‘No, Philo; you were here to defend your ill-treatment of the Emperor and in his magnanimity he forgave you.’ He steered Philo around; the rest of the Jewish embassy followed to the jeers of the victorious Greeks.
‘About that Scorpion,’ Magnus said as they retraced their steps.
‘Yes?’
‘Would you happen to know exactly where it is in your house?’
‘No,’ Vespasian said unhelpfully.
‘Oh.’
‘But I can tell you that at the fourth hour of the night it will be on a wagon in the yard behind my house, totally unattended.’
‘Now that is a very foolish place to leave it.’
‘Not if you want it to be stolen and never to hear of it again. I’m sure the Urban Prefect will rest much easier if he knows the whole thing has disappeared and is completely out of his hands.’
‘And I’m not someone to disturb such a great man’s rest, if you take my meaning?’
‘I do, Magnus; so when you’ve done whatever you plan with that Scorpion, destroy it and we’ll consider ourselves equal for the favour that you did me in keeping Philo out of trouble until the Emperor could decide his fate.’
‘Now tie that off with a good tight knot, Sextus, and then secure it with a nail that doesn’t go all the way through.’
‘A good tight knot and nail it, right you are, Magnus.’
As Sextus carried out his instructions Magnus looked with admiration at the Scorpion, now reassembled in the moonlight on the roof opposite the West Viminal’s headquarters.
‘She’s a beauty, ain’t she, Magnus?’ Marius said, stroking his hand along the groove in which the two-foot-long bolt would rest.
‘She is indeed, brother,’ Magnus readily agreed, examining the wound torsion springs, made of animal sinew, in which the bow arms were set. ‘There should be ample power in these for our purposes. Are you ready, Tigran?’
The easterner grinned and slipped off his tunic leaving only his trousers and a small sack hanging from his belt. ‘The less weight the better, I would say, Magnus.’
‘You’re the lightest we’ve got and you’ll be fine, brother; the pace with which this thing will thump into that wood over there will make it impossible to dislodge the bolt. I’ve seen these things pass through two barbarians in a row before getting stuck in a third. Very pleasing to the eye it was too.’ He tested the stability of the weapon standing on four splayed legs as if perched atop a pyramid. ‘Perfect. All right, Cassandros, wind her up.’
The Greek attached the engine’s claw to the bowstring and then wound a pair of winches at the rear of the weapon to ratchet it back tight against the counter tension of the torsion springs.
‘Sextus, the bolt,’ Magnus said as the weapon reached maximum draw.
‘Right you are, brother.’ Sextus picked up the two-foot wooden bolt, as thick as his thumb, with a vicious-looking iron head and three leather flights at the other end. Tied to it, with a good tight knot, was a hemp rope; a nail was driven into the bolt just behind the knot.
‘The sharp end goes at the front,’ Magnus said helpfully when Sextus appeared confused. ‘And make sure that the nail is upright.’
The bolt in place, Magnus looked along its length, sighting it up towards its target. He made a couple of adjustments to the weapon and then, when satisfied, hit the release mechanism.
With a crack that echoed off the surrounding buildings, the two bow arms, set in straining sinew, blurred forward and whacked into the restraining uprights, sending the bolt fizzing through the night, pulling the fast-uncoiling rope behind it. An instant later a resounding hollow thump announced its piercing of the wooden structure on the opposite roof, closely followed by the vibrating thrumming of the missile juddering, lodged firm in its target.
Magnus took hold of the rope and gave it a couple of test tugs before putting all his weight against it; it held. ‘Tie that off with a nice tight knot, Sextus.’
‘If you don’t mind, brother, I’ll do it myself,’ Tigran insisted. ‘Then I’ve only myself to blame if I end up splattered all over the street below.’
‘Fair enough,’ Magnus said as Tigran fastened the rope to a roof beam exposed by the removal of a couple of tiles.
When all was secure, Tigran dangled himself from the rope upside down with his legs curled around it. He shifted his weight; the rope bounced slightly but held. ‘No time like the present.’ He grinned and began to move his hands one over the other, hauling himself up the gradient. As he came to the edge of the roof he muttered a short prayer before pulling himself out over the void whence came the rumble of night-time traffic and the jollification of drunkenness.
Magnus held his breath as he watched the silhouetted figure ease along the rope, taking care not to make it swing and loosen the bolt. Little by little he progressed over the twenty-foot-wide drop until, with a suddenness that caused Magnus’ throat to constrict so that he almost chocked, Tigran let go of the rope and fell a few feet onto the other roof.
‘Done it,’ Magnus blurted in relief.
A few moments later the rope slackened off as Tigran detached it from the bolt. The tension came back to it as he fastened it to something more secure.
‘Good lad,’ Magnus muttered. ‘Now open the door.’ The cracking of wood being worked at with a crowbar confirmed that that was indeed what Tigran was doing, and very shortly Magnus could see the door to the West Viminal’s private gaol swing open and a couple of shadows stalk out. ‘Well, they can either stay or come over here, it makes no odds to me,’ Magnus informed the brothers watching with him.
Both the men, having by now been acquainted by Tigran of his objective, decided to risk the crossing rather than stay where they were. As the first man climbed onto the rope, Magnus saw orange glimmers come from inside the wooden structure; soon it was a constant glow. By the time the first man had made it over, flames flickered from the structure and, Magnus hoped, would be now catching on the roof beams beneath the tiles that Tigran had, hopefully, removed from the floor of the gaol with his crowbar.
The fire grew and Magnus rubbed his hands together. ‘Sempronius will never suspect that it was us who started it; he’ll think that the prisoners did it somehow – if he escapes being condemned to the arena, that is.’
The second man was halfway across when Tigran came racing out of the gaol and back to the rope, flames sheening his naked torso. ‘Hurry up, you bastard.’ The escaping prisoner quickened his movement; as soon as he dropped down onto Magnus’ roof Tigran clambered onto the rope and all but slid back down.
‘Eh? Look what we have here, Magnus,’ Marius said, grabbing the newly escaped prisoner by the wrist. ‘You little bastard, where’s my money?’
‘Ah! So that’s how they knew the way through our tavern,’ Magnus said, recognising the man’s face. ‘Did they hurt you, Postumus, or did you just offer free directions to be friendly, like?’
‘I’m sorry, Magnus, they caught me in one of their whorehouses; I was stupid to go in. They chucked me in their gaol and Sempronius threatened me with a red-hot poker, he did. I didn’t like it.’
‘You liked it well enough the other night.’
‘Not to be on the receiving end, though. Anyway, I didn’t think that telling them the layout of the tavern would do much harm; it was only directions they wanted.’
One flick of Magnus’ head was enough for Marius and Sextus to lift a screaming Postumus up. Marius looked briefly down into the street before nodding at his brother. With a diminishing howl Postumus hurtled streetwards to slap onto the stone as Tigran arrived safely back with the roof ablaze behind him.
‘What happened to him?’ the easterner asked as he handed the jar of the River-god’s fire to Magnus.
‘He’s been giving people directions that he shouldn’t; so we gave him directions for the quick way down to the street. The rest of you lads had better join him but I recommend using the stairs, even though it takes slightly longer.’ He took a rag and smeared the Scorpion all over with the remains of the jar’s contents. ‘Quick as you like, Cassandros.’