A Song For Nero

by Tom Holt

  'Very silly,' I said. 'It's like you just said. Army buddies, puts it exactly I mean, it's always the way, isn't it? They demob and go their separate ways, swearing blind they'll always stay in touch. And then, two or five years down the line, either they've forgotten the other bloke completely, or they meet up and find they've got nothing to say to each other, because they never had anything in common. And that's dumb, really'

  He nodded. 'Let's just pretend we've been ten years in the army together, and leave it like that.' He peered up through the corner of the doorframe. 'I don't want to rush you, but if you're figuring on getting into town, finding me a ship and getting back before dark, you ought to be on your way.'

  'You're right,' I said.

  So I got the horse saddled up and set off for town; and along the way, what I was mostly thinking was, well, at least I'm not having to walk. Things can always be worse than they are, even if it's only by a little bit. I couldn't remember who used to say that when I was a kid. My old mother, probably It sounded like one of hers.

  Finding a ship proved to be much easier than I'd thought. Fourth ship I tried, in fact; turned out they were headed for the Black Sea — Tanais, in the territory of the Roxolani, wherever-in-hell that might be. The bloke on the ship said it was a fairly desperate place —scorching hot in summer, bollock-numbing cold in winter, no scenery to speak of apart from endless rolling fields of wheat, and the savages — well, savage, and that was if you caught them on a good day I replied that it sounded like just the sort of place my friend was looking for, and paid him fifty drachmas.

  Since I'd finished earlier than I'd planned, I had time to nip round the market stalls and pick up a few things. Two pairs of boots, for instance; three tunics, two heavy winter cloaks, a belt, a goatskin satchel, a wide-brimmed leather hat;

  I even bought a sword off a second-hand stall (well, it was cheap, and you never know). Then I went to my bank and drew out two hundred sesterces. I'm soft-hearted, but not as soft—hearted as all that.

  Then home again, back up the hill, with the purse of money clinking on my belt, the sword stuck between my knee and the horse blanket, and the do-it-all explorer's survival kit slung over my shoulder in the satchel. All told, I'd blown close on three hundred sesterces, none of which I'd ever see again. Still, I could afford it, and there was an argument for saying it'd have been cheap at twice the price.

  It was as dark as twenty foot down a well by the time I reached Phyle; just as well I grew up there and knew the way I rode into the yard, led the horse into the stable and tied him up; dumped all the stuff I'd bought for Lucius Domitius there, too, since there was no point taking it with me into the bunkhouse, I'd only have Smicro and Ptolemy asking what I wanted with all that gear. First things first, I thought; something to eat and a good stiff drink, and then I'd go back out, see to the horse, take Lucius Domitius his stuff and tell him about the ship. For that I'd need a lamp, if only because I wanted to see his face when I told him about Tanais and the savage Roxolani. Not that I'm a nasty person or anything, but I reckoned I'd earned that small pleasure.

  I opened the bunkhouse door and walked in. Someone else closed it behind me.

  There were five of them. Two I recognised. One was the Sicilian governor's outrider, the man who'd killed our mules. The other was the governor himself.

  The remaining three I hadn't ever seen before; though if I'd ever been into watching gladiator shows, I might've seen them in the arena at some stage. No mistaking their type. It's the shiny white scars and the enormous shoulders that give them away, every time.

  Also present were my two Syrians — they were hanging by their thumbs from a rope slung up over the rafters; Mum, looking sober and as white as fresh cheese, tied up and sat on a low stool; and Blandinia, leaning against the wall with a smug expression on her face. No sign of Lucius Domitius; apart from him, everybody present and correct.

  Absolutely no chance of me getting to the door; one of the gladiators had moved across and stood with his back to it, arms folded across his chest, looking professionally mean. No point in me saying anything; so I stood and waited to see what'd happen next.

  The governor got up; he'd been perched on the rim of the big oil jar, like a huge mutant butterfly 'Galen, isn't it?' he said. 'I was sure I knew you from somewhere.'

  I nodded.

  'Very well,' he said. 'So that's one of you, now we just need the other one.

  I acted dumb. I've had the practice, after all. 'Who do you mean?' I said.

  He laughed. 'Well,' he said, 'it's Nero Caesar I'm really after, but I'll settle for your brother Callistus, if you prefer. Either will do. After all, what's in a name?'

  At this point, Mum burst into tears and started screeching —least she could do in the circumstances, all things considered —until one of the gladiators whacked her across the face. It shut her up so quickly, I wish I'd thought of it myself.

  The pet cavalryman grabbed my right arm and cramped it up behind my back. In case you don't know, that hurts. 'Please,' I squealed, 'I don't know what you're talking about.'

  I've said some dumb things in my time, but not many dumber than that. For a moment I thought the cavalry bloke was going to break my elbow joint — that was scary, because those things never heal right, and I'm a farmer, I need my arms in good working order. But he stopped just short, gauging it nicely from long practice. That was me told.

