Chapter XXXV

 

 

 

Alexander formed his plans in partnership with a Greek chronicler named Cocconas, a man of even worse character than himself. – Lucian, Alexander - The False Prophet

 

As the locals make the lazy transition from the heat and bustle of the day, Malorix strides purposefully through the twisted streets of Antioch’s artisan quarter. The foot of Mount Silpius is wrapped in the first shroud of evening. Its massive citadel glowers from the mountaintop as though anticipating his awful purpose.

Duris and Harnuphis follow closely. Beneath their cloaks, each is armed according to his preference. For Duris, a simple gladius honed tonsor sharp. Malorix has his his daggers sharpened and oiled to eight points of perfection. In his left hand he carries a clibanarii mace, a souvenir of his recent travels. Slung over their shoulders are circular shields Ferox liberated from a local gladiatorial school. Less than four hands in diameter, they are hard and mobile—perfect for indoor work. Harnuphis carries no shield, needing two hands to wield his quarterstaff. His sole concession to the immediate certainty of violence is to have donned a leather cuirass.

Malorix feels calmer now that he is beyond the precincts of the villa. His actions there surprised him. Where does this come from, this fury? Once it had been easy enough to merely accept orders, indifferent to their human consequences. That was the frontier. There had never been any need to question the reasons for his actions, it was sufficient to know that there were reasons, and that men like Claudius Maximus had decided they were worthwhile. Now Lucian has “reasons”.

This angry new voice calls to him, pounds at the base of his skull like the hammer and chisel that scant weeks ago had been the entirety of his world. It urges him to return to the villa, to the silk-appointed sanctimony of the chamber, and finish it. Not with a knife throw, not from a distance with the stealth and craftsmanship of the professional assassin, but up close. To hold the dagger, to feel it penetrate through Alexander’s sinew and gut, to smell the blood, to revel in his death agony.

This is what Malorix desires, that Alexander should know the kind of death that happened five thousand times on the field at Elegia. Soon. But not yet. For now, he will let Lucian have his reasons. Whatever the false prophet of Abonuteichos has on Lucian can wait. It will make no difference this night.

Malorix barely notices their transition from the quasi-respectable neighbourhoods of the artisans’ quarter to the adjoining slum. Where the street narrows and branches into three smaller alleys their way is barred by a stocky, hard-looking man in a heavy cloak. "Good evening, Frumentarii," he says with a leer. "Out for a stroll?"

"What is your business, Praetorian?" Malorix challenges.

"Relax. You’ll have no trouble with us tonight. I’m here to keep the peace. Apparently, there are ruffians in the neighbourhood." He steps insolently to one side and gestures toward the street with an open palm. They proceed past him down the central alley. The inn lies at the end of this backstreet where it opens on to a small circular plaza, centred on a covered well. The rooms are lit and as they approach the sounds of revelry and laughter grow louder.

A form steps from the shadows. "Greetings." Malorix can make out the familiar shape of a Phrygian cap. Without another word Timon disappears to take up position in the rear of the building. Usually a guard is posted on the weathered wooden gate to protect the clientele of the inn. Tonight he is nowhere to be seen. More importantly, all further evidence of a Praetorian presence had vanished. Cocconas is on his own.

Flanked by Duris and Harnuphis, Malorix pushes on the gate. Stepping silently onto a rough brick porch he swings open the heavy wooden door. As they enter Malorix registers a dozen or more people lounging around tables and chairs in a large open tavern. Several prostitutes take one glance at the new arrivals and scramble to abandon the laps where they have been plying their arts. Cocconas is reclined on a central couch drinking from a flask. Any surprise he might be experiencing is well concealed.

Malorix feels Duris move to his right, Harnuphis to the left. In silence men reached for knives, jugs, chairs. Anything to hand. "Cocconas," he says. The air is heavy with the expectation of violence, a sensation Malorix knows well. Elemental. In this moment, this place, he is his old self. Peaceful. Cold. The one who decides the fates of warriors. "Your Praetorian friends have gone home. Your master, it seems, no longer has need of you. And so, I am here. At last."

"Sarmatian, how unexpected. Still, always room for new blood."

Malorix lets his mace slowly slide to the floor. All eyes follow its progress until it lands with an audible thud. He loosens the draw string holding the cloak around his neck. As the garment falls away, he catches the first of them with a dagger throw. The man falls, clutching his throat. A second topples holding his chest, while a third screams as he tries to extract the blade from a bloody shoulder. The sudden volley holds the crowd suspended, unable to comprehend by what enchantment he has bridged the distance between them. The spell dissipates and they dive behind barrels and furniture or flee through doors and windows.

Harnuphis sends a club-wielding man to the floor with two sharp strokes of his staff. Duris takes on a pair of attackers with sword and shield, while Malorix throws for Cocconas. The dagger splits the wood of the chair in which he was sitting, but the Greek is fleeing up a set of stairs. He throws again catching a wooden beam. Grabbing the mace he swings his way through the mêlée and follows.

As he rounds the top of the stairway a chair shatters against the wall inches from his head. Cocconas escapes through a doorway onto the roof. Malorix swings the shield off his shoulder, and parries a spear thrust as he follows his prey through the door. Cocconas faces him, spear in hand. "Come along, Sarmatian. Let’s see what you’re made of." He lunges with his spear, forcing Malorix to parry, then thrusts a second time. Malorix swings his mace in an unsuccessful effort to break the shaft. They exchange attacks, alternating parry, feint, and thrust. This continues to little effect until Malorix steps back beyond the range of the spear.

"We are at an impasse, Greek. I cannot get past your spear and you cannot move in closer for I will cave in your skull."

Cocconas circles, coiled behind his spear like Glycon reborn. "What ever will we do?"

Malorix drops the mace and withdraws a dagger. The sounds of the battle below subside. "The Praetorians have abandoned you. Your priest has abandoned you. Drop the spear and I’ll kill you quickly."

"Compelling offer," Cocconas says, as he hurls his spear. Malorix deflects the missile with his shield. As he does so Cocconas sprints to the edge of the roof and hurtles into space, landing with an enormous clatter on the inclining rooftop of the adjacent insula. He slides from roof to balcony in a torrent of shattering tiles. Standing at last amid the debris he blows a kiss to Malorix and turns for the door. Malorix has the dagger to his ear, when he sees Cocconas stiffen, his spine arched, his arms clawing at the air. He reaches vainly for the point behind his neck where the arrow has entered, then to the exit wound just below his breastbone. Malorix turns in time to catch the fleeting image of a Praetorian archer merge into the masonry of a nearby building. Turning back, he watches Cocconas plunge from the balcony into the alley below.