“The gods?” Tiberius shrugged. “No, I never play in their name. Sore losers, most of them. Best to play for your own stake. And there’s one very big pot of gold on offer today.”
A look of incredulous comprehension came into Pompey’s face. “Is that what this is about? You think you can hold me for ransom?” He gave a short crack of laughter. “Who did you have in mind for my benefactor – the Senate? Crassus? Ha, that’s rich! Crassus would rather see me swinging from that tree.”
Tiberius raised an eyebrow and grinned. Pompey’s expression changed and Tiberius hunched his shoulders again, this time as though in apology. “I’d hate for you to think I did all this for Crassus’s sake, mind,” he added in a pacifying manner.
“What then?” growled Pompey. “You want to go down in history as the man who killed me? Because you know, you’ll never make a name for yourself any other way.”
“History?” This time Tiberius shook his head and made a tutting noise. “That’s the difference between you and me, Pompey. I don’t really mind if no one remembers my name. In fact, I couldn’t care less.”
He jerked his head back toward the carriage from where Hortensia was silently watching them and waved his sword in her direction.
“She tried to warn you, didn’t she? But you could never take another’s advice. Not even when it meant leading others into disaster.” He squatted down and began to toy with the end of the arrow protruding from Pompey’s thigh, causing the consul to wince in agony. “How many men was it you lost at Sucro?” probed Tiberius. “All because you wouldn’t wait for Metellus Pius, no matter how many times we tried to warn you. You were so worried that he would steal your thunder. So you sent me and my officers off on that suicide mission, knowing that Sertorius was in charge of their left wing, while you took the soft option at the other end. Then while we fought all the way to his camp, you turned tail and left us the minute Sertorius switched to the right and the going got too rough for you. Leaving us to be picked off. Like carrion at the mercy of vultures. That’s when I knew I didn’t owe you a damn thing.”
Pompey stared doggedly up at him, a muscle going in his cheek. “You got away, didn’t you?”
“At a cost.” Tiberius ran the edge of his dagger blade lightly over his disfigured left cheek.
“What of it? Most soldiers of Rome wear their scars with pride. Besides, I won plenty more battles than I lost.”
Tiberius straightened up, tucking his dagger into its sheath at his belt. “Yes you did – thanks to your legions. But you never mentioned us when you celebrated your triumphs, did you?”
“My men kept faith with me!”
“No, not all of them.” Tiberius shifted his stance so that his feet were planted directly in front of Pompey and gripped the hilt of his sword with both hands. “Not Lucilius Albinus, even after he lied for you about what you did with your father’s loot. You let him get in Crassus’s clutches rather than help him out of debt yourself. Still, he cut his own veins rather than betray you when he had the chance, did you know that?”
A muscle flickered in Pompey’s cheek. Tiberius smiled.
“What was it you told us once, about what you said to Sulla when you persuaded him to give you your first triumph? That people would worship the rising rather than the setting sun.” He gestured to the darkening sky around them, now veined with violet and gold. “How right you were.” He raised his sword like an axe above his head.
Then he tilted his jaw, turning slightly into the breeze like a wolf detecting a scent. Hortensia, who had screwed her eyes shut in anticipation of the fatal blow, dared to open them a fraction. She could hear it too. So could the men surrounding Pompey. A frenetic thudding, like a pulse rippling through the ground. Craning her head forwards, her weight balanced across her elbows, she peered down the road toward Rome. A cloud was appearing over the fire-stained horizon, a small moving silhouette at its center. As it grew larger, the sound of galloping hoofbeats became louder. Tiberius lowered his sword. His expression was calm and closed but Hortensia could see the tension in his jaw as he nodded to his two archers.
“One horseman only. Shoot them down, whoever they are. No witnesses. We’ll deal with the body afterwards.”
