The three Arcani walked into the tavern in the early evening and stopped just inside the doorway. Atius had scouted the place out already, as the one looking most like a customer, and they knew exactly how many clients, employees and guards were present, and where they were situated in the room. It took them a brief moment to confirm there were no major changes, and another moment to allow their eyes to fully adjust from the evening twilight to the more profound gloom of the tavern’s interior.
Silus thought there were about twenty customers. Half were drunk, and the remainder were either gambling or chatting to the bar staff, who doubled as prostitutes of both sexes. On top of this, there were six bulky men whom Atius had spied out as being Sidetes’ muscle. Silus recognised the three men from his apartment the night before, including the big one who had first assaulted him. He bit the inside of his cheek to control his emotions. His buttocks clenched involuntarily with his anger, and he winced at the pain, making him even angrier.
And there, sitting before the bar, was Sidetes. At his feet in the dirty straw knelt a slave boy, with a metal collar and a large tag. Sidetes was ignoring the miserable wretch and arguing with the barman about the day’s takings which were spread on the bar before them.
Little notice was taken of them at first. A couple of nearby men had leered at Daya. One drunk customer had cursed them for being in the way when he wanted to go into the street to relieve himself and they had let him pass. Then one of the men who had been in Silus’ apartment noticed him. He squinted before elbowing his neighbour in the ribs and pointing. The neighbour looked across at them, then opened his eyes wide in surprise. He pushed his way through the customers and other guards towards Sidetes.
Others began to take notice of the commotion. Sidetes’ guards muttered, moved their hands towards nearby clubs and axes. They were uncertain, finding it hard to see how the two men and the little girl could be a threat, but bemused by their confident air. The customers and staff in the tavern quietened down as they realised something was up, and made calculations whether it paid to stay and be entertained, or to flee to avoid the possibility of being hurt in whatever was about to happen next.
The tavern was now quiet enough that only Sidetes’ voice could be heard.
‘Listen to me, you foul leper’s vomit. I am telling you that there should be more in the cash box than that, and if you don’t produce it for me immediately, I am going to have your testicles—’
‘Boss,’ said the thug. ‘Look who’s here.’
Sidetes turned with anger across his face.
‘What is it?’
The thug pointed to the three Arcani.
Sidetes stood slowly, in wonder. Then he broke out into a low, mocking laugh.
‘Isis and Serapis, what a surprise. Silus. It seems I wasn’t clear enough.’ He walked towards the Arcani, his hands spread. ‘Last night wasn’t the start of a negotiation. And we aren’t going to be friends or colleagues. You are not to drink here, you are not to come and find me, you are not to talk to me. You are to follow your instructions to the letter, or you will die. Horribly.’ His face twisted into a snarl as he spoke, pronouncing each word individually and precisely. ‘Do. You. Understand?’
Silus took a stride forward, the knife concealed in his tunic sleeve dropping into his grip, and in one smooth motion buried it to the hilt in Sidetes’ eye socket before withdrawing it neatly.
The Egyptian didn’t even have time to flinch. His body stiffened, and he toppled slowly backwards, falling on the floor with a crash that was deafening in the silence.
The customers, the staff, the guards, all stood frozen in shock at the sudden and shockingly violent death of the man who had ruled over them all with terror for as long as they could remember.
But the Arcani did not freeze. Atius and Daya were moving the moment Silus struck. Six guards, and within a few heartbeats, two were down. The first had taken a blade through the ribs to the heart from Daya, and the second had his skull broken by Atius’ club.
The remaining four scrambled for their weapons. Daya and Atius moved forward as Silus confronted the nearest thug. This one held a club with nails through the end, and without hesitation he swung for Silus’ head. The weapons were mismatched, the club having superior reach, blocking power and ability to inflict damage than the knife. But one was in the hands of an Arcanus, the other in the hands of an unskilled thug from the slums. The thug feinted forwards twice, jabbing the jagged tip of his club towards Silus’ face. Then he pulled the club back and swung it round in a wide arc aimed somewhere between Silus’ shoulder and head.
If it hit, it would be fatal.
But Silus was not standing still. He bent his knees, ducked beneath the arc of the blow, then exploded upwards with both hands around the hilt of his knife, thrusting it up through his attacker’s liver and into his chest. He turned to see Atius backing one of the other thugs into a corner with careful swings of his own club, while Daya was on the back of another, her garotte around his neck. Silus watched for a moment as the large man tried to shake the small woman from him, to check that she didn’t need assistance. She didn’t, of course. Silus felt a glow of pride as he watched Daya finish her victim off. Pride, and something else? For fuck’s sake, Silus, get hold of yourself. You are in the middle of a fight!
As if to confirm his self-admonishment, he was hit in the midriff with a shoulder tackle that sent him flying backwards. He landed on his back with the thug who had nearly strangled him in his apartment on top of him. Silus lost his knife in the fall, and the big thug’s club was useless at such close quarters. Silus fended off blows to each side of his head as the thug knelt astride his abdomen and punched him with fists like hammers. Silus tried to strike back, aiming for throat, eyes, groin, but he was in the wrong position to make the contact tell. He bucked and thrashed, trying to dislodge him, but the thug was too heavy and was mad with rage. Broad fingers closed around Silus’ neck and he started to choke as they tightened. He gripped the wrist and tried to prise them away, squeezing his eyes shut in an attempt to fight off approaching unconsciousness.
Suddenly he felt warm liquid sprayed into his face, into his eyes and open mouth. At the same time the grip around his neck loosened. He opened his eyes, squinted through a red blur in time to see the thug topple sideways, crimson still pumping from the rent in his neck. Daya stood behind him with a reddened blade and a self-satisfied smile.
She put out a hand and helped Silus to his feet. He felt dizzy as he stood, and instinctively reached out his hand. She put her arms around him to steady him, and for a brief moment they shared a hug. Her firm, slight body against him did nothing to dispel his dizziness, but he pulled away despite this.
He wiped his eyes with the back of his tunic sleeve, and looked around him. All of Sidetes’ men were as dead as their leader, who still lay on his back with blood and goo oozing from his ruptured eye. The rest of the occupants of the tavern were like statues, frozen in shock at the suddenness and completeness of the fight.
Silus cleared his throat and spoke to them.
‘I’m not from round here. I don’t know how things are done in Rome. But this is how we do things where I come from. I just wanted peace and quiet. This idiot,’ he pointed to Sidetes, ‘decided to disturb me. Hopefully the word will get out now. Leave me alone.’
