Once again his hand slipped to his belt as he sought the reassurance of his blade now that the stakes had risen. This was no longer a matter of eluding the man. Now there was likely to be a confrontation, a far more dangerous prospect. Musa knew there was a lane that led from the square directly towards the street that climbed the Quirinal hill and he began to edge towards it, steeling himself for a sudden sprint. If he had not enough guile to escape his pursuer, then he would simply have to outrun him.
The man kept level with him as he worked his way out of the crowd and then, as Musa’s intentions became obvious, he smiled again and wagged a finger at him. For the first time Musa felt a feeling of dread, a chill that knotted itself into the back of his neck. The man nodded towards the lane and Musa glanced across the square and saw two burly figures emerge from the shadows and block his way.
‘Fuck. .’ he muttered to himself. Three of them. Perhaps more. He could not fight his way out of the trap. Everything depended on his speed now. He moved back into the crowd where he hoped he would be safer for a moment and glanced round the square. There were four other routes open to him. He chose an alley opposite the two men and furthest from the first man. He recalled that it ran parallel to the road leading to the Quirinal. If he followed it far enough he could cut up towards the safety of his master’s house. Musa steeled himself and took a deep breath before he burst into a run, thrusting people out of his way. The air behind him filled with the angry curses of those he had knocked aside but he paid them no heed. He emerged from the crowd and dashed across the grimy flagstones towards the opening to the alley. He heard another shout above the din behind.
‘Go! Get after him!’
Musa reached the entrance to the alley and plunged into the gloom. For a moment the contrast with the brighter light of the square made it difficult to see the way, but he ran on regardless, hoping that he would not trip, or blunder into someone, or his boots lose their grip on the filth-encrusted paving stones. Then his eyes began to adjust and he picked out the details ahead of him. The small arched doorways, the entrances to tiny businesses struggling to survive on what profits were left to them after the gangs of the Subura had taken their dues. A handful of raddled women and men draped in rags held out their hands and mumbled requests for food or money and he dodged round them as the sound of his pursuers chased him along the alley. Musa gritted his teeth and urged his legs on with a growing sense of desperation.
Fifty paces ahead a shaft of light penetrated the gloom as the sun shone down the wider street that led towards the Quirinal and Musa felt a flicker of hope in his heart. If he could stay ahead of the men for another quarter of a mile he would reach safety. The junction neared and he welcomed the bright glow of the sunlight piercing the dark world of the slum. He was only ten paces from the corner when he felt a sharp blow to his shin and then he was hurtling through the air. He threw his hands out and landed heavily in the narrow channel running down the centre of the alley where foul puddles of waste lay. The impact drove the air from his lungs and for an instant Musa lay gasping for breath as his ribs burned with pain. He knew he must move and forced himself on to his knees. The thud of boots filled the air and he reached for his knife as he struggled to stand, straining to breathe. The blade came out and he began to turn, determined to strike at his enemy.
Instead a boot lashed out, smashing into his hand, and the knife dropped from his numbed fingers. Another boot struck him in the side, knocking him over and driving what little air was left in his lungs out with an agonising grunt. Musa lay doubled up, mouth open, straining to breathe as he looked up. There was the man in the brown tunic, with one of his thugs on each flank in a half crouch, fists bunched. Musa could not see what had caused him to fall and the look of pained confusion on his face made the man smile.
‘Too bad, Musa, me old cock. You put on a decent effort. But it’s over now, nay?’ He looked up, over Musa’s shoulder and grinned. ‘Good work, Petulus. Out you come, lad.’
A shadow separated from a doorway to the side of the street and moved into the light and Musa saw a small ragged urchin clutching a length of wood. He recognised him at once. The boy he had tipped a coin to misdirect his pursuer. He had been part of the pursuit all along. Not only that, but Musa now realised that he had been steered into this precise alley where the boy had lain in wait. It was a well-worked trap. As good as anything he could have arranged. Better even. He shook his head and rolled on to his back.
‘Get him up, boys.’
Rough hands grasped Musa’s limbs and hauled him on to his feet. A hand reached out and lifted his chin sharply. He saw the man in the brown tunic standing squarely in front of him. ‘Someone wants a little word with you, Musa.’
Musa stared back, teeth gritted. Then, without warning, he spat in the man’s face. ‘Fuck you,’ he gasped. ‘And fuck that Greek piece of shit you work for!’
A glint of anger flared in the man’s face before he smiled coldly. ‘The same piece of shit your master is carved from, my friend.’
Then he nodded and a dark piece of sacking dropped over Musa’s head. He smelled olives briefly before there was a dazzling white explosion of light and sharp pain and then everything went dark.
CHAPTER TWO
‘That’s a nasty blow.’ A voice penetrated his dazed mind. ‘You better not have scrambled the bastard’s brains.’
Musa groaned and rolled his head to the side. He opened his eyes a crack and saw that he was in a stone cell, lit by the pale yellow glow of oil lamps. His head was pounding and the movement sent a wave of nausea sweeping through his guts. He was lying on his back; a wooden table from the touch of his fingers. He tried to move his hand but felt the tug of restraints. It was the same with his other hand and feet and he lay still, feigning half-consciousness as his mind struggled to think coherently through the shattering pain in his head. His shin also throbbed and he recalled the boy with a sense of betrayal mixed with self-contempt for having been taken in by him.
‘Just a tap on the head, that’s all we gave him,’ a voice growled and Musa recognised it as belonging to the man leading the party who had caught him. ‘He’ll be right as rain when he fully comes round.’
‘He’s moving. Musa’s awake.’
Musa heard footsteps approaching and a pair of hands grasped the neck hem of his tunic and gave him a shake.
‘Eyes open, Musa. Time to talk.’
He fought the urge to respond and played dead. The man shook him again and then slapped the side of his head.
Musa blinked his eyes open and squinted slightly. He saw the man leaning over him nod with satisfaction.
‘He’s good.’
‘Then let’s not waste any time. Go and fetch Ancus.’
‘Right, chief.’ The man went away and Musa heard footsteps, then a door opening and the sound of sandals climbing steps. He turned his head and saw the full extent of the room for the first time. It was a low-ceilinged chamber, below ground, he assumed, from the dankness of the air, the lack of natural light and the quiet. Two lamp-holders were suspended from the ceiling, each bearing two brass oil lamps that provided the dull illumination. Besides the table, there appeared to be only one other item of furniture: a small bench upon which lay a set of tools, glinting in the lamplight. Beside the table, his head hidden in shadow, stood a thin man in a clean white tunic and calfskin boots that stretched halfway up his shins. The man stood silently for a moment before speaking in a soft, dry tone, too quietly for Musa to identify his voice.