He glared at Publius challenging him to reply but Publius wisely kept quiet.
“Bring a knife,” Numerius growled.
He strode towards the door. Once outside he set such a pace that Publius, who had gone back into the house to fetch the weapon, had to run to catch him up. The two of them did not speak again as they descended the Janiculum hill towards the Tiber. It was early in the morning and there was a fresh cool breeze blowing in from the sea. Pompeia would be alright Numerius knew. She would not be easily rattled. He’d sent a slave to the house of the Vestals to demand that she come to his home whilst the crisis lasted. But his daughter did not always choose to obey him and he wasn’t sure she would come. Of course it would be far safer for her at his home but he did not have the legal right to force a Vestal to do what he pleased.
“Unfaithful to her vows!” he cried suddenly. What a load of nonsense. His daughter would never do anything to compromise her sacred promise. He was certain of that.
***
They caught up with Fabius just as the old man was preparing to set off for the Senate House. One of the agenda points in the morning’s meeting of the Senate was to decide on whether to approve the back room agreement that had been struck with Metellus. Fabius was standing in his atrium, already fully dressed in an expensive looking white toga. He lowered the letter he’d been reading and scowled at Numerius and Publius as they were shown in.
“Now I don’t want to hear anything more about this Vestal business!” he cried. “We have discussed it Numerius. It must be done in order for us to maintain our unity and the common cause.”
“My daughter is a Vestal!” Numerius cried out, “You would think differently if your daughter was involved.”
“I will not listen to this anymore. There is nothing more that I can do.”
Fabius handed the letter to a slave and marched past them towards the door. Numerius followed Fabius out onto the street with Publius discreetly a few steps behind.
“There is no proof these vestals have broken their vows,” Numerius said catching up with Fabius in the street. “It is pure superstition. The rashness of the Consuls, their poor judgement and skill are to blame for our defeat. Not six girls who haven’t harmed a soul. The consuls and the consuls alone should take the blame for what has happened.”
Fabius stopped and there was anger in his eyes.
“Do not smear the highest office in the Republic with such accusations! Have you no respect for our institutions.”
“Tell me that I am wrong,” Numerius grasped the old man’s arm.
Fabius stared at the hand that gripped his arm. Then he looked up at Numerius with a mixture of anger and compassion and then finally he sighed and laid a hand on Numerius’ shoulder.
“There are six vestals,” he said, “One will be sacrificed, we will take the eldest, your daughter will be spared.”
Fabius started to walk down the street but Numerius kept level with him.
“But you can’t guarantee that,” Numerius snapped, “The high priest is in charge of the vestals. It will be his right to decide who is to die. You must not vote for this Fabius, I beg you.”
The two men kept up the heated argument as they strode down the street followed by Publius a few steps behind. They were oblivious to the big hooded man who watched them from across the street.
***
The traffic on the Appian Way was relatively light. A patrol of armed men in single file crunched along beside them on the opposite pavement. In the street a couple of carts loaded high with lumber creaked and rumbled on their wooden wheels. The farmer leading them cracked his whip at the oxen and shouted at them. In the opposite direction, coming from the cross roads where the Appian ran into the Sacred Way, a litter carried by four slaves, one at each corner, was approaching. The curtains around the litter prevented anyone from seeing who was inside.
The two arguing men ahead of Publius were approaching the cross roads when Numerius suddenly staggered and vomited.
“What’s the matter?” Fabius blurted out taking a step back in surprise. Numerius was bent double as he vomited again. Then Publius was at his side holding his former master around the shoulder.
“He’s ill,” Publius replied, “Don’t you know.”
Fabius seemed taken aback by the direct and challenging tone in the young freedman’s voice but he said nothing.
“I am alright Publius,” Numerius muttered raising himself up. The young freedman let go of his shoulder and moved to stand between Numerius and Fabius, turning his back on the senator. There was a hint of aggression in Publius’ movement which surprised both men. He’s angry about the way Pompeia is being treated Numerius thought with sudden insight. From the corner of his eye a small movement caught his attention. Then with a dull zipping thwack something buried itself into Publius’ chest. The freedman’s eyes bulged and he gasped and staggered under the impact. Blood trickled from his mouth. He stared at Numerius in confusion and then his eyes rolled crazily in their sockets and he collapsed to the ground like a rag doll. Someone screamed. Numerius was conscious of movement all around him. Two of the slaves carrying the litter dropped it sending their companions lurching sideways into the road and the screaming occupant rolling out onto the street.
Reacting on instinct he threw himself at Fabius bringing the old man down and knocking the wind out of him. It was not a second too late. There was another zip and an iron tipped bolt smashed into the ground just where they had been standing a moment ago. The impact sent sparks flying into the air. More men were shouting. Numerius didn’t think. Half standing, half crawling he barged Fabius into the relative shelter of a doorway which was just a couple of yards away. On the other side of the road the patrol stood staring at him, frozen in their tracks alongside a wall.
