Lugo moved to intercept the oncoming tumult, as closely as he could judge. He went a trifle more quickly than the trouble seekers, not quickly enough to draw any special heed. The hood overshadowed the veil and blinkered sight of it; perhaps nobody noticed. Within himself he spoke ancient incantations against danger. Give fear no hold upon you, keep sinews loose and senses open, ready at every instant to flow with the rush of action. Calm, alert, supple; calm, alert, supple—
He came out on Hercules Place just as the hunted man did. A corroded bronze statue of die hero gave the small square its name. Several streets radiated thence. He who burst forth was stocky, his coarse features freckled, his thin hair and unkempt beard an unusual orange-red. The tunic that flapped around stout limbs was drenched and a-reek with sweat. Indeed this must be Rufus, Lugo saw, and “Rufus” must be a nickname.
The fugitive was built for strength, not speed. His pursuers swarmed close behind. They numbered about fifty, proletarians like him hi drab, oft-mended garments. Quite a few were women, locks gone Medusa wild around maenad faces. Most bore what weapons they could snatch, knife, hammer, stick, loose cobblestone. Through their baying tore words: “Sorcerer! ... Heathen! .... Satan—kill—“ A flung rock struck Rufus between the shoulders. He staggered and pounded on. His mouth stretched wide, his chest heaved, his eyes stared as if blinded.
Lugo’s gaze flickered. Sometimes he could not wait and see how things went, he must make an instant decision. He gauged the layout, distances, speeds, nature of the throng. Terror thrilled through the hatred they howled. The chance of rescue looked worth taking. If he failed, he might escape with injuries less than fatal; and those would soon heal.
“To me, Rufus!” he shouted. To the pack: “Halt! Hold off, you lawless dogs!”
The man in the lead snarled at him. Lugo brought hands near the middle of his staff. It was oak. He had drilled holes in the ends and filled them with lead. It whirred and smacked. The man screamed. He reeled aside. A broken rib, likely. Lugo’s weapon punched the next under the breastbone. Air whoofed from lungs. Lugo caught a third man across a kneecap. He shrieked his pain and flailed against two at his back. A woman swung a mop. Lugo fended it off and rapped her knuckles. Maybe he cracked a bone or two.
The crowd recoiled on itself, milled, moaned, gibbered. From behind his whirling, half invisible staff, Lugo grinned at them and at the rowdies who had appeared. “Go home,” he called. “Dare you take Caesar’s law in your own hands? Be off!”
Somebody threw a stone. It missed. Lugo laid a blow on the nearest scalp. He controlled its force. Matters were amply bad without producing corpses; those would provoke immediate official action. Nevertheless the wound bled spectacularly, sudden red brilliance over skin and pavement, a shock to behold.
Rufus’ gasps rattled. “Come along,” Lugo muttered. “Slow and steady. If we run, they’ll be after us again.” He backed off, still twirling the staff, still grinning his most wolfish. At the comer of vision, he saw Rufus sidle on his right. Good. The fellow had kept that much wit.
The hunters mumbled and gaped. The hurt among them ululated. Lugo entered the narrow street he had chosen. It bent around a tenement, and he had no more sight of Hercules. “Now we move,” he clipped, and turned around. “No, you fool.” He caught Rufus’ sleeve. “Don’t run. Walk.”
Such people as were present looked warily at them but didn’t interfere. Lugo ducked into the first alley he knew connected with a different street. When they were alone at the noisome middle of it, he said, “Stop.” He put his staff beneath an arm and reached for the fibula that held his cloak. “We’ll drape this over you.” He tucked the veil back inside the cowl before he covered his companion’s distinctive hair. “Very well. We are two peaceful men going about our business. Can you remember that?”
The artisan blinked from the hood. Sweat glistened in what light there was. “Who, who be you?” His voice quavered deep. “What you want?”
“I would like to save your life,” Lugo said coldly, “but I don’t propose to risk mine any further. Do as I say and we may yet make it to shelter.” When the other began in a dazed fashion to seem doubtful, Lugo added, “Go to the authorities if you wish. Go at once, before your dear neighbors pluck up courage and come in search. Tell the prefect you’re accused of sorcery. He’ll find out anyway. While you’re being interrogated under torture, you might think how you can prove your innocence. Sorcery is a capital offense, you know.”
“But you—”
“I am no more guilty of it than you are. I have a notion we can help each other. If you disagree, farewell. If not, come with me, and keep your mouth shut.”
Breath shuddered into the burly frame. Rufus drew the cloak close about him and shambled along.
His gait grew easier as they proceeded, for nothing untoward happened. They simply mingled with traffic. “You may think the world is ending,” Lugo remarked low, “but it was a purely local fuss. Nobody elsewhere has heard of it, or if anyone has, he doesn’t care. I’ve seen people go on with their everyday lives while the enemy was breaking down the gates.”
Rufus glanced at him, gulped, but preserved silence.
2
Lugo’s home was in the northwest quadrant, on the Street of the Sandalmakers, a quiet area. The house was unostentatious, rather old, stucco peeling off the concrete here and there. Lugo knocked. His majordomo opened the door; he kept only a few slaves, carefully chosen and winnowed over the years. “This man and I have confidential matters to discuss, Perseus,” he said. “He may be staying with us a while. I do not wish him disturbed in any way.”
The Cretan nodded and smiled his bland smile, “Understood, master,” he replied. “I will inform the rest.”
“We can trust them,” Lugo said aside to Rufus. “They know they have soft berths.” To Perseus: “As you can see— and smell—my friend has had a strenuous time. We’ll lodge him in the Low Room. Bring refreshments immediately; water as soon as you can heat a decent amount, with washcloth and towel; clean garb. Is the bed made up?”
“It always is, master.” The slave sounded a bit hurt. He considered. “As for raiment, yours will not fit. I’ll borrow from Durig. Shall I then purchase some?”
“Hold off on that,” Lugo decided. He might need all the cash he could scrape together in a hurry. Though not the debased small stuff. That was too bulky; one gold solidus equalled about fourteen thousand nummi. “Dung’s our handyman,” he explained to Rufus. “Otherwise we boast a gifted cook and a couple of maids. A modest household.” Homely details might soothe. He wanted Rufus fit to answer questions as soon as might be.
From the atrium they passed into a pleasant room, equally unpretentious, lighted by sunshine that leaded clerestory windows turned greenish. A mosaic at the center of the floor tiles depicted a panther surrounded by peacocks. Wooden panels set into the walls bore motifs more current, the Fish and Chi Rho among flowers, a large-eyed Good Shepherd. Since the reign of Constantine the Great it had been increasingly expedient to profess Christianity, which hereabouts had better be of the Catholic sort. Lugo remained a catechumen; baptism would have laid inconvenient obligations on him. Most believers put it off till late in life.
His wife had heard and come to meet him. “Welcome, dear,” she said happily. “You’re back fast.” Her gaze fell on Rufus and grew troubled.
“This man and I have urgent business,” Lugo told her. “It is highly confidential. Do you understand?”