He picked up his knife, and walked gingerly out of the tavern, Daya and Atius following. Once he was out of sight and earshot of the tavern, he groaned, leant against a wall and clutched his backside.
‘Fuck, my arse.’
‘Seriously, Silus,’ said Atius. ‘I don’t think you should let anyone fuck your arse for a while.’
Silus thought that was enough excitement for the night, but Atius’ blood was up, and he begged Silus to come for a drink or two. Daya sneered at the boyish behaviour and declared she was returning to her quarters and going to bed. Silus thanked her for her help and watched her go for a little too long, unwelcome thoughts flashing through his mind, until his reverie was broken by Atius slapping him on the backside, causing him to yelp in pain as his buttocks clenched.
‘You’re a cock, Atius.’
‘Maybe, but I think you owe me at least a cup of wine for tonight’s work.’
They chose a different tavern from the one in which they had fought, and selected a table in a corner. Like many taverns, this one served the multiple purposes of drinking establishment, gambling den and brothel.
Within moments of arriving, Atius had availed himself of the first two functions, and was making plans to utilise the third. He pulled out some knucklebones, and called for challengers. A couple of young men, beards sparse, no chest hair protruding from their tunics, joined them, and Atius took out his purse with a smile.
The game of tali could be played in two ways. One was by throwing the bones into the air and trying to catch as many as possible on the back of your hand, a game of skill. Gamblers preferred the other version, a game of chance, where your score was decided by which side up the bones landed. Because of their uneven shape, some sides were more likely than others, and it was not possible to land on the two curved ends. The four other sides were numbered I, III, IV or VI. The best throw was the Venus throw, where all four bones landed on different sides, and the worst was the Dog throw, where all the bones showed a I.
Atius reckoned himself an expert in the game, though Silus was convinced it was entirely chance. Nevertheless, Silus’ friend was soon doing well, significantly up on his starting stake, and the two young men grumbled and made insinuations about cheating, although they weren’t brave enough to outright accuse him.
But this being gambling and chance, and Fortuna being a fickle goddess, the game changed and swung against Atius. Silus had been gambling moderately, just enough to keep his friend company without taking any particular risks, and his purse was no heavier nor lighter than when he started. Atius, however, had watched his winnings grow, then shrink, until he was left with only a small pile of copper coins.
‘Let’s make it interesting,’ said Atius, a few drinks inside him enough to slur his speech and alter his judgement. ‘Everything on a Venus Throw. Everyone all in.’
‘Don’t be stupid, Atius,’ said Silus. ‘That will wipe you out.’
‘Only if I lose.’
‘I’m out,’ said Silus, taking his coins off the table.
‘I’m in,’ said one of the young men, throwing his whole stake into the middle of the table. The other hesitated, then also added his coins to the pile.
Atius picked up the knucklebones and shook them in his cupped hands. He spat on them, shook them again. Then he said out loud, ‘O Christos, bringer of light and life, look down on this your faithful servant, and guide these bones, that my good fortune can glorify your name.’
He gave Silus a confident wink, and threw the bones across the table.
He looked at the result.
‘Shit.’
Two Is, a III and a IV. The young men smiled and took the winnings, splitting it between them.
‘Thanks for the game,’ said one. ‘Any time you want a rematch, let us know.’ They stood and walked off, laughing and clapping each other on the back.
Atius looked disconsolate. ‘I can’t even afford a whore now,’ he said.
Silus tried to be sympathetic, but he was actually tired down to his bones, and was desperately wishing for his bed. ‘Let’s hit the road, friend. There will be other nights.’
A thin man with a long grey beard and a bald head who had been watching the game leant in to them. ‘I know how you can make your money back.’
‘Thank you, but—’ began Silus.
‘How?’ asked Atius.
‘You look like a strong man. Can you fight?’
Atius smiled. ‘I have been in the occasional brawl.’
‘I know a boxer looking for challengers. There is a fat reward for besting him.’
‘Take me to him.’
Silus’ attempts at dissuasion fell on deaf ears, and so he dutifully tagged along with his friend as they followed the stranger down some winding streets to a scruffy-looking tavern. Their guide left them to talk to a plump, well-dressed man sitting in a corner with two burly-looking slaves attending him. They spoke in whispers, and cast sidelong glances towards Atius, who straightened his back and tried to look intimidating.
The plump man came over to them and shook Atius’ hand. ‘I’m Nicator. I’m something of a lanista, but my gladiators aren’t slaves, and they don’t fight with swords.’
‘I’m Atius. This is my friend Silus.’
Nicator ignored Silus and looked Atius up and down.
‘Can you fight?’
‘I can.’
Nicator considered, then seemed to come to a decision. ‘Very well. I have a boxer who has yet to be beaten. There is a purse of five hundred sestertii for the first man who bests him.’
‘It’s as good as mine.’
Nicator smiled. ‘Give me an hour. We need to get the word out to give everyone the chance to place their bets. Meet me at the crossroads by the fountain of Mercury.’ Silus and Atius looked uncertain, so Nicator gave them directions. It was a couple of streets away. He then strutted off, still wearing a broad smile.
Atius continued to drink for most of that hour, subsidised by a reluctant Silus, who tried unsuccessfully to talk him out of the fight, or at least to moderate his intake of wine. Soon, though, the hour had passed, and Silus led Atius to the crossroads. A decent crowd had gathered, and bets were changing hands, privately and through a couple of bookmakers. The odds on Atius were good, enough to tempt Silus to place a bet himself. His friend was drunk, but he knew he was a good fighter, and he was tall and well-built.
The crowd had formed a large circle, and Nicator led Atius out into the centre.
‘Please welcome our challenger, Atius the Celt,’ he announced in a loud voice, holding Atius’ hand aloft. Silus smirked. He might start calling him Atius the Celt himself. The crowd cheered, clapped and whooped, and Atius bowed and played to the audience.
‘And now, let’s hear it for Segimerus the German.’
The crowd parted, and all heads turned to catch a first glimpse of Segimerus.
Silus’ heart sank. The man was a giant. At least six and a half feet tall, chest as wide as a bull’s, legs like tree trunks, the veins winding round his muscular arms like ropes.
Atius stared open-mouthed. He looked around to Silus, who shrugged helplessly. He wondered if his friend might try to back out, but he knew better. Atius had too much pride, even if it might see him badly beaten.
‘Let me remind you all of the rules. No weapons of any sort, edged or blunt. Stay within the circle. The loser is the one who submits, loses consciousness or dies.’
