He was getting away. There was no chance they could circle back and catch him now. I gave a silent cheer. I still had no idea who he was, but at that point in the game, as far as I was concerned, any enemy of Vitellius’ Guards was a friend of mine.
Which is why I ducked down behind a crumbling wall as Pantera fled fast-footed past, and then dodged out and followed him. I took care not to be seen. I wanted to get close enough to him to ask him questions, to find out who he was and what he knew about Jocasta. I hadn’t thought of her in years; but now, having seen her, I could think of little else.
The broad street that leads down the Quirinal was too open for safety; Pantera could never stay there. Almost at once, I was led in a series of tight turns left and right and left, back into the stews where alleys were narrow and rarely straight and where the populace was less law-abiding than the senatorial worthies who live on the smart part of the hill. Here the streets were poorly lit; splashes of torchlight struggled against the night. The ground was uneven and dotted with unsavoury traps for the unwary. I could smell rancid horse, dog and pig dung laced with fresh human urine.
I stepped warily, hoping for solid ground under each foot, and tried to keep my eye on the man ahead. It was this straining into the night, the sifting of one shadow from others, that let me see the bandits just before they closed on him.
These weren’t Guards, quite the opposite: big fuckers with shaved heads who could have been gladiators, except they didn’t move with the grace of a gladiator but the short, sharp speed of the street thug.
There were seven or eight of them, maybe nine, and they knew whom they sought; someone, somehow, had been a step ahead of his shadow-dance down the street and made sure these men waited ahead of him. They hefted their cudgels and blades and came in slowly, all focused on Pantera.
They had no need to hurry: where could he go? They had him surrounded. In the half-light of a distant lamp, I saw him hug his arms to himself and was disappointed; after the display out on the street, I had expected more of this man.
Then a spinning knife shimmered in the muggy light and the nearest of the attackers was down before the others could react.
I’ve seen a lot of men throw a lot of knives, and this one was exceptional, but it wasn’t enough; the odds stood now at eight to one and that’s still bad numbers in anyone’s book.
I saw him stoop to pick something up from the ground, and in the time it took him to stand up again his enemies had closed in, swinging their cudgels.
I am not the kind to stand by while others have all the fun, and besides, it had been five months since I was last in a proper fight; my blood ached for action.
I had no weapon — a carter does not bear a blade, and I couldn’t risk being searched as I came into the city — but I had my belt, which was full of gold, heavy and solid as a brick. I had it undone and wrapped around my hand before the bandits reached their target, and then — Hades, but it was good to be fighting again! — I stepped in and swung hard at the biggest and ugliest of the attackers.
I felt his skull shatter under my fist like rotten winter ice. His knees buckled and he dropped like a rock. I sidestepped his falling body and swung again, less cleanly this time. I caught the next one on the side of his face; teeth flew free and I saw the shine die in the man’s eye as it split and leaked.
I pushed this one down, sending him into the path of a third, who had seen me by now, and was turning, swinging back his own arm, raising his cudgel high And had that cudgel removed at the top of its swing by the light-footed dancer who was my new friend.
He flashed me a grin, a man alive with the joy of battle. I saluted him, I think, certainly he returned it; we were like brothers in the field who have known each other half a lifetime, and then we were at it again, swinging our weapons, two against six, perhaps, and then five as Pantera used his newly acquired cudgel with devastating force, and then threw himself to the ground, rolling, to avoid the blows that rained down on his shoulders, his arms, seeking his head, not yet hitting it, and then not even really aiming because by then they had all realized they were fighting two, not one, and their attention was dangerously split.
I ducked a blow that would have swept my skull from my spine and, stepping in tight to the one I had chosen, slid my left hand up to his face, clawing for his eyes, driving him back to give my gold-heavy right hand a chance to jab short, hard punches at his groin, gut, face and neck until he doubled over and dropped.
My arm ached from the weight of the gold, and my hand was crushed inside my belt. I kicked the body at my feet and stamped on the side of the head as we did in the legions. I wasn’t wearing my nailed sandals, but I felt skull bones crack beneath my foot and spun away in time to hear a shout in guttural Greek and see the last three remaining bandits break off the engagement and back away.
‘No!’
I was beyond reason, in that place of red-veiled madness that takes me sometimes in battle, where to end a fight is almost as bad as to lose it. I was not going to stop now, not going to let them leave with the fight unfinished.
Jocasta was forgotten, Pantera an irrelevance; I was Trabo and I was back in Rome and if I needed an excuse it was that I had an oath to fulfil and a blood lust to satisfy and killing the agents of Vitellius was almost as good as killing the upstart himself.
Chapter 15
Rome, 3–4 August AD 69
Caenis
‘ My Lady. I am so sorry…’
I woke sharply into a night that was far warmer than my dream had been, and far less threatening. Matthias was standing over me, mortified that his courteous taps on my door had not been enough, that he had been forced to touch my person to wake me.
I sat up swiftly and pain knifed in my temples; it does that, often, if I rise too fast. I kneaded it away. ‘What news? Has Domitian returned?’
‘My lady, he has not. But the spy is here again.’
‘Pantera?’ The name made me shiver, I don’t know why.
‘Yes, lady. He is hurt, but not mortally. He would speak to you if you allow it.’
Of course I would allow it. He came from Vespasian; how could I not?
Matthias had brought me a new tunic to slip on over my night shift. I took my time, splashed water on my face, combed my hair, settled a loop of silver about my neck. My mirror was kind and did not show my age: the woman who looked back at me was a cool and subtle courtier, not in the least engaged by her late-night company.
Pantera was in the dark of my atrium again, losing himself in the rippling shadows that spun up from the pool. Out of courtesy he moved into the light when I appeared, and I could see that, yes, he had been hit on the head, and probably elsewhere beneath his clothing. Even so, he was sharper now, tighter, just as Vespasian used to be after a day’s training.
As I would have done with Vespasian, I crossed to look at him more closely and so saw the ugly wound on his brow. His swollen hands were blotched with bruises. He favoured his left leg as he stood.
I asked, ‘Are you hurt?’
‘Not enough to concern you, lady.’ He smiled, taking the edge off the lie. ‘I am, however, gravely concerned that Lucius knew I was here with sufficient certainty to send the Guards, and that he knew there was a chance I would escape, with sufficient certainty to set a small company of bandits on to me when I did so.’
‘You are sure it was Lucius?’
‘If he has not access to these, who has?’ He opened his palm. On it lay thirty or more silver denarii, each one newly minted. Vitellius’ head was emblazoned on each, a sight which, even now, sets my teeth on edge.
In the markets, the rumours said that Vespasian was minting his own coins in the east, and that they were of gold, not silver. I yearned for the day they were in circulation in Rome.