The men nodded and jogged some way down the road. One squatted down in the sunken verge, the other took up a position a few feet behind him on the bank leading up to the forest. Slowly, like ink seeping outwards from a drop spilled on papyrus, the dark speck on the horizon took on a shape, the pumping forelegs and flying mane of the little horse coming into focus. Its ears were flat to its head in the wind tunnel of its own making, its coat shiny with sweat. More puzzling to all those watching its progress – and the glare of the sinking sun admittedly obstructed their view – was the apparent absence of a rider. Hortensia strained her eyes. There was something about the animal’s head that was familiar, the shape of its white blaze …
The archer concealed at the roadside glanced back uncertainly at Tiberius, who brought his arm down in an irritable gesture of encouragement. Turning back, the man brought his weapon up and took careful aim. The chestnut horse was almost in range but he allowed it to come as close as he dared in order to make sure of the shot. With a twang of his finger, he released the string, but at the same instant the animal swerved and the arrow passed harmlessly behind its haunches, embedding itself in the ploughed field. A second arrow was fired almost immediately, this time by the archer stationed on the bank, but the little horse was moving at such speed that he too missed his target. As the men quickly re-armed, Hortensia suddenly noticed the leg resting along the mare’s spine and the strong forearm curving over its neck, pulling heavily on its right rein. Then she saw a face, half-obscured by a leather helmet that came down over the eyes, framed between the mare’s thrusting head and bulging chest.
A flash of movement, a jerk of the swinging rider’s free arm and something flew across the road, a small object no bigger than a fig. The head of the man standing on the bank jerked backwards before he fell slowly, a crimson hollow where his eye used to be. The remaining archer fumbled with his bow as the animal plunged toward him. When he looked up again, he saw Lucrio suddenly swinging his right leg over the animal’s back, heaving himself upright, sword outstretched and ready. The archer’s arm came up but with a whirling swipe of Lucrio’s long straight blade, his bow hand was severed cleanly at the wrist.
“Get your bloody swords up!” Tiberius shouted to his six remaining followers, who immediately braced themselves across the road, abandoning their guard of Pompey, who began dragging himself toward the bank at the side of the road. “Leave him,” he bellowed at the shaven-headed slave who was looking uncertainly at the retreating Pompey. “He’s a sitting duck, we can finish him off whenever we want.”
The chestnut mare was now bearing down on the group blocking the road. Lucrio sat up straight and easy in the saddle, guiding his sprinting mount with his heels while in his right hand he brandished the straight sword, and in his left he held the shorter blade. The leather helmet covering his skull and cheekbones created a menacing foil for his broken nose and rigidly set jaw. As he closed the gap between himself and Tiberius’s men, the long blade in his right hand began to swing like a cart wheel.
“Don’t give way,” roared Tiberius. “Hold him up.”
His command came too late for the man nearest him. The shorter of the two swords, pitched like a javelin with unerring speed and accuracy, buried itself in his neck. A second follower was dispatched with a clean thrust through his shoulder from the long blade. Tiberius stepped forward, timing his move to take advantage of Lucrio’s sword being engaged and attack from the mare’s other side. Hortensia, who was desperately trying to tug her hands free of the ties around her wrists and had managed in the meantime to peel down her gag with her fingertips, cried out in terrified warning. But a well-aimed kick from Lucrio’s good leg connected with Tiberius’s jaw, and he stumbled away with a mouthful of blood and loose teeth.
“
Finish him off damn you,” he gargled.
As Lucrio checked the little mare’s forward momentum and swung her round in a tight circle, two more men attempted to close him down, one from either side. There was a violent clash of blades, and a gash of blood appeared on Lucrio’s forearm, soaking into the leather guard he always wore there. Slashing viciously with the sword in his other hand, he dragged the edge of the long blade across his opponent’s neck and seconds later he had driven the point through his other attacker’s chest.
The last pair hung back as Lucrio turned to face them, shifting their grip on their swords, eyeing the helmeted Lusitanian warily. One of them was the slave with the shaven head. Tiberius, who had retreated to the verge in order to empty his mouth of blood, bellowed at them. “What are you waiting for you donkeys?” but still they hesitated. He picked up a rock from the ground. “Get the bastard!” Instead of hurling it at them, he spun round and flung it directly at the head of Lucrio’s mount. It hit the mare squarely on her eye and she reared up in fright and pain. Lucrio tumbled onto the hard paving stones, landing awkwardly on his weak knee. An agonized oath escaped him. Tiberius’s copper eyes glowed and he spat out a bloody tooth.
“Now, let’s see you fight, whoever you are.”