‘Atius the Celt, ready?’
Atius nodded nervously.
‘Segimerus the German, ready?’
Segimerus punched his chest with a fist like a blacksmith’s hammer and just roared.
‘Fight!’
Segimerus swaggered into the centre of the ring, hands wide. Atius cautiously moved forward, staying out of reach, circling around his opponent as he sized him up. Silus could see no obvious weaknesses. Against a man of that bulk, a smaller man would usually have superior speed, but every time Atius feinted a punch, Segimerus swayed, shuffled or ducked with respectable fleetness of foot. Atius still held the edge in quickness, but it was not a telling superiority.
Atius continued to stay at arm’s length, while Segimerus tried to close the gap between them. Twice, he managed to dart in and land a jab to his opponent’s face, and skip away from the retaliatory swings, but the German didn’t seem to notice the punches. The crowd became impatient, and began to whistle and boo. One picked up some dirt from the street and threw it at Atius, and it hit him in the back, leaving a brown mark.
Despite the number of bets on Atius, who had the best odds, the crowd started to turn against him, cheering on Segimerus.
‘Come on, you coward. Get in there.’
‘Smash him, Segimerus. Pound him into the ground.’
Maybe inspired by the support, Segimerus lunged at Atius, managing to grab his wrist. Atius thumped his fist down on Segimerus’ forearm, but before he managed to break the grip, Segimerus swung a roundhouse punch towards the side of Atius’ head. He ducked, but the blow glanced off the top of his skull with a resounding thud, and Atius staggered back, shaking his head.
Segimerus followed up immediately, and Atius desperately dodged and weaved as a rain of punches flew in, each one powerful enough to knock him out cold if they connected. Some he avoided, some he blocked on his forearms, though Silus could see even that was painful. Some got through, the force attenuated by a block or a dodge, but still enough to make Atius grunt.
Atius managed to sneak through some punches of his own, to body and to head, but they had little impact. Then Segimerus managed to grab him in a clinch, his arm around his shoulders, his other hand punching the back of Atius’ head. Fortunately, the close proximity meant that Segimerus couldn’t get the angle to make the blows full power, but they were clearly still getting through to Atius.
In desperation, Atius sank his teeth into Segimerus’ shoulder, drawing blood. The giant German howled and let go, turning to look at the bite marks deep in his flesh.
‘You will pay for that, Celt,’ he growled.
‘Give it up, Atius,’ Silus shouted. ‘It’s hopeless.’
Atius gave him a sour look, and Silus felt guilty for his lack of encouragement, but he had now become genuinely worried for his friend’s safety. There was a very real chance here of a major injury or death. He wondered if he would have to step in, and whether he would even be able to with the crowd here determined to see the fight to its finish.
Then Silus saw there was a small cut above Segimerus’ eye, and it was trickling a little blood. One of Atius’ blows must have done a bit more damage than he first realised.
‘Atius,’ he yelled. ‘The eye. Work on the cut!’
Atius looked closer, then waved an acknowledgement to Silus. Segimerus tried to close on Atius again, but Atius used his slight edge in speed to dance in and out. Now, every jab that Atius threw was aimed at Segimerus’ bleeding brow, and soon the cut had extended across his forehead, and blood was streaming down into his eyes. Segimerus used the back of his hand to wipe it away angrily, but the blood continued to pour, worsening, as Atius continued to jab.
Soon the German was blinking, struggling to see at all. His punches went wild as he struggled to find Atius through the red blur across his vision. Atius stepped back, assessing his opponent’s injury. Segimerus roared and flailed, wiping ineffectually at his face.
Atius took two steps forward, and using all his momentum, all his quite respectable bulk and strength, bending his knees and using the power in his legs to explode upwards, he landed an uppercut on Segimerus’ chin.
The giant’s jaw clanked shut and his head rocked backwards. Beneath the blood, Silus saw the German’s eyes roll up into his head. He took one step backwards, another, then toppled over to crash onto his back and lie still.
There was a brief shocked silence, then the crowd erupted into cheers and roars of approval. Nicator came out into the middle of the ring, took Atius’ wrist and lifted his arm high.
‘Atius the Celt is the victor! Segimerus is defeated for the first time.’ He presented Atius with the purse of money, and seemed to be genuinely happy that the prize had finally been won.
The bookmakers were pleased – the favourite losing was always profitable as the most likely winner attracted the most bets, even though the odds on Atius had been temptingly long. The winning gamblers were delighted, and even the majority of the losers accepted their losses with good grace after witnessing a fight that would be talked about for weeks.
Segimerus had a bucket of water thrown over his face, and he sat up spluttering, looking around him in confusion. Silus decided it was time to make their exit. He stepped into the ring, put his arm around Atius. ‘Come on, friend, let’s get you home. Clean you up.’
‘What a fight,’ gushed Nicator. ‘Such persistence. And what a punch. There is a place for you here among my fighters any time.’
‘We’ll be in touch,’ said Silus, and guided Atius away.
When they were clear of the crowd and on their own, Silus turned to Atius and put his hands on his shoulders so he could look him directly in the face.
‘Atius, you are an idiot. You are reckless, a gambler, a drunk. But by Mithras and all the gods of Olympus that was magnificent.’
He grabbed Atius’ hand and gripped it hard as he shook it vigorously.
Atius let out a scream.
‘What is it?’ asked Silus in sudden concern.
Atius cradled his arm against his chest.
‘That last punch,’ he said. ‘I broke my hand.’
‘Kill him,’ said Caracalla. He was pacing up and down his private study, while Oclatinius stood at attention, letting the Emperor rage. ‘Cut off his balls and feed them to the dogs. Slice him into quarters. I know, flay him alive and paint the skin Blue before his eyes as he dies.’
‘Can I be clear about who we are discussing here?’
Caracalla whirled on him. ‘Haven’t you been listening to a word I said? I told you what happened in the Circus, how Euprepes praised Geta and excluded me.’
‘So it is Euprepes you want dead?’
‘Of course, who else?’
‘Well, it did cross my mind that maybe it was your brother…’
Caracalla’s eyes narrowed.
‘Careful, Oclatinius. I trust you with my life, but there are lines that shouldn’t be crossed.’
Oclatinius bowed his head, though Caracalla saw little repentance in his expression. His old spymaster was no fool: he saw what was coming, even as Caracalla tried to lie to himself that it would not come to that.
Caracalla stopped raging, let the fire down, and let the ice take over. He took a few deep breaths and released them slowly.
