Lacking the wings of Daedalus, this could be done in only two ways: by land or by water. Entry by land would require getting past the front line of Caesar's heavily manned trenches, traversing the no man's land before the city wall, and then penetrating or scaling the wall itself. We could hardly do any of this in secret. Long before we crossed the front line, the attackers would order us to stop or be killed as defectors. Even if we crossed the no man's land alive, the defenders might fire upon us long before we could explain ourselves, and they could hardly be expected to open the gates or let down ladders even if they wanted to help us.
That left the possibility of approaching Brundisium by water. The city wall that fronted the harbor was shorter and less heavily guarded than the landward wall, but scarcely less formidable to three men without wings. Outside this wall, a narrow road ran along the waterfront and gave access to the port situated at the tip of the peninsula, but the entire length of this road had been covered with a veritable thicket of spikes and caltrops to make passage impossible and discourage even small boats from landing. There was only one point of possible ingress: the port itself, where gates in the walls opened onto a wide boardwalk and several large quays projected into the water. The gates to the port were open and there seemed to be a great deal of activity on the quays, but as yet there was no sign that the ships moored there were being readied for departure.
"What did you say, Gordianus?" mumbled Tiro, gazing intently at the prospect.
"I said, I'm not a swimmer. I've always been a city boy, you know. Born and raised in Rome."
Tiro blinked. "People swim in the Tiber all the time. Upstream from the Cloaca Maxima, anyway."
"No, Tiro. People splash in the Tiber, and float across on planks, and in dry years they wade across. That's not the same as swimming across a harbor with arrows falling around you."
"Who said anything about swimming?" said Tiro. "Do you see those little fishermen's huts down there, on our side of the channel? Just a stone's throw away, facing the city across the harbor?"
I nodded. The huts were few and spaced well apart. I hadn't even noticed them in the twilight of the previous day, distracted by the battle at the harbor entrance.
"The huts looked abandoned," said Tiro. "No signs of life. The fishermen have all retreated inside the city walls. But they left their boats behind. They're only skiffs, too small to be of any use to Caesar, so they've just been left there, pulled up on the sandy beach. I can see five or six of them from here. We have our choice. I have my eye on that one with the white sail. Less visible than, say, the one with the orange sail."
"Do you know anything about sailing a vessel like that?"
"You might be surprised by the things I know, Gordianus."
"Once we're out in the harbor, what then?"
"We sail directly for the quay. The channel can't be more than a quarter of a mile across."
"What if the current's against us? What if Caesar's men come after us?"
"Then Fortex shall have to row harder," said Tiro.
Fortex rubbed his jaw.
"And you may have to swim," added Tiro.
I didn't like the sound of that.
• • •
We were halfway down the hillside, our horses picking their own path through the bramble, when a voice called out from the ridge behind us.
"You can't go down there! It's off-limits!"
It was the centurion in charge of the lookout. Tiro turned and waved. He held a hand to his ear, flashed a stupid grin and shrugged, as if to say he couldn't make out what the man was saying. "Ride on," he whispered. "Look straight ahead. Ignore him. Head directly for the skiff. Faster!"
We urged our mounts down the hillside and reached the narrow beach. Behind us, I heard the galloping footfall of a horse.
"How many?" said Tiro, keeping his eyes ahead.
Fortex glanced over his shoulder. "Just the one."
"Good. He thinks we're harmless, then. We'll allow him to go on thinking that as long as possible. You know what to do, Fortex."
At the strip of beach between the hut and the skiff we dismounted. The centurion was closing on us. I drew close to Tiro.
"What do you mean to do to him?"
"What do you think?"
"Does it have to be like this?"
"We made a bargain, Gordianus. You took me into Caesar's tent, and I'm to get you into Brundisium. Do you want to come along or not? This is war. Did you think there'd be no bloodshed? Just be glad it's not your blood about to be spilled."
"It's murder, Tiro. As surely as the death of that wagon driver was murder."
"Murder is a legal term, Gordianus. It doesn't apply to slaves, and it has no meaning on a battlefield."
"Perhaps we can simply knock him unconscious… drag him into the hut…"
Tiro made a face. "You muddied your mind reading those Greek novels while we sat out the storm in the mountains. All hairbreadth escapes and happy endings! This is the real world, Gordianus. There's only one sure way to get rid of this fellow. Fortex will see to it. It's what he's trained for. Now smile; we have company."
The centurion rode up. He dismounted and walked toward us. There was a spring in his step; the short, brisk ride had exhilarated him. His smile was a little disdainful, but not hostile. I was only an ignorant civilian after all, a sheep that needed herding, not a wolf. He addressed me and ignored the others. "No civilians are allowed along the shoreline."
I held up the copper disk. "But Caesar himself gave-"
"The imperator has issued explicit orders regarding the shoreline. No exceptions." He raised his voice, apparently thinking I might be a little deaf.
"I… only wanted to have a look at this quaint fisherman's hut."
The centurion shook his head and smirked a bit. I was like a doddering grandfather who had to be indulged, but only to a point. He took no notice of Fortex, who circled behind him.
Blood pounded in my ears. In a matter of seconds it would be done. The young centurion, all flushed and smugly smiling, would be gripped from behind. Fortex would slit his throat- a flash of steel, a spurt of blood. His eyes would widen in shock and then go blind. A living man would become a corpse while I watched.
Beyond the centurion's shoulder, I had only a partial view of Fortex, but from his movements I could see that he was stealthily drawing his dagger. Tiro stood off to one side, playing the dutiful, retiring slave, holding his breath.
I reached for the centurion's shoulder and drew him toward me. Fortex, uncertain, held back.
"Do you have a grandfather?" I said.
"Two," said the centurion.
"I thought so." I walked him away from the skiff, away from Fortex, and toward the hut. "Is one of them a little deaf? A bit doddering?"
"Both of them, actually." He grinned crookedly. I had made him think of home, far away.
I nodded. "Well, young man, I'm neither doddering nor deaf. I can hear you perfectly well. My eyes are good, too. The reason I rode down here was because I saw someone go into this hut."
He frowned. The hut was crudely built, with a thatched roof. The thin door hung on rusty hinges. "Are you sure?"
"Absolutely. I saw a man in rags skulking down here on the beach, behaving suspiciously. I saw him go into this hut. I thought I should come to investigate."
"You should have called me at once." The centurion rolled his eyes, exasperated.