‘So he didn’t have it then, Magnus,’ Marius asked as they finally managed to catch up with their leader as they passed the Temple of Juno Lucina towards the base of the Esquiline and in the shadow of the Viminal.
‘No, he didn’t have it,’ Magnus growled, kicking at the corpse of a dog.
‘Then what will we do?’
‘We need to get onto the roof in order to break in through the ceiling. We can’t get the rope across without a Scorpion, and therefore if we don’t have a Scorpion until the night of the Ides we’ll just have to do the job then. So let’s not moan about it and find something to occupy ourselves with in the meantime.’
‘Right you are, Magnus.’ Marius grinned. ‘We could always stop at one of the brothels on the Via Patricius on our way back.’
‘No, I ain’t going to go into the West Viminal Brotherhood’s territory with this amount of cash on me; that would be asking for-’
A cry of agony cut him off.
Magnus spun round to see three figures hacking at the two brothers pushing the handcart whilst Sextus fought off another couple of assailants, smashing at them with ham fists; the fifth brother, who had been pulling the cart, was struggling to relieve the ever tightening grip of vice-like fingers around his throat. As one, Magnus and Marius pulled their knives from the sheaths on their belts and crashed back into the fray as more attackers materialised out of the night. Leading with his left shoulder, as if he bore a shield, Magnus cracked into the ribcage of the nearest shadowed threat, stamping his left foot down on the man’s own, fracturing many bones, as he thrust his knife forward, military-style, underarm and low, with a short, powerful jab. Blood slopped over his wrist as the breath rattled out of the assailant. Magnus twisted the knife left and then right, shredding groin muscles and drawing a satisfying howl from the core of his victim’s being, as next to him Marius punched his leather-bound stump into the mouth of his adversary, shattering teeth and pulping his upper lip as he slashed the point of his blade to his right, taking one of the men hacking at the brother pulling the cart in the back of the neck, severing the spinal column; down he went like a stringless puppet.
Magnus wrenched his weapon free of the tangle of ripped tissue, releasing the foul faecal stench of evisceration; he thrust his dying opponent aside and spun, one hundred and eighty degrees, his forearm raised, to block the downward stroke of a new entrant into the fight. The blow thwarted, he let his arm give a little, allowing the man to close with him, before jamming his knee up between his legs, rupturing a testicle, and doubling him over with a strangled intake of breath as three more shadowy figures emerged from the crowd – watching but making no attempt to intervene – and headed directly for the cart. Magnus felt the wind of a thrown knife hiss past his right cheek and instinctively ducked in the opposite direction as a blade from behind stabbed at the place his head had been an instant before; he turned to see a squat man staring cross-eyed at a knife juddering in the bridge of his nose. A sharp flick of Magnus’ right wrist opened the man’s throat as Marius crunched his forehead into the face of one of the new attackers, crashing him back with blood spurting from his nose; with one look at his mates he turned and ran. Sextus, with a bull-like roar, picked up his last surviving assailant and hurled him after the rest who were now, suddenly, all beating a hasty retreat.
Magnus looked around. No one else threatened them and the crowd had begun to disperse, none of them wishing to get involved in a matter that was plainly not of their concern. On the ground dead, amongst the bodies of six of their attackers, lay two of his brethren; a third knelt, coughing dryly as he massaged his bruised throat. ‘Are you all right, Postumus?’ Magnus asked, hauling the brother up as Marius restrained a bellowing Sextus from chasing after their attackers.
‘Just about, Magnus; and you?’ Postumus wheezed.
‘I think so.’ As he drew breath, Magnus suddenly turned and rushed to the cart; the rags had been brushed aside. ‘Juno’s puckered arse!’ he cursed as he stared at the empty bed of the cart. ‘The bastards got it; they must have known what we were carrying.’ Marius and Sextus joined him, both still panting hard; they looked forlornly at where their strongbox had been. A groan from the ground distracted Magnus; he glanced down to see the man with the shattered mouth trying to crawl away. Catching him by the collar, Magnus cracked his head down on the paving stone, knocking him unconscious.
‘Here, lads,’ Magnus snarled, holding the limp body up, ‘get him on the cart and cover him with rags. Let’s get to our tavern before the Vigiles turn up and try to prevent us from asking matey-boy here a few very tricky and painful questions, if you take my meaning?’
The questions were far less tricky than they were painful; in fact they were very simple and remarkably few.
‘I’ll ask you again,’ Magnus said in a convivial manner, smiling down at the prisoner and patting him in a kindly fashion on the cheek. The man wriggled in fear at the sight of a red-hot poker in Marius’ gloved hand as he hung naked, suspended by his ankles, from a ceiling beam in a room deep in the rear of the tavern building that served as the headquarters of the South Quirinal Brotherhood. ‘Who do you work for and how did you know what we were carrying?’
The man’s eyes widened as Marius grinned at him over Magnus’ shoulder, showing him the glowing iron and repeatedly raising his eyebrows in ill-concealed anticipation. His swollen mouth, however, remained sealed as he struggled against the rope binding his wrists behind his back.
‘Tch, tch.’ Magnus shook his head in exaggerated disappointment as if he were a grammaticus having received the wrong answer from his most promising pupil. ‘I’ll tell you what: I’ll ask you the questions for the third time, just in case you misheard before. Who do you work for and how did you know what we were carrying?’
The prisoner shook his head, screwing up his eyes.
Marius made a show of putting the poker back into the mobile brazier that, along with an oil lamp on a table next to it, lit the chamber. Sextus’ bulk lurked in the shadows by the door, under which flickered the dim light from the adjoining corridor; Postumus stood behind the prisoner to prevent him from rotating.
‘Perhaps he’s lost his voice,’ Magnus mused, scratching his chin. ‘Why don’t you check, Marius?’
‘Right you are, Magnus.’ He withdrew the poker, its tip now orange. Within an instant the stench of burnt flesh was accompanied by a piercing shriek that brought a happy smile to Magnus’ face.
‘His thigh doesn’t look too nice but I can’t hear anything wrong with his voice,’ Magnus observed, turning back to Sextus, ‘can you, Sextus?’
‘What’s that, Magnus?’
‘I said: can you hear anything wrong with his voice?’
‘Er … no, Magnus; it sounded fine to me.’
‘I thought so. What about you, Postumus, did you hear anything wrong?’
‘It sounded sweet to me, brother.’
‘In which case it’s time to stop being nice. Hold the gentleman’s buttocks apart for him, would you?’
Postumus grinned with genuine enjoyment at the prospect. ‘My pleasure, Magnus.’
Magnus squatted down and thrust his face close to the prisoner’s as Postumus pulled his legs apart. ‘Now listen, you piece of rat shit. I’m in a very bad mood and I don’t give a fuck how much or for how long I hurt you. Two of my brothers are dead and a lot of my money is missing so I’ll do whatever it takes to redress those facts. Answer my questions and Marius here won’t use your arse as a scabbard for his poker.’
Still the man shook his head, his eyes bulging at the sight of the glowing terror coming towards him.
‘That’s a silly decision.’ Magnus nodded at Marius. ‘Just in the crease and then, Postumus, squeeze.’
The red-hot tip was placed between the man’s buttocks as Postumus pushed them together. Smoke rose to the hiss of burning hair and skin and, after a moment’s delay, the prisoner issued a scream that made his last effort seem pathetic in comparison; on it went, rising in timbre and getting rougher as it grated, drying in his throat.