‘Was it premeditated, do you think?’ he asked.
Oclatinius considered. ‘None of my spies in the factions had any warning this was coming. Which means it was kept a closely guarded secret among only a few, or it was spontaneous. If you want my opinion, from what you have told me, your brother did not seem particularly surprised. I think this was all carefully planned. The victory could obviously not be guaranteed, but if the Greens hadn’t won that race, they would have won another soon, and then they would have proceeded as they did today.’
‘I want an example made of him, Oclatinius. I want people to know that if you support Geta, no matter how famous or loved you are, you risk your life.’
‘Yes, Augustus. I’ll get my best team straight on it.’
‘You are without doubt my worst team!’ yelled Oclatinius. Silus, Atius and Daya stood before him with heads bowed, taking the admonishment stoically.
‘What did I say to you? Rent an apartment in an insula. Buy a house slave. Explore the city. Keep your head down.’
‘To be fair, boss, he did the first three,’ said Atius.
‘Shut the fuck up, Atius. This is not the time to be messing with me. Things are starting to come to a head. You are going to need to be sharp, alert, at the very top of your game. Instead, what do I find out? You had some trouble with some pathetic lowlife, so instead of shrugging it off, doing as he asked, and acting like a cowering, submissive, ordinary person, you went in heavy-handed, and made sure everyone in the Subura knows that there is a new tough guy in town. So much for anonymity.’
‘Sir, he wanted me to fuck a cripple every night.’
‘If you need to arse-fuck a leper twice a day because the job demands it,’ yelled Oclatinius, ‘that is what you will do! Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, boss,’ said all three together.
‘And then this idiot breaks his hand in a bare-knuckle boxing contest. Knocking out the infamous Segimerus at the same time, guaranteeing you will be remembered while simultaneously making you useless to me for at least a month.’
Oclatinius took a deep breath and stroked his chin. ‘It may not be a complete disaster. Your missions aren’t in the Subura anyway, and there is not a lot of overlap in the social circles of the Subura poor and the important people your missions will involve. That said, your next job doesn’t involve someone of the noble class.’
Daya looked up, eyes suddenly bright. ‘You have a job for us, sir?’
‘Yes. You are to kill Euprepes.’
Oclatinius left a dramatic pause, awaiting their reaction.
The three Arcani looked at each other and shrugged.
‘Right,’ said Silus. ‘Anything else?’
‘Do any of you know who Euprepes actually is?’ asked Oclatinius.
All three shook their heads.
‘Fuck me, two foreigners and a girl. What should I expect? Euprepes is the most famous charioteer in the city. More famous than any gladiator. More famous to the common man than any senator or noble except the Emperors themselves.’
The three Arcani looked unimpressed and Oclatinius sighed and sank into his seat.
‘I shouldn’t have to explain this to you, but time is short. I know you have chariot races in the provinces, but it’s different in Rome. And I know you, Daya, won’t have had much chance to ever attend a race, nor probably the desire – it tends to be a man’s interest.
‘The races are huge. Almost every man in the city will have a favourite team, and the conversations in taverns and the street corners are far more likely to involve a discussion of the latest race than the latest fight in the arena.
‘Charioteers have an unusual place in society. They are mostly lowborn, slaves or freedmen, and are often looked down upon by the elite. On the other hand, the successful ones can be fabulously wealthy. The richest ever, Diocles, supposedly made more than thirty-five million sesterces. That’s more than most senators.
‘And because charioteers take such massive risks every time they get on the track, they are considered lucky, at least the ones that survive. Men want to be them, women want to fuck them. People make lucky charms with their names on. Once, a fan even threw himself onto the funeral pyre of his favourite charioteer and burnt with him. Am I starting to get through to you how beloved and important charioteers are?’
The Arcani nodded.
‘Well, Euprepes is the best known in the city. He is an old man now, but he won an enormous number of races, he is rich, and he is idolised by the common folk and not a few of the senators too.’
‘So how has he upset the Emperor?’ asked Silus.
‘You don’t need to know why,’ snapped Oclatinius. Then he shook his head. ‘Poor Euprepes. I remember watching him. No one could touch him in his day. Handsome and talented. Even I admired him. And now he has got himself involved in politics.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Just go and kill him, and make it obvious and public. But beware the fans.’
‘And what about… incidental damage?’ asked Atius.
Oclatinius sighed. ‘Just try to keep the body count down.’
Lucius Fabius Cilo had a perpetually worried expression, Titurius thought. Even when Severus was in power, and Cilo was one of his closest friends, position entirely secure, he seemed constantly on edge. Now, sitting on a bench in Titurius’ peristylium, the elderly senator looked close to breaking down.
‘Were you there, Titurius? Did you see his face?’ Cilo had never quite lost the Spanish accent he had acquired from his place of birth.
‘I’ve told you already. No, I wasn’t there, I’m not a fan of the horses. But I hear he wasn’t pleased.’
Cilo worried at a piece of loose skin at the edge of a fingernail, peeling it back and leaving a tiny stripe of raw flesh beneath. He didn’t seem to notice what he was doing, staring blankly at the far wall where roses climbed a trellis. Titurius saw similar red marks along his other fingers. His nails were bitten short and there were scratch marks on the backs of his hands.
‘What is going to happen, Titurius? Will it be another civil war, but this time between two brothers? When has Rome ever seen the like of that before?’
‘Rome was founded by warring brothers, and that worked out well in the end.’
‘Don’t be flippant, Titurius. This is serious. This could be the incident that pushes Antoninus over the edge and turns him into a murderous tyrant.’
‘You think he has it in him?’ asked Titurius more sombrely.
‘Severus certainly did.’
‘If it is a trait in his nature passed down from his father, then why are you more afraid of Antoninus than Geta?’
‘Because Antoninus is more capable,’ said Cilo, and Titurius nodded agreement.
‘But this? A trivial incident in the Circus. A disrespectful charioteer?’ Titurius couldn’t keep the sneer out of his voice. He didn’t understand the men of senatorial rank who demeaned themselves attending the races, although given the love Caracalla and Geta had for the sport, he would be very careful who he said that to.
‘You have never understood the allure of the Circus Maximus, Titurius, and I won’t try to explain it to you again. Either it’s in your blood or it isn’t. Suffice to say that for men of all ranks of society, the races are of the utmost importance. When a big race is looming, or one has just been run, they talk of nothing else. They gamble huge sums on the outcome, they hang around the Circus, they harry the camps of the racing factions of their opposing teams. You know a man is far more likely to change his wife than ever to change allegiance to his team.’