  'All right,' I said, 'I'm sorry.'

  Blandinia laughed; fine hero you turned out to be, she seemed to be saying. But there's no heroism in having your arm broken, because any bloody fool can do that, even a coward like me. The heroic stuff lies in finding a way of not getting your arm busted. So I ignored her, and said, 'He's in the stables.'

  The governor nodded. 'Fine,' he said. 'You two,' he added, nodding to a couple of his men, 'go and fetch him. We'll kill them both here, I want to watch.'

  Well, he would do. Great watchers, your Roman senators; that's why they built all those huge theatres and stadiums and arenas and racetracks, as a monument to the rich bastard's taste for sitting on his bum under a sunscreen while a load of other poor buggers feel the pain. Of course he'd want to watch, to experience the moment and savour it, roll it round his tongue like a good vintage (fetched to him at his table in his villa from some faraway place). For my part, I was thinking, this is no good. I'll be slaughtered like a chicken in my own house while the senator watches; and then he'll go home, maybe stop at an inn on the way back to Athens, grouse about the food and the bedlinen, get on his specially chartered ship and sail home, carry on with his life; and I'll won't be there any more. Everything about me will be over, all gone, just because I got into the wrong place at the wrong time, and strong men held me down so there was nothing I could do to stop it. Bugger that, I thought. After all, only a complete loser goes quietly 'Hold on,' I said.

  They were fools to listen to me, but they did. 'Well?' said the governor, and everybody held still.

  I was frantically trying to remember the layout of the stables, inch by inch.

  'He's a slippery customer,' I said, 'those two clowns'll never catch him on their own. He'll get out the back way or through the hayloft in the dark. If he hears someone coming, I mean.

  The governor looked at me. 'Well?' he repeated.

  'Whereas,' I went on, 'if I go into the stables and call out to him, he'll come out, won't suspect a thing; and then you can grab him. Provided you let me go, of course.'

  The governor thought for a moment; balancing potential gains and losses, a hard-headed business decision. 'No he said, 'I can't do that. But I'll tell you what I will do. If you make sure I get Nero Caesar, I won't kill your mother.

  How's that for a deal?'

  He thought he was being clever. Very good. 'But you can't do that I said. 'I mean, she's got nothing to do with this, there's no call to kill her.'

  He nodded. 'I'm inclined to agree,' he said. 'So on balance I'd rather not, which is why I hope you'll take me up on my offer. O
therwise—' He shrugged. 'I'm not really bothered either way,' he said. 'It's up to you, really'

  'All right,' I said quickly 'We'll do it like I said, and you'll let her go. But I'll need you to place your men where I tell you to; otherwise, there's always a risk he'll get away after all.'

  He thought again, then nodded. 'But Calpurianus here,' (the pet cavalryman, presumably), 'he'll be standing behind you with his knife across your mother's throat. Agreed?'

  'Sure,' I said.

  'Fine. Then let's all go. You can't imagine how much I've looked forward to seeing this.'

  Where he'd made his mistake, of course, was in bringing so few men. Arrogance, you see. I was finding it bloody hard work just breathing, in no fit state to do anything straightforward, let alone complicated and delicate. But what the hell; treat it like just another condemned cell, I told myself. It'll be all right.

  I arranged the gladiators round the stables, making sure they were quiet, so there wouldn't be any noise to startle Lucius Domitius. Blandinia had come too, which was handy It pays to be tidy when you're doing precise work. I took a lamp and slowly pushed open the stable door.

  'Lucius Domitius,' I called out. 'It's all right, it's only me.'

  Now if you're as smart as I'm giving you credit for, you'll remember that Lucius Domitius wasn't in the stables at all, he was in the pighouse. I hadn't forgotten that, if that's what you're thinking. On the contrary, I knew exactly what was in the stables and (I sincerely hoped) exactly where; otherwise, there simply wouldn't be time, I'd come up three or four heartbeats short and the whole thing would be a washout. If only I'd known earlier, I'd have paid more attention, got everything ready That way, the nice new double-tined hoe I'd sharpened the day before would've been placed just handy, next to the big pile of fresh straw and bean helm.

  'Lucius Domitius?' I called out, taking a couple of steps further into the stable. 'It's all right, I'm on my own. I got a passage for you, on a ship.'

  There was a gladiator right behind me; also the cavalry bloke, with my mum. As I'd hoped, they hung back in the doorway so they wouldn't be seen. That gave me five paces, which is two heartbeats' worth of time before they could figure out what I was up to and get up close enough to stop me. If the hoe and the straw were six paces from the door, I was fucked. It all depended on my memory: my life, Lucius Domitius', the whole cockfight. Wonderful odds.

