For a long moment, he weighed the pros and cons of leaving the warm and comfortable bed to take a second dose of pain medication. Eventually he sighed. The pain had won; he needed the sleep. With a groan, he pulled himself slowly upright and his feet fell to the tiled floor with a gentle slap.
Hauling himself upright, he tottered quietly over to the table where his belongings sat, the medication uppermost and easily accessible. He smiled to himself about peoples’ priorities. Once they’d returned from the baths, they’d each returned to their rooms with their mind on a single task: Varro to take his medication, Petrus to grab some bread, meat and cheese, and Salonius? He chuckled to himself quietly. Salonius had been itching to finish his bath so that he could go and clean his tool kit!
He reached into the pouch and was feeling around for the three different pouches of medicine, his tongue protruding from the corner of his mouth with the effort, when he fell silent. Why, he couldn’t have said, but suddenly the hairs were standing up on the back of his neck. Very slowly and quietly, he reached down beside the table and picked up his sword. Gritting his teeth, he drew the blade from its sheath with agonising slowness, trying to mute the sound as much as possible.
There it was again. Outside the window.
Frowning with concentration, he tried to focus in the dark on the window with its intricate latticework shutters. It must be a cloudy night, for it was almost as dark outside as it was in the room. He concentrated on the window, hefting his sword.
The scudding cloud saved his life.
Momentarily, the moon peeked out from behind the high, wispy cloud, and Varro saw the outline of the man outside the window. His heightened senses as he strained to work out what was happening, caught the sound of the torsion cable at almost breaking point. He threw himself at an angle on to the bed, just as the missile was released with a ‘twang’. The delicate wooden latticework exploded into finely carved wooden shards as the small bolt passed through the shutter directly at Varro. Had he not moved swiftly he would now be lying on the floor with a foot-long shaft buried in his heart. As it was, perhaps he’d not moved fast enough anyway; the bolt had torn a piece from his neck muscle and gone on to bury itself in the opposite wall.
With a growl, he pulled himself upright, quickly checking the window before he raised himself over the protective level of the bed. There was no sign of the figure and in the silence he listened but heard nothing. Damn, this man was good!
He rushed over to the window and glanced out in every direction. The small courtyard garden was mostly in shadow. Half a dozen people could have hidden in there, but Varro knew full well the man had already gone. Hand held torsion weapons were not exactly cheap or easy to come by. They were almost exclusively in the employ of Pelasian assassins from that that great sandy land beyond the Empire’s eastern border. Since the reunification of the Empire, the treaty with Pelasia had led to there being many thousands of Pelasians within Imperial lands. Good for trade, he reflected; bad for Varro!
Rushing over to the door, he unlocked it and wrenched it open to confirm his suspicions. The two black-clad palace guardsmen lay on the floor of the corridor. They could be dealt with later. Damn Pelasians and their codes and honour. They’d kill their targets, but bystanders were outside the contract. These two had been drugged. He glanced along the corridor, but there was no sign of life. Taking a few quick and quiet steps, he gently tried Petrus’ door. Still locked.
Ducking back into his room, he ran across to the window and clambered out of it, wincing at the mixed pains of his old and new wounds. Ten steps across the shadowed courtyard brought him to what he’d feared. Petrus’ window had a neat hole in it. That ‘twang’ had been the first noise that had attracted Varro’s attention as he was rummaging in his bag.
Biting his lip in anticipation, he eased the shutters open and peered inside into the dark. Slowly his eyes adjusted to the almost pitch blackness within. Petrus lay on the comfortable bed in a wide glistening pool of his own blood. The tip of a bolt protruded from his chest.
“Shit!”
Varro took a deep breath and stepped back from the window. Time to grieve later. He rubbed his scalp, trying to think what to do next through the growing pain in his side and the throbbing in his neck.
Salonius!
He ran across to the next window and his breath caught in his throat as he saw the small, neat hole in the shutter. The assassin had had time to work quietly on these two, but had been forced to adjust his tactics when he’d seen that Varro was awake and upright. With a sigh, he leaned across and opened the shutters. The shape in the bed was absolutely still with a foot of dark hardwood protruding from the top. He moaned in anguish.
“Salonius, for Gods’ sake. You’re supposed to have been chosen by Cernus!”
With a deep sigh, he climbed in through the window, landing heavily and with a jarring sensation on the floor by the bed.
He blinked.
Reaching out, he prodded the bed.
Laughing, he prodded it some more and then pulled the top sheet aside. The shape in the bed had clearly not been human, but from outside the window with the faint moonlight to the rear, the shape had been indistinguishable in the darkness.
He laughed out loud, causing himself to choke slightly as the pain in his neck twinged badly. Salonius had carefully laid out all of his pack and goods on the bed, including his saddle bags and sleeping roll. They were all neatly arranged and had been recently cleaned and polished; indeed the cleaning rags, oil and polish sat on the small table by the bed. The industrious little bastard couldn’t sleep with the knowledge that he had tools that needed oiling.
Varro laughed again and walked across to the door. Opening it, he peered outside, to see Salonius two doors down, peering around the door frame of Varro’s room.
“Varro?”
“Salonius! Gods be damned, there you are. Where did you go?”
The young man walked along the corridor, a sword in his hand. Varro pointed at it and Salonius glanced down and noticed the blade in his hand.
“Took it from one of the guards. I saw them down and your door open and feared the worst.”
“Where were you?” Varro repeated.
“Couldn’t sleep,” the young man shrugged. “I went to see if I could find someone who could tell me how Catilina was.”
Varro smiled, and a sadness slipped across it. Salonius frowned at him.
“Petrus?” he asked in a small voice.
“Dead. Bastard nearly got me too. And he’s put a nice neat hole in your saddle!”
“Did you see him?”
Varro nodded.
“Sort of. Only a shape. Pelasian though, so I doubt we’ll find him now.”
Salonius shook his head irritably.
“So we’ve no evidence, and now we can’t even produce Petrus’ testimony! All we can do is make unfounded accusations about Cristus to the marshal.”
“Not exactly,” Varro disagreed. “Sabian’s now well aware of the problem. We’ve got the actions of the garrisons of Saravis Fork and the mountain way station backing our story. And what you noticed about the rebuilding of the fort, or lack thereof, stands as some proof anyway.”
He took in the sceptical look on Salonius’ face and gave an evil smile that contained no humour.
“Anyway, all I need is for Sabian to stay out of the way. This is personal between me and Cristus. I don’t care whether he gets demoted or humiliated or even executed. What I want is to hear him admit to his treachery and to hear him beg for his life.” His smile became even more predatory. “Which I am not going to allow him. I am going to cut that sack of shit into ribbons so thin you could pass him through a portcullis!”