much sport with the Christians, but some of the gladiators were worth watching. One or two of them fought skilfully.’

‘And you’re qualified to judge,’ I said softly.

There was a pause, as if he was weighing up whether or not to admit. Then, bravado clearly winning over discretion, he said, ‘What if I am? I was good, I tell you, I wasn’t beaten in fifty fights!’

Surely he had to be exaggerating. I know I should have resisted the temptation — I could still feel the dagger point — but I said, ‘You must have lost your touch, then.’

The sharp point penetrated the cloth of my tunic and pierced my flesh. He hissed, ‘That wasn’t clever, citizen Sergius Cornelius.’

I was thrashing round for a witty riposte that would deter him from pushing his dagger further into my back when suddenly I realized. He’d called me by my name.

He knew who I was; it was only a short step to knowing where I lived.

I sent up a violent prayer of thanks to my god for his suggestion that I leave Theo with Cassius.

‘Since even you wouldn’t be so foolish as to kill me with about thirty thousand witnesses,’ I said coolly, ‘why don’t you stop toying with your knife and put it away?’

He laughed hoarsely. ‘Hurting, am I?’ He twisted the dagger point, agonizingly, then I felt it withdraw. ‘It’s nothing to what you’re going to suffer.’

Freed from his knife, I turned to face him. ‘You don’t frighten me. Your threats are —’

He wasn’t listening. ‘See those Christians, did you?’

I nodded.

‘See the lad? Plucky little sod, wasn’t he?’

I didn’t answer. I had a dreadful feeling that I knew what he was going to say.

‘Makes you think, doesn’t it?’ He paused, as if for maximum effect, then said: ‘Makes you aware of what can happen to kids who won’t do as they’re told. Who run away, make a nuisance of themselves. Get hidden away by Roman citizens who ought to know better.’

The threat was crystal-clear. There was no point in evasion — better to accept that war had been declared, battle begun.

‘You won’t get him,’ I said. ‘There’s no way on earth you’ll find him, let alone bring him back and get him thrown in there.’ I jerked my head back towards the arena.

He laughed again, that same harsh laugh. ‘Oh no?’

Then he swaggered away.

Empty threats, I assured myself as I went down the long flight of shallow steps descending from the amphitheatre. He couldn’t have said No, you’re right and I’ll give up, he’d have lost too much face. Bluster was the only option, and —

I caught sight of him then. He’d vanished in the heaving crowd, but it had momentarily cleared, and there he was.

He was talking to someone, a young man. And the young man was familiar: it was Flavius. Who had come to see me the previous morning, to warn me I had to give Theo up or suffer the consequences.

And there he was, talking earnestly to Gaius.

It’s not as bad as it looks, I tried to reassure myself. It’s not as if the young man works in the Procurator’s Office, I proved that yesterday. If he did, we might have a problem, because it would mean Gaius had a direct link to the very man who gathers victims for the arena, and it’d be child’s play to push Theo in among the criminals, the Christians and the condemned.

But as it is ...

My optimistic thought faltered and died. I’d just seen the Procurator himself, strolling majestically down the steps, nodding to acquaintances, acknowledging congratulations for a good day’s sport.

I watched as the Procurator approached Flavius. Gaius, after exchanging a brief greeting with him, had slipped back into the crowd: my Brother the Raven stood alone.

He might not work for the Procurator, but clearly they were on the most intimate of terms. The Procurator slapped him on the back, linked Flavius’s arm through his own and said cheerfully, ‘There you are! We must hurry up, now, my slaves will have prepared supper and the bathhouse will be ready.’ He glanced over his shoulder, beckoning to the rest of his party. ‘Come along, everyone!’

As the young Raven was swept away, he looked back. Straight at me.

And I didn’t like the way he was smiling one bit.

23

I hardly noticed my journey home. I was so preoccupied with trying to see through the fog of mystery swirling all round me that I was blind to anything else. It was just as well my old horse knew the way without any guidance.

That young Raven had now issued me with three warnings, assuming it was he who had knocked me out and put the piece of parchment in my hand. Why? Because, out of loyalty to a Brother in Mithras, he couldn’t see me land myself in trouble without at least trying to help? And what a way to help, slugging me on the head!

And, although I’d got the idea he worked in the Procurator’s Office, I now knew he didn’t. But he
did
know the Procurator — very well, apparently. The vast, intricate edifice of Roman public life was constructed around who you knew, and the better you knew them, the greater the benefits they might put your way.

My Brother Raven was close enough to the Procurator to be lavishly entertained at his residence. Close enough that he felt free to pop into the Procurator’s Office whenever he was passing, for I knew he did, I’d seen him. His presence in the vicinity had crystallized the vague idea I’d had that he worked there.*

Who had put that idea in my head in the first place?

Racking my brains, I tried to remember. Then — for a forgotten fragment is more likely to come back when you’re not thinking about it — deliberately I made my mind turn to the prospect of supper and a hot bath.

