“I thought you were weak as a kitten?”
Varro gave a horrible smile. “Strength’s coming back in floods now.”
He turned to Salonius.
“You know where they’re keeping Petrus and Corda’s bodies?”
Salonius nodded.
Varro’s grin widened. He resembled a shark.
“Find them. Steal them. Get them to the stable and find our horses and a spare to carry the bodies. We’re going prefect hunting!”
Catilina stared at them.
“Wait!”
Varro’s smile softened and he laid a hand gently on her shoulder.
“You know I’ve got to do this, Cat. I can’t just let this get bureaucratic. I need to look him in the eye as I skewer him. The best thing you can do for me is to keep quiet and not let anyone know I’m gone until we’re well and truly out of the way.”
Catilina frowned.
“He’s right,” added Salonius from between gritted teeth. “Cristus needs to pay in a personal way. Even if Varro didn’t want to do it, he’s not got a choice. There’s a higher power involved in all of this. It’s fated. Varro’s going to kill Cristus even if he tries not to. And I’ll be there to help whether I like it or not.”
Catilina stared at the young man.
Varro smiled. “It sounds insane, but he’s right, Catilina.”
The pale, elegant woman lowered her face and scratched her head for a moment. When she looked up there was a sparkle in her eye that made Varro frown nervously.
“What is it?”
“I know.” She smiled. “Fate, yes?”
Varro’s brow lowered further and Catilina laughed.
“Sorry, my dear, but I won’t be able to keep quiet about your absence.” She unpinned her hair and threw her head back, shaking the black curls out. “Because I’ll be with you.”
Varro shook his head.
“Not this time,” Varro stated flatly. “Your father will…”
“What?” she interrupted. “Kill you? Don’t be naive, Varro. I’m coming with you and the quicker you accept that, the quicker we can be gone.”
Varro sighed. He looked round at Salonius and was surprised to see the young man’s vicious expression had slid back into its habitual good natured smile. “You too?”
“The lady has her mind made up, Varro.”
Another sigh, and Varro smiled at her.
“Alright. Salonius, you get those corpses; can you manage both of them?”
Salonius nodded.
“Catilina: you get your things. I’ll pick a few things, get the horses ready, and meet you in the stable in about fifteen minutes.
With a last deep breath, the three of them split up in the corridor junction and went their separate ways.
Salonius wandered along the corridor. His analytical mind gave him an edge, he thought, that the over-emotional sometimes lacked, particularly when combined with his alertness which led to him needing only five hours sleep a night, give or take, and remaining fully functional. While the others had slept or bathed for the six hours last night before everything went to hell, Salonius had spent time exploring the palace. Combined with his part in the search this morning and further explorations while Varro had slumbered, he had put together a surprisingly complete mental map of the complex.
He had accompanied captain Iasus to the cellars when the seven traitors had been incarcerated. On the way there he noted that they passed a subterranean chapel to the Goddess of the hearth. Lying on the stone benches in this dark and cool place had been the bodies of Petrus and Corda, safe from wandering folk down here in the cellars beyond locked doors and now black clad guards.
He smiled at the guard by the heavy oak door. It was the very same guard that had been placed on the door three hours ago when he’d been here with the captain. The guard, not much older than Salonius, saluted. He continued to smile, raised his arm to salute, and at the last moment, brought it round in a hammering blow to the man’s temple.
The man collapsed in a black heap without a sound. Salonius crouched over him.
“Sorry about that. You’ll have a hell of a headache, and I suspect you’ll be cleaning latrines for a few weeks, but you’ll live.”
Carefully, he retrieved the black tunic with its white raven and wolf emblem and slipped it over the top of his own green one. He grunted as the tunic split beneath the arm. Sadly there would be few guardsmen that matched his own large frame. Still, he mused, no one would have time to examine his armpit. With a smile, he threw the black cloak over his back and, scrabbling around, found the man’s helmet. That was no good, No way would that go over his head. Oh well, the thought as he retrieved the key ring from the guard’s belt. He stood, brushing down and straightening his stolen uniform.
Unlocking the door with the heavy iron key, he pulled it open and stepped through, locking it behind him. He would have to be careful down here. He’d seen some of this massive complex of tunnels, but apart from the chapel and the cellars, there were also the dungeons, some store houses and, presumably at least one guard room somewhere. With a deep breath, he strode off into the dark, dank tunnels, lit only by occasional tiny skylights high in the outer wall.
Holding his breath, he reached the bottom of the first flight of stairs and turned right, deeper into the labyrinth of tunnels.
As he turned the corner at the next junction, the tunnels now lit by guttering oil lamps, he almost walked straight into a servant carrying a sack of something over his shoulder. He stepped aside and the servant made very apologetic sounds and sidled round him before rushing off. Salonius took another deep breath and walked on. Two more corners and the shorter flight of stairs. Ahead he could see the corner he didn’t want to get to. Light flickered around the bend and there would be at least a couple of men, if not more, guarding the outer door to the prison area. But before then, just ahead, the doorway to the right led into the small chapel. Hurrying now, he ducked aside. He could clearly hear the voices of the guards round the corner and was glad, for the hundredth time, that he had worn soft leather boots and not the hob-nailed standard military fare he usually wore.
The chapel was lit by a flame on the altar at the far end. A barrel-vaulted room, it was not much larger than one of the guest rooms in the palace above. The walls and curved ceiling were of plain grey stone, with just a touch of nitre glistening. The far end wall was decorated with a mural of the gods of house and family, with the Goddess of the hearth, protector of the home, at the centre. Her altar burned forever with a single flame. It was said that nothing was required to fuel the flame on her altar. Salonius had surreptitiously checked the one at Crow Hill and had discovered that the priests filled a recess in the altar with oil every few hours and a clever spring-loaded mechanism kept the oil at the top of the container to burn visibly.
Shaking his head, he returned his attention to the task at hand.
As if to facilitate their retrieval, the thoughtful priest who’d prepared them on the stone benches had removed all of their armour and accoutrements, leaving them in only tunic and breeches. With only a slight grunt, he lifted Corda from the bench and tested the weight. The sergeant had been a wiry man. Tough, but far from large. Damn. The man’s leg was tangled in the black cloak. With another grunt, he dropped the body back to the stone and removed the cloak, casting it away to the side of the chapel.
Stepping to the other block, he tested the weight of Petrus. Just as he’d thought, a decade of deprivation had left the veteran with a spindly light frame and very little muscle. Sheer determination had been driving him where muscle couldn’t. He could have carried five Petrus’.
Making sure the scarred body was securely in position on his left shoulder, he stepped sideways and lifted Corda with his massive muscled arms, hauling the man onto his shoulder. Bending his knees a couple of times, he tested the weight and how securely they were held.