“Keep down!” he screamed as Fabius tried to get to his feet. In the street he heard someone cry out his name. He turned. It was Publius. The young freedman lay stretched out on the ground, blood soaking through his tunic and tricking down the sides of his mouth. He had raised an arm and was trying to crawl towards Numerius but he couldn’t move.
Numerius’ earlier weakness had vanished. Adrenaline pumped into his veins. He wrenched his eyes away from Publius and stared wildly up the street trying to see who was shooting at them. Beyond the cross roads people had flung themselves onto the ground or were running away. One of oxen pulling the lumber cart stood stupidly, unmoving in the middle of the cross roads. The farmer had disappeared.
Numerius eyes wildly searched the houses and shops up ahead. There was nothing. He could see nothing suspicious. Then a sudden movement in a window of a building site caught his eye. He blinked and stared. A face from a window was staring straight back at him.
“He’s in that building! Get him. Get him!” he screamed pointing towards the building site beyond the intersection. The soldiers across the road stared at him dumbly.
“Do as he says you fool’s!” Fabius cried.
The old man’s words seemed to wake the men up. Led by their officer they stormed forwards, raising their shields as they swarmed up the road. A voice was calling out to Numerius again. It was Publius. The young freedman stared at him, just a few yards away, his hand still raised, graspingly towards him. Then the light in the young man’s eyes faded and his head and arm fell to the ground and he was still.
“Gods,” Fabius groaned, “Why would they want to kill him?”
Numerius stared at Publius’ body, his face distraught.
“It was not him they are after,” he hissed, “It was you.”
***
Adonibaal stared at the scene in utter shock. He had missed the target, twice! Move, he had to move, get away his brain told him but he was rooted to the spot. He had not anticipated the sudden move by the slave who had put his body in the way of the target. The man could not possibly have known what was about to happen. It was a fluke. The Gods had intervened he thought struggling with growing panic. Up till then everything had gon
e according to plan. He’d assembled the Scorpion during the night, placed it in position. Then he’d hurried off to watch Fabius’ house. The shock of seeing Numerius so close by had momentarily thrown him off balance. He had not been expecting him and he had definitely not expected to see him in Fabius’ company. His brother had looked frail and older than he’d imagined. Well it made sense, he thought bitterly, for him to side with Fabius. The sight of Numerius and Fabius together had just inflamed his hatred for his brother and for a moment he had seriously considered shooting Numerius but that was not his job today and he was a professional. The target was all that mattered. Focus on the job. Focus on the kill.
And now it had all gone horribly wrong.
He heard his brother shouting. Incredibly the man had spotted him. He had to get away. He wrenched himself onto his feet and dived for the stairs. In the street a group of soldiers were storming towards him. He reached the first floor just as the first soldiers closed in on the main doorway. No escape that way. He darted out the back and into the courtyard. The wall that surrounded it was too high to climb. Panic was swiftly taking control of him. Desperately he searched for a way out. There was none. He slid Centurion from its scabbard and turned to face the doorway from which the soldiers would appear at any moment. Better a noble death than to be taken alive. Then he noticed the well. The sound of hob nails on paving stones and the excited cries of men were very close now. Without thinking he jumped into the well. All went dark. His elbows scraped and jarred along the damp walls and his arms flailed wildly. Then suddenly he was wedged fast. The well had narrowed until his body had jammed. A shower of small stones and dust clattered onto his head. His shoulders rested against the stone walls and his feet were submerged in water. He fought to control his panic and looked upwards to the hole of light. How far had he come? He tried to calculate the distance, maybe ten yards or so, it was difficult to say. Was it enough? Then he heard voices above him. A head suddenly poked over the edge of the well and stared downwards, straight at him. Adonibaal froze, held his breath and boldly stared right back at the man.
“Have you got him?” he heard a voice cry out.
“No,” someone closer by answered, “What about the top floor?”
The head disappeared.
“He’s gone,” another voice cried out, “Must have got over the wall. Get some men to check the houses on the other side, quickly now.”
***
It was night. Using his hands, knees and feet Adonibaal clambered up the stone walls of the well. He was lucky, damn lucky! The well was old and must have existed well before the building site had been erected. Many of the stones that formed the wall’s, were not smooth but disjointed and uneven which allowed him to gain a grip for his hands and ledges for his feet. He poked his head carefully over the rim and paused to listen but could hear nothing. He raised himself on his forearms and rolled out onto the ground breathing in the cool air. In the night sky the moon was the only source of light. For a moment he lay there catching his breath. Then he got to his feet and slipped silently into the abandoned building site. Would they have left a guard? He was tempted to go and see if the Scorpion was still in its place but decided against it. Of course they would have taken it. He struggled with a depressing thought. He had failed! Now the Romans would be alerted to his presence and intentions. What a fucking nightmare! Still he’d escaped and if they thought he was going to give up and run, then they were in for a surprise. He always got his man! The most urgent priority now was to hide and plan another attack. Suddenly he felt exhausted. How long had it been since he’d last eaten?