In my memory I heard the voice of my Brother Soldier, the one whose young bull Theo had played with. ‘The Raven’s going to have a new Brother,’ he’d said a few months back. ‘A fellow from Gaul’s joining us, another Raven. Perhaps having a Brother his own age will stop him spending all his time lurking around the Procurator’s Office and get him out in the fresh air — he ought to be following pursuits more suited to his youth!’

At the time, I’d thought my Brother Soldier, a real out-of-doors type himself, was merely expressing his usual disdain for those who worked in administration and rarely saw the good, clean light of day. Now, analysing his words, I realized he hadn’t actually said Flavius worked for the Procurator. Merely that he lurked around the office.

I had jumped to a conclusion, but it had been a false one.

In view of the fact that the Raven knew Gaius, the truth — that the Raven was not an employee of the Procurator but an intimate friend — was far more sinister.

Gaius, my Brother Raven, the Procurator. Gaius had as good as said, not an hour before, that if he found Theo, he’d make sure the boy ended up in the amphitheatre.

And I didn’t understand that, either. Oh, I could appreciate that Theo’s intense — and well-deserved — dislike of Gaius had made Gaius loathe his guts. But in that case wouldn’t Gaius have been overjoyed to see the back of the lad? More likely to slip me a backhander for having taken him away than to threaten me because I wouldn’t give him back?

Gods, it was beyond me.

But, even if Gaius’s mental processes were unfathomable, I was left with the unpleasant fact that he was after Theo’s blood. Literally.

There
had
to be something else. Gaius was an ex-gladiator, strong on muscle, weak on brains. My experience of him, admittedly limited, nevertheless had given me a strong picture of a man who was none too bright. And who, surely, would redress a grievance by murder in a back alley rather than by the elaborate device of arranging for his enemy to be thrown to the wild beasts.

And anyway wasn’t it I who was his enemy? He might have detested Theo when the lad was under his roof, but was that hatred strong enough for him to continue the pursuit long after Theo had left? Bearing in mind what I’d done to him, wasn’t it far more likely that he’d come after me?

As I rode into my courtyard, I was haunted by the unpleasant knowledge that I was still very far from knowing the whole story.

*

Callistus served me my dinner, but I didn’t pay it the attention it deserved. Eager to hear about the games, he took his time over clearing away each course and presenting the next, interspersing his actions with questions. Finally accepting I wasn’t going to provide the lurid details he wanted to hear, he whipped away the platter of cheese before I’d had a chance to make up my mind if I wanted a second helping, banging down the fruit bowl and stomping off back to the kitchen with an injured sniff.

Some time later I heard him set off for home. The gates were too heavy to slam, but he did his best.

I went across to the bathhouse, but I can’t say I enjoyed my ablutions much. I don’t need to tell you why, do I? It wasn’t the same, without her. And, besides, the wound Gaius’s dagger had made in the small of my back burned like a flame in the hot water.

I dressed myself in a comfortable old robe I kept for relaxing in and, my mind too alert to promise easy sleep, went out on to the terrace.

I’d been sitting out there for some time, gazing out across the dark landscape, when what I’d been seeing finally penetrated. Put it down to anxiety, fatigue — I was both anxious and tired, certainly — but I swear I didn’t realize what I was watching until it was almost too late.

I said he was good, didn’t I? Right at the start, when I first suspected I was being watched, I was aware that whoever it was knew his stuff. Well, I was right.

As soon as I’d tumbled to it, I was amazed I hadn’t spotted it before. The night was reasonably clear, but there were clouds dotted around the sky which periodically crossed the moon, making the darkness more profound. On the slope that dropped away below the terrace were clumps of young trees, little more than saplings, too slender to allow a man to hide behind.

Which was probably why I hadn’t been keeping more than a cursory eye on them.

With each renewal of the brightness as the next cloud moved away from the moon’s face, one of the saplings was suddenly thicker: every time it went dark, he was moving to a different one.

And his progress was in one way only — straight towards me.

The god’s presence stirred in my consciousness. I remembered what he had said: let the hunted become the hunter.

I still had my military uniform. Largely for sentimental reasons, I kept the plates of my cuirass greased against rust, the leather straps supple with oil; I stored my tunic in a moth-proof chest. My shield was polished, my sword was always sharp: my dagger was in its sheath on my belt.

Within a few minutes I was as ready to go on the offensive as I’d ever been in the Legion. I took my helmet down from its place of honour on the shelf above my clothes chest and, its weight on my head and the back of my neck as reassuring as it had always been, set out to look for him.

*

You might have thought I had the advantage in that I knew the lie of the land better than he did, but I don’t think that was so. He’d doubtless spent so many nights skulking around down there that the reverse was more likely to be true — I wasn’t in the habit of spending time crawling up and down the slope in front of my house.

The only advantage I did have was that he didn’t know I was stalking him.

Bearing that in mind, I moved as silently as a ghost, my shield arm held across my chest to prevent any sound from the metal plates of my armour. Broader than him, I couldn’t hope that my silhouette would be concealed by any sapling if he happened to turn round; I just had to pray he’d go on being so intent on staring up at the house that he forgot to watch his back.

For what seemed an eternity I shadowed him up that slope. Sometimes I lost sight of him — I guessed he must have been crawling through the grass — then, when I spotted him again, I’d have to hurry to close up.