‘I know all this, Cilo, even if I don’t feel it. But why are you here?’
‘I used to be a brave man, you know, Titurius. I have been a legate, a military prefect, a proconsul, urban prefect and a consul. I fought for Severus against Pescennius Niger. I saw combat. I killed Roman soldiers.’
‘You have had a career that I for one am envious of, senator.’
‘Surely we should become braver as we age. And yet when we are young, we are anxious to risk all the life we have ahead of us, while when we are old, we cling to what we have left like frightened mice waiting for the terrier to dig us out.’
‘Cilo, what do you want from me?’
‘I’m going to talk to Antoninus. Plead for harmony and co-operation with his brother.’
Titurius kept his face impassive, but inside his heart sank. He couldn’t see how that would end other than badly.
‘Why would you do such a thing, Cilo?’
‘Because it is my duty to the Senate and people of Rome. If Antoninus and Geta could come to an arrangement, could reign together in peace, then we could avoid the bloodshed that is to come. And maybe they could even augment Rome’s power and glory better together than either on their own. Antoninus with his military prowess and strength of personality, and Geta with his more intellectual approach, and his willingness to listen to advice.’
‘You know what a dangerous path this is, don’t you? You risk alienating them both, and making it seem like you support neither.’
‘It’s the right thing to do, Titurius.’
‘I know.’ Titurius ran his hand through his hair, reflexively tidying a rogue quiff that tended to stand up at times of stress if he neglected it. ‘Still, you haven’t said what you want from me.’
‘I want you to host a dinner for Antoninus and Domna, and invite Papinianus and myself. Papinianus thinks as I do, though he has a loyalty to Antoninus that restrains his tongue.’
‘Why me?’
‘You have not come out strongly in favour of either Emperor, though that may be just because you haven’t been put in that position yet. But I’m sure Antoninus will be pleased to come and attempt to win you to his side. And I know you and trust you. Most other senators would use an evening with one of the Emperors solely for their own advancement. You aren’t like that. You can seat me to Antoninus’ left, while you are seated to the right of Domna, and give me the chance to try to talk some sense into him.’
Titurius touched his fingertips to his bearded chin.
‘I don’t like it, Cilo. I have a wife and a son and daughter. I don’t want to do anything to put them in danger.’
‘There will be no danger to you, Titurius. I’m not asking you to say or do anything that would be a risk to you or your family. I just want to be in close proximity to Antoninus, in a relaxed social setting, away from his more poisonous influences.’
‘Such as?’
‘You need me to list them? You really should pay more attention, Titurius. Sextus Varius Marcellus has long been an Antoninus loyalist, but Quintus Marcius Dioga, Julius Avitus and Julius Asper are all close to him. Marcellus is now urban prefect, and there are rumours that Dioga will be put in charge of the treasury. Their interests all lie with Antoninus as sole ruler. I need to speak to him without them present to contradict me.’
Titurius considered for a while, and Cilo sat in silence for his answer, biting at an already short fingernail while he waited.
‘Very well.’
Cilo let out a breath Titurius hadn’t realised he had been holding. But he couldn’t tell if Cilo wore an expression of relief or despair. Maybe he had been hoping Titurius would decline, and then Cilo could feel his conscience was clear, that he had tried. Now, the course was committed.
‘Antoninus might refuse my invitation, you know. I’m sure he has a hundred offers of social events to consider.’
‘You have influence, Titurius, though you may not fully appreciate it. You have the respect of the senators. Antoninus will very much want to persuade you to his cause. I believe he will accept.’
‘We will see. Cilo, you don’t have to do this. Say now, and this is all forgotten.’
Cilo looked close to tears. ‘Titurius, I must.’
Titurius nodded. ‘I’ll send the invitation today.’
Cilo rose, shook Titurius’ hand, and left, walking slowly, head bowed and shoulders rounded. Titurius watched him go with sympathy, and then turned his attention to organising a banquet fit for an Emperor.
They hadn’t had long to scout out their target’s position, work out his habits and movements, and assess his strengths and weaknesses. Silus reflected how everything in Rome seemed hasty and rushed, not just his missions. Food was served in stalls and on street corners hot and ready to eat, and was consumed in moments before the customer got on with their day. Everyone was in a hurry to get somewhere, to see their patron for a handout, to get to the market early for the freshest produce and the best meals, or to deliver an urgent message that would get the messenger beaten if they were tardy.
In Britannia, he had sometimes spent weeks observing a target before getting back to his superiors with the intelligence they wanted. And when he returned home, it would commonly take hours for Velua to prepare him a meal – to fetch the wood for the fire, boil the water, and let the tough meat and vegetables stew until they were edible. Yes, some things were urgent, but generally there just seemed a lot less to fit into your day back home.
They had had less than a day to prepare for this mission. Oclatinius wanted the job done while the insult to Caracalla was fresh in people’s minds, so there could be no doubt of the reason for his death. Daya, Silus and Atius had also had a brief meeting to discuss their approach. Daya and Atius had their own strong and completely opposing views. Daya had advocated a subtle and stealthy approach, involving kidnapping Euprepes, torturing him and then crucifying him at night and leaving him to be found by a shocked city the next morning. Atius wanted to find him and go in fast and hard, swords swinging, until the charioteer was dead, along with any who got in their way.
Fortunately, it was Silus who was in charge, and he got their reluctant agreement to follow his own plan. They had spent the morning making discreet enquiries about Euprepes – where he lived, where he ate, what he did with his day. It was less satisfactory and less secretive than observing those things directly with their own eyes, but time was not on their side, and it yielded enough information. While not a man of regular habits, Euprepes would usually visit the stables of the Green faction at least once a day to talk to the owners of the teams, the grooms and farriers, and the charioteers themselves, who were always delighted to receive words of wisdom from the champion, to accept his words of admonishment if he was disappointed in their performance, or bask in the glow of his praise if he was pleased with them.
Silus had ordered Atius to dress like a beggar – it wasn’t hard, he just selected his unwashed outfit from his last night out on the town, which was sufficiently stained with food, wine and vomit to easily pass for the clothing of one of Rome’s army of derelicts – and had him beg outside the Greens’ stables. At least it was a mission for which his broken hand didn’t hinder him. Daya and Silus played dice at a table on the street outside a nearby tavern. Graffiti on the walls and carved into the table displayed slogans such as, ‘Curse Pollox the Red, and let him fall on the first lap,’ or simply ‘The Blues are shit.’ Someone had gone so far as to paint a lengthy curse on the outer wall that read, ‘O demons, I call upon you to torture and kill the horses of the Whites and Blues, and crush the drivers Felix, Alexander and Hermes so there is not a single breath left in their body.’ Silus wondered what sort of welcome a Blues supporter would receive in here on race day.