Slipping out of the building site he glanced at the cross roads where his botched assassination attempt had taken place. In the faint moonlight he saw that all traces of what had happened, that morning, had been cleaned up. He turned away and set off back to the Subura. The streets were completely deserted for no sane man went out at night in Rome. Without any form of lighting, the alleys and streets looked sinister. He crept along through the darkened alleys pausing now and then as he heard whispers, rattling and felt the movement of things in the darkness, but no one approached him.
He halted at a corner of an alley and leaned against a wall watching the building where he was staying. Nothing moved, nothing looked out of the ordinary and yet... Would they have begun to search all the hostels? It was a possibility. He’d left nothing behind in the room but he’d have to return. It would look suspicious if he’d paid for a week only to vanish after two nights. That kind of suspicion might get reported to the authorities.
He approached the apartment block and gently rang the door bell. A few moments later he heard a shuffling sound behind the door and then a gruff voice that sounded like it had just been woken up.
“Who’s there?”
“Room eight,” Adonibaal replied glancing over his shoulder down the darkened alley. Something was moving back there.
He’d half expected to have to argue with the janitor but to his surprise the man unlocked the door without a word. Adonibaal stepped inside. The janitor glanced at him casually and then hastened to lock the door, sliding the inner panel into a groove in the ground and then fastening both ends of the cross bolt into hollows, sunk in the doorposts.
“Can’t be too careful, what with all these thieves,” the man muttered, returning to the chair in his tiny cabin inside the entry hall. Adonibaal nodded and headed for the stairs. Oil lamps hanging from hooks on the wall cast a flickering shadowy light across the hall. He was half way up when it suddenly struck him how oddly casual the janitor had been. The guest rules he’d seen printed on a pamphlet in his room had clearly stated that guests were to return to their rooms before nightfall. And yet the man had just allowed him back in without a word of complaint. He frowned as he reached his landing. The janitor had not said a word. Suddenly he grew alarmed. Something was not right. But it was too late. As he moved towards the door of his room, a man stepped out of the shadows, blocking his way and folding his arms across his chest. It was hard to see his face in the shadows.
From the corner of his eye Adonibaal sensed more movement behind him and to each side. Shapes appeared from the shadows. Centurion slid noiselessly from its scabbard and the steel glinted into the glow from the oil lamps. The big man who blocked his way chuckled.
“No need for that eh,” he said opening his palms wide to show that he was unarmed. “There is no need for both of us to die.” The man took a step closer and Adonibaal saw that he was bald. A hard but intelligent looking face appeared from the shadows. “You killed my man,” the stranger said, “Now why did you have to do that?”
“What are you talking about?” Adonibaal said. There were three of them behind him. Not have a go heroes but trained men by the way they had spaced themselves out. He could send one of them down the stairs but the other two were going to be tricky.
“A man called Janus, you killed him yesterday,” the stranger said.
“What’s he to you?” Adonibaal said raising Centurion.
The man shook his head and laughed softly. “You are not from around here are you stranger? My name is Milo, I own the Subura, I own the people and I know everything that goes on in these alleys. Janus worked for me. He was an informant, gave me lots of juicy gossip about the rich and famous. Now I have lost my man. It’s not good for business.”
Adonibaal stood very still.
“So what’s that to me?” he growled.
Milo arched his eyebrows. The man seemed to be in complete control of the situation and it surprised and unsettled Adonibaal. He was used to seeing fear on men’s faces. This Milo was different. He was not afraid.
“Janus was a piece of shit,” Milo said, “but he did what was required from him. You on the other hand; you are good with a blade, a man like you, you are hired to kill, you do kill, that’s what you do for a living.”
Milo took another step forwards. He was now so close that Adonibaal could smell the faint whiff of perfume on the man’s clothes.<
br />
“That’s far enough,” he snapped.
Milo stopped.
“Tell me who you are working for? Was it Julius’ gang on the Aventine? Priscus perhaps…?”
Adonibaal stared at Milo as his mind raced. “Out of town,” he muttered.
Milo frowned, “I can understand the job on Janus but that one you did today on the Appian, who was the target and why?”
The hallway fell silent. Adonibaal looked at Milo and then a smile appeared on his face, a smile of pride.
“Quintus Fabius Maximus,” he said quietly, “he was the target.”
Milo’s eyes twinkled in the flickering light. For a long moment no one spoke.
Then Milo nodded. “You know what,” he said, “I think he is speaking the truth. That takes balls stranger, Fabius fucking Maximus indeed. What’s he done to deserve death then?”
“I can’t tell you,” Adonibaal replied.
Milo grunted and there was sudden gleam in his eyes. “You know what lads,” he said quietly, “I think we have caught ourselves a baby killing, Baal worshipper from across the sea.”
The Shield of Rome Page 15