I think that was where I gave myself away: I’m fairly fit, but speeding up a steep slope in heavy armour whose burden I’d grown unused to was a challenge, I admit. My legs began to hurt, and, despite my best efforts, occasionally I had to gasp for breath.

I thought I’d lost him for good — I’d been crouching behind a bush, waiting for him to make himself visible again, for so long that my breathing was right back to normal. I was just about to stand up and begin inching forwards, checking every possible place of concealment between me and the base of the walls, when a tiny sound behind me made me stiffen.

I knew he was there, even before I turned my head. For all I knew, he might be poised to attack the moment I moved, but that didn’t stop me: I had to see him.

Twisting round to face him and standing up in the same movement, I stared at him.

He was arrayed in much the same way I was; at first in that faint light I thought he was wearing legionary armour. He looked more like his father than ever.

Then, the initial impression fading, I realized his cuirass was a cheap imitation, his weapons inferior. Reason returning, I reminded myself he wouldn’t have had access to Roman army uniform since he wasn’t a legionary; his father’s equipment would have been returned to stores after his execution.

For some moments neither of us spoke. Then, his tone giving nothing away, he said, ‘You would have looked as you do now the morning they killed my father.’

I hadn’t needed the confirmation, but it was interesting that his opening remark should have provided it: clearly, there was to be no more hiding in the shadows.

‘I was not on duty that morning,’ I replied in the same bland tone: we could have been discussing some minor occurrence on which we wanted to compare notes.

‘But age has taken away your fitness,’ he continued, as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘You no longer scale hills like a soldier, Roman, for all that you dress like one.’

He was quite right; it galled, that my panting breath had given me away. Not that there was anything I could have done about it.

He had gained the offensive, both tactically — for his drawn sword was poised too close for comfort — and psychologically; I was old and past it, he was implying, infirm age against strong youth.

We’d have to put him right, on both counts.

My left arm bore my shield; I pressed my right hand against my side, wincing. Instantly his sword point was against my throat.

‘Keep still!’

I lifted my head so that I could meet his eyes. ‘I’m in such pain!’ I gasped. ‘My side — it’s as if there’s a knife sticking between my ribs.’

He snorted in disgust. ‘You’ve only got a stitch! You shouldn’t go running up hills, at your age.’ He had marginally lowered his sword: I was in with a chance. ‘Go on, old man, nurse your pain,’ — the disdain was poisonous — ‘I can see you’re —’

When I think about it now I go cold. But, in the heat of the moment, it didn’t seem all that risky. Swiftly I moved my right hand from my side to my sword hilt, drawing my blade and swinging it up and to the right. Although I felt the fierce jarring go right up my arm and through my shoulder, it worked: his sword fell out of his hand and, with the nail-studded toe of my military sandal, I kicked it away down the hillside.

Lunging uselessly after his weapon put him off balance. I pushed the boss of my shield against his chest and he fell; before he could get up again I put my foot across his stomach. It was my turn to rest my sword point against his throat, and the moment was sweet.

The headiness of triumph didn’t last long. I was going to have to decide what to do with him.

Probably I should have killed him: with the benefit of hindsight, it would have been the best thing. But I didn’t. Perhaps I was too weak, perhaps my years as a civilian had taken away the fighting instinct. But I’m not even sure I’d have killed him when I was still a soldier — it takes the adrenalin of battle to dispatch a man who lies disarmed at your feet, and we hadn’t been engaged in battle.

Putting down my shield, I unfastened my belt, slipping off the scabbard that held my dagger. It wasn’t easy with one hand, and I was out of practice, but in the end I managed it. I ordered him to sit up, then fastened his hands behind his back with the belt. It was made of thick leather: I reckoned it would secure him.

Then I took hold of his arm and, getting him to his feet, marched him up to the house.

I took him on to the terrace, where I rebuckled the belt round one of the stout pillars that held up the balustrade. Then, pulling up a bench and sitting down in front of him, I said, ‘Quintus Severus’s son. You’re a long way from home.’

Momentarily his head drooped, as if he were suffering a sudden stab of longing for that northern land. For friends, family. If he had any. Then, looking up, his eyes fixed on to mine. I noticed his were blue; in that aspect he wasn’t like his father, whom I remembered as being dark-eyed. Presumably this young man had inherited his light eyes from his Brigantian mother. Although it was the last thing I wanted to dwell on just then, I saw her in my imagination, long hair dirty and tangled, face puffy with weeping. Body swollen under the cast-off military cloak which, other than the child she carried, was possibly the only thing Quintus had left her.

I shook my head. Here I was facing a man who apparently was out to kill me, and I was dangerously close to feeling sorry for him.

‘What do you want with me?’ I asked harshly. ‘I’m aware how long you’ve been after me, I —’

‘You are?’ His voice was bitter with sarcasm. ‘And just how long would that be, Roman? Since you saw me walking away from your house that night?’ So much for my fond belief that he hadn’t spotted me. ‘You have no idea, have you?’ He strained towards me, face a rictus of hatred, but the belt held him firm against the pillar.