The sun was well past its zenith when Atius shuffled over to them, enjoying his acting role. He approached their table, cupped hand out.
‘Copper coin for an old veteran, kind sir,’ he said. ‘I’ve got nothing since the army tossed me out for screwing the centurion’s mother.’
‘Sit down,’ said Silus. ‘Join us for a drink, brave soldier.’
When Atius sat at their table, Silus hissed at him, ‘For Mithras’ sake, Atius, what are you doing? You fancy a career on the stage or something? We are supposed to be avoiding attention.’
Atius gestured around him. Their exchange had gone completely unnoticed by the people on the streets and at the nearby tables, all occupied with their own conversations or activities.
‘Fine. Speak.’
‘Euprepes has just entered the stables with his entourage.’
‘How many?’
‘About twenty.’
‘Twenty? Why so many?’
Atius shrugged. ‘A couple of bodyguards, big Germanic types. A few slaves. The rest seemed to be fans.’
‘And we know what we will face inside the stables,’ said Daya. ‘Charioteers, blacksmiths, grooms. Not to mention the guards. From what I have heard, the factions are constantly trying to get into each other’s stables to see what advantage they can get, whether it is injuring their best horse or poisoning their best charioteer. If we go in there, we will be spotted and questioned immediately, and then we will be facing a very angry, very tough mob, armed with whips and hammers.’
‘Then we have to catch him when he leaves,’ said Silus.
‘If we aren’t doing it inside the stables, we should do it directly outside, for maximum impact,’ said Daya. ‘This isn’t supposed to be a discreet doing away with. We are to send a message.’
‘The timing will have to be just right, then,’ said Atius. ‘We will have to catch him the moment he comes out, execute him, then escape. And we will need to make sure we aren’t recognised. The whole city will be looking for the murderer of Euprepes, half to kill us and half to congratulate us.’
Silus thought back to his time sitting in the cold, wet forests of Caledonia, scouting for the legions. He would never have dreamt back then that within a year he would have swapped those frigid environs for the hot streets of Rome, stalking not a Maeatae barbarian but a Roman sportsman. He marvelled at the position he found himself in, a board marker in a grand game of ludus latrunculorum between the two great players in the Empire, the brothers Augusti. And with no idea if he was on the right side. But that was the situation the Fates had handed him.
‘Fine, this is how we will do it,’ he said, and outlined his plan.
‘I should cut you up and feed you to the dogs, you stupid bitch,’ he yelled, grabbing her by the hair and throwing her to the ground. It had rained the previous night, and all the sun had done was warm the wet dirt and shit that coated the road rather than drying it out, so the ordure splashed her as she fell.
She landed on hands and knees, looking up at him with a pitiful expression which almost melted the heart of the watching Silus and made him intervene before he remembered they were both just acting. Atius jabbed a finger in her direction, and yelled curses at her again.
‘This is the last time you disobey me,’ he yelled, and gave her a backhanded swipe across the face with his good hand. Daya did a good job of rocking with the blow, just enough to take the force out of it, but not so much it didn’t sound convincing.
Silus lurked in the shadows a dozen yards away. As soon as Euprepes had emerged from the stables and started to make his way back towards the main street, Silus had nipped ahead and given Atius the nod. Atius had started his performance with the enthusiasm of a Greek actor.
A few passers-by and people sitting on the floor or at nearby tables turned to watch in idle curiosity. Watching a master beat his slave was hardly a rarity, but it was uncommon enough to warrant a little attention if one was bored enough.
‘Maybe I’ll sell you to the quarries,’ Atius said angrily. ‘Then I’ll get a little cash for you, and you will still be dead inside six months.’
‘Please, master, no, I beg you,’ said Daya piteously.
‘I gave you every chance. I’ve had enough. Maybe I should just give you away to one of these good people.’
That attracted some notice. It wasn’t every day that someone gave a slave away for free.
‘You,’ said Atius, pointing at an old man with a mouth full of sausage sitting at a tavern table. ‘Will you take her from me?’ Before the man could hastily swallow and reply, Atius singled out a man too young to have more than the barest growth of beard lounging against a wall. ‘How about you? You could take her as a bed slave, if you like girls that look like boys.’ Silus was sure Atius would pay for that later. ‘Come on, who wants her? All I ask is someone who is prepared to knock her about enough to keep her in her place.’
‘I’ll take her,’ said a podgy man in a tight-fitting tunic.
‘No, give her to me,’ said a broad-shouldered man with a russet beard.
‘I spoke up first,’ said the podgy man.
‘You’ll get my fist down your throat if you speak up again,’ said the red beard.
‘Let me take the poor wretch,’ said a middle-aged woman of middling wealth judging by her fine but not too fine dress and jewellery. ‘I’ll turn her into a decent house slave, with no need for beatings.’
A crowd was slowly drawn in, forming a circle around Atius and Daya, with jostling, shouting and even some bids to buy Daya on the cheap. Daya remained on all fours, face spattered with shit, looking down at the ground, while Atius whipped up the crowd.
The timing was perfect. The crowd fully blocked the street by the time Euprepes and his entourage arrived and attempted to pass.
‘Clear the way!’ yelled one of Euprepes’ bodyguards. ‘Make way for Euprepes the charioteer!’
But even the legendary hero could not tear the crowd away from the possibility of a free handout. Some started to push each other and one woman fell to the ground with a scream; a young man received a shove in the back as he bent to help her up, and retaliated by spinning and planting a brisk uppercut on the jaw of the man who had pushed him.
In moments the brawl spread, punches and kicks thrown, hair pulled, limbs bitten. From a short distance beyond the crowd that was now a mob, behind Euprepes’ entourage, Silus saw Euprepes’ bodyguards wade in with clubs, breaking limbs and skulls to clear a path, helped by the slaves and fans who accompanied him.
The charioteer looked impatient, shouting at his bodyguards to hurry up and make a path for him. He was dressed in a belted tunic made of fine wool, dyed green, and wore gold necklaces and bracelets, showing all his wealth and success. From his belt dangled his leather whip, a souvenir from his time in the Circus. He was still well-muscled, as any successful charioteer was. It took strength as well as skill and agility to win races, or even just to survive them. But Euprepes was an old man now, and the skin was wrinkled, the muscles flabbier than they once had been, and his gut bulged over his belt.