Emboldened, the two men ran forward. Hortensia, who had finally succeeded in freeing her hands, was now being helped to undo the ties around her feet by Pompey, who had managed to crawl as far as her carriage and heave himself up into it. She watched in helpless anguish as Lucrio struggled to get up, his sword scraping uselessly across the hard ground. The first man to reach him raised his own arm, blade poised.
“No!” Hortensia cried out, distracting Tiberius, who glanced in her direction and noticed Pompey’s progress.
A second later there was another cry, this time from the road. Lucrio yanked his long straight sword from the first man’s gut and then launched himself into combat with his shaven-headed companion. From his first step, it was clear that Lucrio was limping badly. But as they stumbled over the bodies of Tiberius’s helpmates, he was able to extract his short sword from the gullet of his first victim and, having parried his hapless opponent’s blade with his right hand, he delivered a fatal blow to his adversary’s rib cage with his left. Blood bubbled up through the slave’s chipped teeth as he slumped sideways onto the hard ground.
Panting and spitting, Lucrio turned to look for Tiberius. He found him, not on the verge where he had previously been standing, but sitting on the open ledge of Hortensia’s carriage. He still held his sword in his left hand, but his right arm was hooked around Hortensia’s neck, pressing the edge of his short dagger into her throat. Pompey lay semi-conscious on the ground in front of the carriage opening, a trickle of blood making its way down from his luxuriant hairline and across his ruddy cheek.
“My congratulations,” Tiberius called out to Lucrio. “I must remember not to hire Cilicians next time. Eight for one is a poor return on my investment. No, no!” Hortensia gave a strangled cry as the blade pressed deeper into the underside of her jaw and Lucrio stopped dead at the top of the slope. “That’s close enough, we can chat from here. I have many questions for you my friend but let’s go through the formalities. Who are you, or more importantly, since you’re obviously not a passing tourist, who sent you?”
Lucrio said nothing. Hortensia stared at him desperately, trying to read a signal in his eyes. She noted his eyes flicker toward her clenched fist held across her breast and she opened her fingers slightly before closing them again.
“It’s a simple question, my friend. It might even make you a rich man. Who are you here for – him or her? You see, it’s quite important I know where we all stand.”
“They’re not my concern.” Lucrio’s voice was emotionless.
Tiberius raised an eyebrow disbelievingly. “Is that right? So what are you? Some kind of avenging Fury? Did those harpies from the Temple of Vesta pray for divine intervention and get you instead?”
“It’s you I came for.”
There was a pause. Lucrio put up his hand and pulled the sweat-soaked leather helmet from his head, tossing it onto the ground. Tiberius studied him carefully, then his eyes narrowed, and he glanced at Hortensia.
“I know him, don’t I?”
“Not as well as I know you,” said Lucrio.
Tiberius snorted. “You must have a highly developed sense of grievance if one night in my cellar made you so hungry for revenge on me. But you didn’t learn to fight like that in the backwoods of Gaul, or wherever you said you were from.”
Lucrio spoke slowly and deliberately. “Do you remember a small farm in Lusitania, where a man gave you water and offered you food?”
Tiberius stared at him, blank incomprehension on his scarred features.
“In return, you killed him and his small son. You shamed his wife and then you killed her too. Do you remember now?”
A look came into Tiberius’s eyes, an intrigued flicker of memory.
“Do you remember what you said to the little boy you left alive? The boy you and your friends sold for a bag of coins and a jar of wine?” His eyes traveled briefly to meet Hortensia’s, glancing deliberately at her clenched fist, still held defensively across her body. Then he refocused his gaze on Tiberius, who was still staring at him in wary fascination. “You told him that he was lucky. That the Roman Empire was a land of opportunity, if he was willing to take advantage of it.” He inched his way forward all the time as he spoke. “It never occurred to you that the boy might come looking for you one day.” He spread his arms and tilted his face so that the watery light of the rising moon fell across it. “You didn’t recognize me that night at your house. But maybe you recognize me now …”
Tiberius opened his mouth to speak and in that instant Lucrio’s eyes locked with Hortensia’s. Her fist came up like the arm of a catapult and the long, jeweled hairpin concealed in her palm split the skin of Tiberius’s cheek just below his left eye. In the same second she ducked out from underneath his arm and rolled off the ledge of the carriage. Blood seeped out between Tiberius’s splayed fingers as, howling with pain, he lunged instinctively with his sword arm. But the wild thrust was parried away from Hortensia by Lucrio, who had hurled himself forward, making up the final feet between himself and the carriage. The cost of this Herculean effort to his injured knee however meant that he was off-balance as he tried to turn defense into attack, and despite his own injury, Tiberius was able to deliver a strong riposte, forcing Lucrio into hobbling retreat. Springing down from the carriage, Tiberius advanced menacingly but in the next instant was brought to the ground by a revived Pompey, who had lurched forward to grab hold of one of Tiberius’s feet and was now clinging tenaciously to his prize. With a vicious kick that left Pompey cursing, Tiberius extricated himself and scrambled to his feet before stumbling down the slope toward the road and disappearing into the violet gloom.
