Climbing the five steps, he was impressed at the quality of the marble used in their creation. The porphyry alone would be worth a year’s wage for a merchant of even above-average means. Sadly, many steps were now missing. Any place where marble was going to waste, some enterprising folk would remove it and burn it down for more useful lime.
The doors had, in their time, been magnificent. When burnished they must have shone in the sunlight from the high windows, situated above the colonnade, much like the golden gate of Vengen. Now, sadly, they were decayed and blue-green. One door miraculously remained in position, rusted shut many years ago. The other hung at an awkward angle, the central and lower hinges having long since given way.
Very carefully, Varro stepped between the doors, being certain not to touch the precariously-hanging portal.
The interior was almost pitch black. The roof above this small octagonal chamber had remained largely intact, though the stars were visible here and there in places. Squinting into the dark, he made out the glow of moonlight through the doorway ahead. Stepping as carefully as he could in the darkness, he made his slow way toward the light.
The next room was wide and long. Most of the roof was missing, allowing the moon to clearly light his path now. The grass and weeds here were patchy, leaving areas of rich mosaic faded but clearly visible. This must be a great reception area or dining room. Varro could imagine the parties that had been held in this great space. A shallow granite bowl had been a fountain, clearly once decorated with a number of statues. A peculiar sense of sadness and loss settled on him as he traversed the room, his eyes now locked on the great aperture at the far end that had once been an ornate window.
As he approached the outer wall at the far end, he began to tread lightly and quietly once more. Creeping up to the window, he carefully edged his head past the stonework and glanced left and right. The figure of a man was moving along the wall, almost invisible in the moon shadow.
With a frown, he realised that the man would likely reach the corner before Salonius. Racking his brains, he suddenly grinned. Reach down to the floor, he collected a small pebble and hefted it, testing the weight. Squinting along the wall at the retreating form of the soldier, he swung his arm back and cast the stone out into the undergrowth roughly halfway between them but further out away from the building. He held his breath.
The soldier stopped dead in his tracks and turned. The shadow in which he was standing obscured his face, though Varro could imagine his expression. Very, very slowly, the man began to move away from the walls in a half crouch, toward the source of the unexpected sound. Varro nodded to himself in satisfaction.
Waiting until the man was at a good distance and facing away, Varro quickly and quietly climbed onto the ruined windowsill and dropped lightly to the soft, springy grass in the shadows outside. Something moved out of the corner of his eye and he glanced sharply along the wall to see Salonius echoing his steps from the corner. He nodded toward his companion and pointed at the figure now lurking by the undergrowth and Salonius returned the nod, drawing something from his belt and waving it at the captain.
Varro frowned. What the hell was the lad up to now?
He stopped in the shadows and tried to discern what Salonius was doing as the young man rummaged and fumbled until suddenly he lifted his arm above his head and began to swing it. Varro jumped. What the hell did he think he was doing? He waved his arms frantically, trying to get Salonius’ attention. The building ‘whoop, whoop’ sound of the sling as it completed each circuit would easily attract the attention of the lone figure.
And yet, while he was still trying desperately to get the young man to stop his noisy attack, Salonius let go of the strap and the stone flew with a gentle whistling sound. Sure enough, the man by the undergrowth turned at this new sound, but not fast enough. Before he ever saw the two darker shapes lurking in the shadows by the wall, the lead shot took him in the side of the head and knocked him clean from his feet.
Varro blinked, impressed despite himself.
With a quick glance at the young marksman, he jogged across to the prone soldier. The side of his head had been staved in and was oozing dark matter onto the grass. He wouldn’t be crying for help any time soon. The captain jumped at Salonius’ quiet voice by his shoulder.
“Bigger than a coney and considerably slower moving.”
Varro turned and grinned at him.
“That’s some bloody aim you’ve got there.”
“Almost a year assembling and dismantling catapults, bolt throwers and so on. That was my principle job. Every time you do it you have to check the aim and adjust to new conditions. After three months, it’s second nature. I could hit a sparrow with a siege engine, given a couple of minutes to sight.”
Varro laughed quietly.
“Come on. Let’s check the lie of the land.”
Catilina sat hunched up against the wall of the gatehouse, staring off into the gloom in the direction Varro and Salonius had taken. Her night vision was being seriously hampered by the dancing flames of their small fire and, after a few moments, she shuffled along the wall so that the fire was behind her. If she really strained her eyes, she could just about make out the shapes of her two companions moving like ghosts among the rubble and ruin near the centre of the complex.
She smiled. The noble women and the other girls she’d grown up with at Vengen and at the Imperial court in Velutio had always treated her with an aloof and distant attitude. It was, of course, no mystery why that was the case. Her brother was studious and interested in politics, history and rhetoric; her mother had been a fascinating woman, though. Catilina was always saddened when she thought of that beautiful, mysterious figure that had passed away when she was still a young girl. She knew what her mother had been like though: a genteel court lady, with hobbies and habits as befitted her station, but with a hidden side that only came out with her husband and children. Her mother had loved to ride and to explore; she had travelled with her husband on campaign in those early days of the Imperial restoration. She was no wilting flower, and neither was her daughter.
That was why the court ladies were never sure what to make of her: she had never settled into the sedate court life. Indeed, the only time she had spent any real length of time in a courtly situation was at Vengen those few years ago, and that had been when she’d met Varro and her life had changed forever. Her father had pleaded and cajoled, then demanded and shouted and finally, in the end, gave up and let her be who she wanted to be. He would never change her and, since he’d obviously come to realise that, she was sure he was just that smallest part more proud of her for it.
She had never been happier that at times like these, living roughly by a campfire with a constant threat of danger and puzzles to solve. Except for the ever-present knowledge that Varro was going to be taken from her. As soon as the thought occurred to her again, she pushed it back out of her mind. Every time she let her guard down, she risked being washed away by the turbulent emotions that pounded her. She was too strong for that. And Varro was refusing to let it get in his way, so she had to be all the more strong to keep him from despair.
The man behind all this…
Something behind her made a snapping sound. Her mind raced for a fraction of a second. Twigs popped and crackled in the flames, but there was something different about this sound. This was not a burning twig.