Suddenly Euprepes was alone. All the fans and slaves had waded into the crowd, and were themselves fully engaged in the fighting, shouting, kicking and punching, crying out that they should be showing respect to the great Euprepes.
Silus drew his knife from under his tunic and stepped out of the shadows. His tunic was hooded, as had become more fashionable since Caracalla had started wearing a Gallic cloak in this style, and his face was mostly hidden by drawing the hood up and forwards. Euprepes was concentrating on the small riot in front of him, his fist balled, looking like he was itching to wade into the action himself.
Silus didn’t hesitate. His blade in his right hand, he grabbed Euprepes’ chin from behind with his left hand, twisting it up left to expose the throat. His knife came round, edge honed to razor sharpness, ready to slice deep into the soft tissues, the vessels and pipes.
But you didn’t win more than seven hundred victories in the Circus Maximus without having the reflexes of a cat and the strength of a bull. Before Silus could slash, Euprepes dipped his chin down, twisted his head right, and dipped his right shoulder. Atrophied by age though he was, he was still immensely powerful, and Silus found his left hand dragged by the old charioteer’s neck muscles, round and over his shoulder, and as Euprepes bowed forward, he grabbed Silus’ left wrist and yanked. Silus sliced deep into Euprepes’ cheek, a wound that would scar but not kill, and then found himself flying over Euprepes’ back to crash onto the muddy ground.
Euprepes stood above him, hand clamped to the wound on his face, and roared in anger. As yet there was too much din from the disturbance Atius had stirred up for Euprepes’ entourage to have noticed his danger, but at that instant, it was Silus, stunned, squinting up into a terrifying expression of fury, who felt the most imperilled.
Euprepes clasped his fists together, reached high above his head, and brought them down hard towards Silus’ chest. Silus recovered his wits enough to begin a roll to his right, but it was only enough to redirect the blow to his upper left arm, which immediately became numb. He continued his roll, and staggered to his feet, still clutching his blade in his right hand, left arm hanging loose, he hoped only temporarily paralysed.
Instinctively he moved into a blade fighter’s stance, feet a foot apart, right side forward, blade out and low to easily stab upwards into the less protected vital parts. Euprepes adopted a wrestler’s stance, face on, feet wide, knees bent, arms out and ready to grip his opponent and hurl him about like a little girl’s rag doll. Silus wondered whether poison on the blade would have helped his position now, but he had never been a fan. It was too slow and unreliable, and it was too easy to cut yourself with your own weapon.
‘Who sent you?’ hissed Euprepes. ‘The Blues? Surely not the Reds?’
Silus let out a chuckle, belying the level of confidence he really felt. ‘There are some people in Rome even more important than the racing factions, you know.’
Euprepes narrowed his eyes. ‘Caracalla? He was really so insulted?’
Silus gave a small nod of acknowledgement. He flexed the fingers in his left hand and felt the feeling slowly return.
‘When Geta’s men approached me to dedicate the next victory to him, I had no idea it could lead to this.’
‘My boss is a fan of yours. He is going to regret your death. Me, I’d never heard of you.’
‘I’m not dead yet,’ said Euprepes, and rushed at Silus.
Maybe if Euprepes had been thirty years younger, maybe if he had been fighting a normal street thug with a knife who was trying to take his purse, the outcome would have been different.
But Silus was an Arcanus, raised by a spy, trained as a scout, honed by Oclatinius to be one of the elite, and Euprepes, for all his natural power and skill, was an old man. Once Silus had recovered from the mistake of underestimating his opponent, the contest was one-sided.
Silus sidestepped Euprepes’ charge, leaving a straight leg trailing which sent Euprepes flying forward, face down into the dirt. Instantly, Silus was on his opponent’s back, knees either side of his broad chest. He grabbed the charioteer’s hair with his left hand, and pulled his head backwards. Although still weakened from the blow to his arm, he was strong enough to expose Euprepes’ neck.
The old man seemed to realise the fight was lost. He drew a deep breath, and bellowed out, ‘Greens for ever!’
One of the fans at the back of the crowd finally heard, and turned. ‘Euprepes!’ he screamed in anguish as Silus sliced deep into the famous man’s neck. Blood jetted forward, the liquid splashing into the dirt and swirling in red eddies in the puddles.
‘He’s killed Euprepes!’ yelled the fan, a balding man with wall eyes, a broad chest and a paunch. Silus’ hood had slipped back in the tussle, and he hastily pulled it forward to protect his identity, just as all heads swivelled towards him. For a moment, the crowd stared in disbelief at the tableau, Euprepes face down in the dirt with a lake of blood spreading around him, Silus on his back with a dripping knife in his hand. Then cries of outrage broke out, and they surged towards him.
Silus leapt up, spun on his heels and ran.
He had a ten-yard head start on the foremost of his pursuers, and he was quick, but he had just been in a fight and had been injured. What was worse was that he was in unfamiliar territory. He sprinted, pistoning his arms and legs, taking deep lungfuls of air. He didn’t turn round. He could hear the furious yells of the chasing crowd.
‘Stop him! Murderer! He killed Euprepes!’
The streets were narrow in this part of Rome, the Transtiberim on the far side of the Tiber. Packed with immigrant populations such as Jews and Syrians, as well as warehouses and docks, it had a very different feel to that of the Subura in the centre of the city, but like the Subura, had the houses of the wealthy nestling up against insulae-filled slums.
Silus ran, mud and shit splashing as his boots landed, not sure where he was headed, just desperate to stay ahead of the baying mob. He had no doubt that if he faltered, if he fell, if one of them caught him, they would rip him to pieces, like hounds on a fox, and no agility or fighting skill would save him. Speed now was his only defence.
He rounded a corner and collided with a woman carrying a basket of clothing back from the fullers, beautiful stolae and pristine togae, no doubt for the household of someone important. The basket tipped, and the clean clothes fell into the dirt, soaking up the ordure. The woman screamed curses at him, likely in for a beating for this, but her curses trailed off into surprise, then redoubled in pitch and volume as the mob appeared, trampling the clean laundry into the shit.
Silus hurdled a pig snuffling in a pile of rubbish, trod on the tail of a cat that let out a spine-chilling screech, kicked a chicken that was too slow to get out of his path, and shoved a little toddler so the child landed face down in the muck and immediately started wailing.