Lucrio stood poised to go after him, but hesitated a moment, looking down at Hortensia, who was curled up by the wheel of the carriage, both hands covering her face. “Are you alright, domina?”
She shivered and nodded.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Head, groin, neck and eyes. I remembered.” A shaky laugh escaped her. “You should go or you’ll lose sight of him.” She lowered her hands and saw him hesitating still. “It’s all right. I’m all right. Just make sure you come back,” she added with a touch of acerbity. “Or I’ll never forgive you.”
He gave her a little salute and then limped down the slope toward the road.
XXXIV
HE WAS JUST IN TIME TO SEE TIBERIUS’S OUTLINE DISAPPEARING amongst a crowded colony of tombs that lined the Appian Way up ahead. The moon was now beginning its upward climb across the vault of the sky, casting a soft metallic glow that threw every angle of the landscape into sharp relief. Lucrio drew alongside one of the larger sepulchres, pausing in the shadow of its towering peak for a moment. Then, keeping his sword vertical and close to his body,
and with his back pressed to the cold bricks, he slid into the dark little labyrinth. His steps were short and careful. Around the tombs there were numerous urns and tiny amphorae filled with wine and oil, offerings to the dead made by those they had left behind. When he knocked one over with his dragging right leg, it made a dull crack like a bone snapping and he withdrew into the deep shade of a little archway. But there was no answering movement from any of the encircling shadows, just the lazy bob and sway of tree branches in the evening breeze. He crept on, stealing from tomb to tomb, ducking silently between slanting moonbeams.
As he skirted round a grandiose mausoleum designed like a small temple, a drop of blood glinted up at him from a shard of travertine which had fallen to the ground. His knuckles whitened against the hilt of his sword and he came to a halt, letting the breeze whisper into his ears. Then he moved on, weaving slowly through the colonnaded frontage, checking his step every now and then to take a reading from his silent surroundings. A cloud passed across the face of the moon and he took the opportunity to cross the narrow avenue separating the temple-tomb from its neighbors. The slight ruffle of a cloak behind him was the only warning he had, but it was enough.
His sword met Tiberius’s with a hissing clash and it was Tiberius who was forced to disengage first, though not before pushing the Lusitanian off-balance with a violent thrust driven from the hilt of his blade. He attacked again, quick as a cobra, and as the moon emerged from behind its cloud, his face was illuminated, the scarred skin now rendered even more grotesque by its veneer of dried blood, his gums, bared like a tiger’s, stained crimson.
No words were exchanged as they traded savage blows, Tiberius with the advantage of speed over his lame opponent, Lucrio with the upper hand in height and physical strength. Nevertheless it was Tiberius who assumed the role of aggressor at first, hacking and slashing with almost frenzied venom, keeping Lucrio on the back foot and using their constricted surroundings to force him into awkward nooks and corners where he struggled to make the most of his large frame. But the Lusitanian’s blade remained steady, and as he soaked up the relentless onslaught, his narrowed green eyes glowed with unwavering intent. Slowly, as Tiberius started to tire, his opponent’s strategy began to reap dividends. Every feint was anticipated, each desperate lunge parried and returned with interest. Now it was Tiberius who was being forced to retreat along the path between the tombs while Lucrio advanced, his limp barely discernible. At one point Tiberius stumbled and fell, but the fatal blow did not come. His opponent seemed content to observe him scrambling to his feet and then continue to dog his every move with an assault of increasing intensity, all the while watching and waiting as Tiberius fought to keep up his guard.
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