‘Decimus won’t be an easy man to reach,’ Festus mused. ‘Have you seen him yet?’
Marcus paused briefly. ‘I think so. A man in a yellow tunic came out of the house earlier and walked round the garden. Same build and bald. If it’s him, he doesn’t seem to bother wearing a wig in the privacy of his own home.’
‘That’ll be him then.’ Festus gave a slight smile before he turned to Marcus with a more serious expression. ‘Any sign of your mother?’
Marcus shook his head. He gestured towards the line of trees a hundred paces from the villa. Beyond lay several long, low buildings with small slits to let in air and light — the barrack blocks of the slaves working on the estate. A wall surrounded the dismal-looking buildings and there was only one entrance, fortified by a tower on each side. At the moment the slaves were working in the fields, orchards and groves of the estate. Marcus had seen them emerge from the barrack first thing in the morning as he lay concealed close to the work camp. Gaunt figures in rags, chained in fours, stumbled into line and waited until the guards marched them through the gates to work. There had been plenty of women among them and some children, but Marcus had not been able to identify his mother.
‘She may not be working in the fields,’ Festus mused. ‘Decimus might have placed her with the household slaves. It’s possible, but unlikely. If she’s a house slave then she won’t be in chains. And if that’s the case, from what you have said, I imagine she’d take every chance to try and escape. So I’d wager she’s in with the field slaves. It won’t be easy getting into the work camp to search each barrack block for her.’
Marcus thought the problem through. ‘Then we find Decimus first. We get into the villa, track him down and force him to tell us where she is.’ Marcus’s eyes widened with excitement as he developed his idea. ‘Better still, we get him to send for her. That way we don’t risk going into the work camp.’
Festus sucked in a deep breath. ‘Even assuming we can do that, we still have to get into the villa in the first place.’
‘I think I know a way. It’s time to put that Parthian bow of yours to work …’
The three of them waited until the moon was hidden by a passing cloud before they emerged from cover a short distance from Decimus’s estate. It was close to midnight, as far as Marcus could calculate the passing of the last few hours as they lay in a ditch at the rear of the villa. The patrol had passed by shortly before and exchanged a brief greeting with the two men on the small gate leading into the slaves’ quarters. Now they had turned the corner of the villa and were out of sight.
‘Lupus, off you go,’ Festus whispered.
After a moment’s hesitation, the scribe summoned up his courage then rose into a crouch and headed away along the ditch. Festus reached for his bow case and nodded to Marcus as they eased themselves out of the ditch into the knee-high grass of the meadow that stretched up to the villa. They kept flat as they worked themselves close to the wall that gleamed dully in the moonlight. They had prepared for the night’s action as best they could. Their faces were blackened with a paste made from charred wood and mud, and the same mixture had been rubbed into their tunics. Each of them wore a sword belt and carried daggers and throwing knives. Cerberus had been left at the cave with a marrowbone that Marcus had bought at the market to keep him busy. He would return for the dog when it was all over. If things did not work out as he wanted, then Marcus hoped that Cerberus would be found and looked after by a new owner.
They crawled steadily through the grass until they reached the woodpile beside the wall, twenty paces from the entrance to the slave quarters and the two guards. Then, hidden by the logs, they stood up. While Marcus kept watch Festus took out his bow and braced the tip against his boot, leaning into it as he strung the weapon. Once the loop of the drawstring had settled over the horn he eased his grip gradually until it was ready to use and took out three arrows from the case. Festus had decided to use hunting arrows with their big barbed heads so that the impact would stun the victim and the wound would bleed profusely. He fitted the first arrow and eased himself up, ready to strike, while they waited for Lupus to make his appearance.
One of the guards leaned against the wall while his companion stood rubbing the small of his back as his head tilted towards the heavens. All was still and Marcus began to wonder if Lupus had the courage to go through with their plan. Beside him, he could sense Festus’s tense impatience as he stood ready to draw his bow. The guard let out a low groan as he stretched his back. Then he turned his face from the sky, and froze.
‘Who’s there?’ he called out.
A figure had emerged from the shadows and was casually pacing along the wall towards the gate. A surge of relief flowed through Marcus and he heard the faint creak of the bow as Festus drew back his right arm.
‘Is that you, Pythos?’ The guard took a pace towards Lupus while his comrade pushed himself away from the wall and turned towards the person approaching. Marcus held his breath as Festus took aim. This was the most dangerous part of the plan. If Festus missed his target then the arrow might hit Lupus, even though he had moved out a short distance from the wall to get clear of Festus’s line of sight.
There was a dull twang as the arms of the bow snapped forward and launched the hunting arrow towards the nearest of Decimus’s men. It struck with a sharp whack, like a stick hitting a sheet of wet leather, and the guard pitched forward with a pained grunt to fall face first in the grass, groaning as he writhed feebly, struggling to reach behind his back for the arrow shaft. The other guard was still distracted by the approaching figure of Lupus, but the commotion behind caused him to turn and look back.
‘Mantippus? You all right?’
He froze in shock, just long enough for Festus to draw his bow again, adjust his aim and loose his second arrow. The barbed head punched through his throat, severing blood vessels so that the guard could only claw helplessly at the shaft of the arrow. Blood filled his throat, mouth and lungs as he collapsed on to his knees with a horrible gurgling noise.
‘Come on,’ Festus commanded quietly, handing his bow to Marcus. They moved out from behind the logpile to join Lupus by the still moving bodies of the guards. ‘Keep watch, lads. I’ve got some quick work to do here.’
While Marcus crouched down and kept his eyes fixed on one corner of the wall, Lupus did the same for the other end. Festus took out a heavy cosh hanging from his belt and struck each of the guards about the head so they lay unconscious as they bled out. Then he dragged the bodies to the entrance by the slave quarters. He propped the man he had shot in the throat against the wall and dumped the other behind the woodpile before turning to Lupus.
‘You stay here. Stand by the gate. When the patrol comes round again they may call out to you. If it happens, then you’ll have to say something. Keep it short and keep it quiet.’
‘What if they come close enough to make me out?’
‘It’s dark, and they won’t be close enough to see you properly.’
‘If they do?’
‘Then you’ll have to make a run for it. Head for the cave. We’ll meet there. Otherwise, we’ll see you back here on the way out. Is that clear?’
Lupus nodded and Festus clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Good lad. Right then, Marcus, boots off. We go as quietly as possible from here on in.’
They unlaced their boots and left them beside the door, then Festus muttered, ‘Let’s go.’
He lifted the latch on the door and eased it open before leading Marcus inside the villa. Marcus felt his heart pumping as they entered a small, gloomy yard surrounded by the doors to the slave quarters. He could hear snoring and some muttered conversation and he wondered briefly if his mother was there.