He risked a look back. He was extending his lead on his pursuers, none of whom were too anxious to get ahead of their fellows, but he was conscious that one wrong turn down a dead end could finish the chase very quickly and very finally. Also, the numbers of those pursuing had grown as the crime was shouted to onlookers, who joined the lynch mob to assuage their righteous fury. He took another corner, a left, breathing heavily now, sprinting past curious traders, sailors, labourers and dock workers, then another right.
And there was a mob at the end of the street in front of him. Someone must have had the sense to split the crowd, and with their better local knowledge, had outflanked him. He came to a halt, but the sounds of pursuit immediately grew louder.
The mob before him saw him instantly, and with a collective howl, rushed at him, many holding makeshift weapons such as hammers, legs of stools, and butcher’s knives. The street was flanked on either side by tight rows of shops and dwellings with no gaps between them. He chose the nearest one, a bakery, and ran in through the open frontage.
In the front of the shop, laid out on a long table with depressions for containers to hold the freshly baked bread, were the wares for sale – the oval panis quadratus with its two perpendicular grooves for easy division; the round lentaculum; panis nauticulum for sailors; artolaganus, a luxury bread made with honey and spices; and even panis furfureus, a tough bread reserved for feeding to dogs.
Silus hurdled the counter, his trailing leg sending ceramic dishes and baked goods crashing to the floor, and rushed into the back room. Here the baker looked up from where he had been bent over his charcoal-heated oven, an angry curse on his lips. When he saw the knife in Silus’ hand, he backed away to the far wall, eyes wide with fear.
‘Take what you want. I don’t have much.’
‘How do I get out of here? Quick!’
‘There is only the front way in. Or that way to the upper floors and roof.’
The baker gestured to a side door and Silus ran for it, wrenching it open and dashing through.
‘But the stairs—’ said the baker, and the rest of his sentence was lost as Silus ran, taking the steps three at a time. The boards looked dry and rotten, and his pounding on them was making them groan and crack ominously. But below him he heard the sounds of the mob entering the bakery, demanding to know where Silus had gone, starting for the door.
Silus passed the apartment above the shop on the first floor, then the second. The board on one step split and he stumbled to the next as his foot went through. He steadied himself against the apartment wall for the briefest of moments, then heard shouts as someone lower down caught sight of him, and he forced himself onwards, heart pounding with the effort of the climb straight after the headlong flight.
He rounded a turn on the staircase that brought him close to the roof, and this time the poorly maintained woodwork, rotted in the sun and rain, let him down. The step split in two, and he plummeted straight through, stopping his fall by grabbing on to the next step. The staircase ripped from the wall and swung wildly around. He looked down and saw the mob leader, one of Euprepes’ bodyguards, just a single floor below. In moments he would be on him, and Silus would be done.
The staircase swung back inwards, bringing him in reach of the next step, which was still attached to the intact staircase that led to the roof. He grabbed it with both hands and pushed the broken stair away from him with his feet. He hoped it would break, but it just wobbled around a few feet away from where he dangled, a fatal drop below him.
The bodyguard reached the top of the lower staircase, looking down uncertainly as it shook beneath him. He gestured to the other pursuers to stay back in case they brought the whole structure down with their weight. Then he looked at Silus’ predicament and smiled.
‘I don’t know who you are, or why you killed our greatest living sportsman. But now you die. There is no way out from here.’
Silus tried to pull himself further up, but he was exhausted, and his left arm was still weakened by the blow from Euprepes. He dangled helplessly, hearing the roars of the mob below him cursing him and appealing to the gods that he fall. He looked down, and the world started to spin. His grip on the stair weakened.
A hand grasped his wrist. Then another hand grasped his other wrist. He looked up into the face of Daya, staring down at him, teeth gritted with effort as she pulled.
‘Help me, you stupid bastard,’ she hissed. ‘Climb.’
He reached out with his feet to gain a purchase on the wall, and with Daya tugging on him like a dog playing tug with a bone, he stretched a hand up. He got a grip on the next step up, then the next, and then he got a knee on the lowest step and used it to lever himself up.
The bodyguard let out a roar of frustration at the possibility of Silus escaping. He took one step back, then leapt across the gap in the broken stairway.
He clutched the lowest step, elbows and chest on the stair, and began to struggle his way up. The stairway groaned its protest at this new level of abuse, and there was a cracking sound. Silus started to climb, hauled upwards by Daya. The bodyguard hooked an ankle onto the stair and pulled himself higher. Daya nimbly leapt off the stairway onto the roof, still holding Silus’ wrist, dragging him with her. Silus got a hand on the edge of the roof overhang just as the bodyguard grasped his ankle.
And then the stairway fell away.
Screams echoed up as the heavy wooden structure fell from a great height on the mob who had waited below.
The bodyguard yelled in anger and fear, hanging onto Silus’ ankle with both hands. Silus in turn gripped the edge of the roof, trusting desperately in Daya’s grip and the workmanship of whichever roofer had placed the beam that overhung the wall.
But for all Daya’s skill and agility, she did not have the strength to support the weight of two men, and Silus’ arms were rapidly fatiguing. He kicked at the hands on his ankle, but he could not get the right angle to impart enough force to loosen the grip. So he kicked down, and his heel connected with the bodyguard’s face.
He felt the tightness on his ankle relax a little, and he kicked down again. One hand came loose, and Silus could see the bodyguard swinging around in mid-air, arm flailing. He kicked down one more time.
The bodyguard let go, and his scream as he fell three floors was blood-chilling until cut off abruptly by impact.
Silus breathed heavily for a moment, then with Daya’s help, struggled up onto the roof, where he lay on his back, gasping for air.
‘How…?’ was all he could get out.
‘You run fast,’ said Daya with a chuckle. ‘But so do I. I was with the mob, of course, shouting for your head. Then, when I saw they had you trapped, I took another stairway to the roof to help you up here. Or, if necessary, come down there and fight with you.’
‘You would do that for me?’ asked Silus.
‘Of course,’ said Daya, looking puzzled. ‘We are Arcani.’
From street level, the screams of the injured, the howls of those grieving over the newly dead, and the cries of anger of those who still wanted vengeance and justice reached them.
‘Come on,’ said Daya, holding her hand out. ‘It’s time for us to disappear.’
Silus took it and let her haul him to his feet. Together, they jogged along the rooftops until they judged they had put enough distance between themselves and the mob to descend to the streets once more.
Silus tossed his hood back and Daya and he blended into the crowds heading across the Tiber and back into the centre of the city.