Ferox was not sure why he followed at all, other than a sense that something was wrong and the vague familiarity of a voice. On the way back over the bridge he kept his distance, and managed to lose them in the crowd. Then he heard whoops and the big German’s bellow as Vindex and the others appeared and dragged him into a bar. The noise in the rest of the tavern was oppressively loud, so that his merry friends had to shout to be heard. Longinus was not there, but three of the Batavians were, and they were just as raucous. Gannascus was playing dice with anyone who was willing. He won a few times, but lost more often, betting wildly. A Roman would no doubt have thought that this was typical of a barbarian. Ferox was still enough of a Silure to understand that a warrior would always be bold. When the huge man came over and said, ‘I need more money,’ he handed him most of what was left in his purse.
‘His luck’s bound to change,’ Vindex said with approval. There was no sign of it for the next few throws. As a centurion Ferox was well paid and his life at Syracuse rarely cost him much. Still, he wondered how long the coins he had brought would last if they stayed many days in Londinium. Gannascus split the room with a great bellow of triumph as he won.
In one of the rare lulls, Ferox had a quick word with Vindex, explaining that he might suddenly disappear. ‘Follow if you can, just in case. But only join me if it looks like real trouble.’
Soon afterwards he left them, needing air, and not wishing to drink too much lest it ease him back into his old ways. The sun was setting, the clouds pink edged with dazzling yellow as he looked down west along the river. He got lost on the way back to their billet, for one street looked so much like another, especially now that many of the stalls and peddlers had packed up for the day. More than once he suspected that he was being followed. Perhaps he was just nervous. After just a few days he was remembering why he did not care much for city life.
Philo had two messages for him. The first had been brought by one of Ovidius’ slaves, and said that he thought that he had found something and would explain tomorrow. The second was from another slave, who had said simply that someone would come for him later tonight from S, and he was to go with the guide if he would. The man sounded as if he was a Briton, and there were scars on his face and arms, suggesting he had done a lot of fighting in the past.
Hours passed, and the drinkers did not return. Ferox wondered whether Gannascus had had a run of luck. Either that, or his luck had been bad and he had gambled away their freedom or started a fight. By the third hour of the night there was no sign of them and he started to worry a little as he ate the supper Philo had prepared. A burst of singing in the street outside proved to be another group of drunks and not his friends.
The guide came just as he finished his meal. He had a round, pockmarked face and a head of closely cropped dark hair. Ferox did not recognise him, but followed anyway, leaving his cane behind, but keeping sword and dagger on the belt concealed by his cloak. The guide took him west and then up one of the gentle slopes. Turning a corner he saw the shacks and old fort with the amphitheatre looming behind them. He placed his hand on the guide’s arm.
‘Where are we going?’
‘You follow. I take you to her.’ The man’s Latin was slow and clumsy, and he did not look like a Briton.
Ferox followed. There were fires among the shacks, and low voices of the people who lived there. As they passed, a voice called out asking whether they wanted a ‘clean woman or a nice boy’, but the weary tone suggested habit more than any expectation of a reply.
‘This way.’ The guide took him past the locked sheds outside the arena, past the walls plastered with announcements of old and future games, to one of the small doors of the amphitheatre itself.
‘Wait.’ Ferox was tired, had drunk more that he should, but none of this felt right.
‘She is waiting for you,’ the guide said. He licked his lips nervously. ‘Ready and eager.’
Ferox grabbed the man by the arms. The guide started, eyes wide in panic, and whether it was chance or he heard or saw a movement, the centurion twisted the man savagely around as he turned to put his own back against the doorway. He felt the force of a blow as the man’s body shook once, then a second time and the tip of an arrow burst through the guide’s throat. He was choking, spitting blood, and Ferox backed into the doorway. He heard the thrum clearly as another arrow came at him and whisked past his head. The dying man shook again as a fourth missile slammed into his back.
Ferox threw the man aside and fled down the corridor. It was a low arched passageway ending in darkness. Steps led off to the right, climbing and then making a sharp turn, but it was lighter up there, perhaps a glimmer of moonlight. A long scream split the night air and then sank into a bubbling sob. The door behind him slammed closed.
IX
FEROX STOPPED, WRAPPED his cloak around his left arm and drew the gladius. Slowly, he began climbing the steps. He paused at the first corner, took a deep breath and then jumped around, sword back, ready to thrust. There was no one there. The stairs went up, turning again. He guessed this must be a small passageway used by staff rather than a route in and out for the audience. The timbers around him smelled damp and mouldy, and he guessed it was not cleaned too often. He stopped, listening, but could hear nothing apart from his own breath. After a moment he started walking up the stairs. The light was brighter now, which meant the cloud had broken and a moon close to full was bathing everything in silver.
Warily, his head emerged from the open trapdoor at the top of the stairs. Towering above him, he could see the dark outlines of the frames that carried the canopy raised over the top of the amphitheatre as shelter from sun and rain. There was no sign of anyone and he kept going until he was standing on the walkway used by the workers who operated the canopies and raised the flags and just kept an eye on the audience. The topmost tier of seats was just below, their backs against a four-foot-high solid fence.
The amphitheatre was silent, with no sign of life. Almost at the centre of the arena’s sand was a dark huddled shape. Ferox vaulted over the fence onto the seats. Still no one else moved. Whoever had tried to kill him outside must have known where he could go, so why were they waiting? He edged along past the bare seats, which always looked odd without the cushions the audience brought or hired for the day, and came to the wide stairs leading down towards the better seats and the edge of the arena itself. At least here he could move faster than he could in the narrow path in front of the seating. Slowly, crouching as a poor defence against any more arrows, he walked down towards the arena.
The clap echoed around the amphitheatre, unnaturally loud. Three times someone clapped, and only then did he see the darker shape in the shadows at the back of the box on the far side. On festival days, that was where the president of the games and his guests would watch the slaughter.
‘Who are you?’ a deep voice called out, the sound echoing even louder than the clapping. The words had a Gallic accent.
‘You call yourself Domitius Tullus,’ he shouted back.
‘Sometimes, but that was not the question. Who are you?’
Ferox glanced down. The arena was a good nine or ten feet below him. He could jump over the wall and drop onto the sand. Perhaps one of the gates onto the arena was open. Or he could take the same wide passageway that the audience would take to leave. Either way there would surely be someone waiting in ambush. He could not see a way to reach the box without giving Domitius plenty of time to escape.