  I took another slow step, then my five planned quick ones. As my right hand reached out for the hoe (gods be praised, it was actually there), my left hand threw the lamp onto the stack of bean-helm. As all that dry stuff was taking fire — you want to watch that stuff, by the way, it'll burn like lamp oil if you're not careful —I was twisting round on the spot, swinging the hoe round my head and bringing it down on the place where (if I'd figured it all out right) the head of the gladiator ought to be. No time to look, you see, it all had to be done by blind reckoning.

  I screwed up. Fortunately, though, not by much. Instead of smashing the gladiator's head like an egg, I caught him smack on the right forearm, sinking both tines in until the bridge got stopped on the bone. I hadn't realised I could hit so hard; but maybe I'd forgotten, I was a farmer now, not just some skinny little Greek thief, and I'd put enough hours in with the ponderous hoe, God knows.

  Anyhow; the gladiator opened his mouth, but no sound came out. As I twisted the hoe to free the tines, he screamed; out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of the cavalryman slicing through Mum's neck, but I'd allowed for that in my calculations, so that was all right. After all, I knew from the start that I wasn't going to get out of this free and clear, and rather her than me. I was already at least three heartbeats behind schedule; soon as I felt the hoe was free in my hands, I swung again, and mercifully the gladiator was so shocked with pain he held still to be hit. I got him just above the left eye with the right hoe-tine, and he went down like a stack of apples you've barged into because you weren't looking where you were going.

  Fine, I thought, now I've committed murder; still, there you go. The cavalryman had dropped Mum and his knife, he was fumbling for his sword, but he'd got the pommel stuck under the crossbelt. The last thing he'd been expecting was to have to fight me — after all, I'm just a rat-faced little Greek — and he wasn't ready He made the wrong choice, kept on trying to free his sword instead of using his feet to get out of the way Sloppy I killed him and let him drop, didn't have time to watch him fall. For one thing, I had a lot of work to get through in a short space of time. For another, the stable was on fire, and I didn't want to stay in there any longer than I could help.

  I heard the horse screaming (another anticipated loss; omelettes and eggs, as they say in Rome ) as I pushed through the doorway into the open air. I reckoned I had maybe four heartbeats to kill the governor before the gladiators I'd so carefully placed all round the building arrived to stop me — and that was allowing for them being thrown off kilter by the fire; I'd deliberately torched my own stable just to buy myself another heartbeat.

  But he wasn't there — the governor, I mean. Either he'd heard the gladiator yelling or smelt the smoke, or I'd made a mistake in my mental geometry, or he was just being awkward. Anyhow, no governor where I'd been expecting him to be, just Blandinia, her eyes wide as fruit plates. I considered killing her, but decided there wasn't time (balancing potential gains and losses, a hard-headed business decision) and left her stood there while I hared off, looking for the governor.

  I nearly missed him, at that. He was smart enough to try hiding in the deep shadows around the corner of the barn wall. But he screwed up, too; the blade of his sword made a tiny scritching noise as it dragged over the chape of its scabbard, and that's something I've heard quite a few times in circumstances that mean it's a sound I recognise immediately I swung round and brought the hoe down hard and hit something solid enough to jar my elbows painfully, but not as solid as a wall; also, the tines were stuck in something, and I had to waggle the hoe about frantically to get them free. The governor answered the question of whether he was alive or dead by falling across me and knocking me off my feet. By the time I'd scrambled out from under him, I knew he was well out of it.

  And that was as far as I'd planned; never expected to get there, if the truth be told. I'd expected I'd be dead quite some time ago, the last thought crossing my mind as I died being, Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. But there I still was, alive and in the game, and my mind had just gone a complete blank.

  Bugger, I thought; now what?

  Well, three dead, three from five makes two (and I managed to figure it out without counting on my fingers). I'd just finished when I saw the two remaining gladiators, nicely backlit by the blazing stable. They didn't see me, of course, in the shadows. I had a brainwave.

  'Over here,' I called out, in Latin.

  They turned their heads like trained dogs hearing a whistle, and headed towards me, arms by their sides. 'What the bloody hell's going on?' I shouted, also in Latin, while I did my best to gauge distance in the dark. 'Don't tell me, you let him get away'

  'We thought we heard—' the first one said; and I found out my estimate was close enough for government work, as they say in the dockyards. His mate was going to be the problem, since I'd just given away all my advantages — surprise, darkness, shadow, position — and I had to face the grim fact that it was likely to be a fair fight. Well, I'd managed to go one better than I'd dared hope, so it wasn't bad going for a country boy I swished at him with the hoe, and he hopped back, neat as a cat. Then, quite unexpectedly, he floundered wildly, lost his footing and sat down hard on his bum, just nicely so I could spike him through the top of his skull with both tines. Turned out he'd slipped in a cowpat, of all things.

  A little voice in the back of my head said, It's over, but I didn't believe it.

  Couldn't be over; I couldn't have made it, couldn't have won. I stood there panting like a dog, trying to pull all the threads together in my mind, only all I could think about was that bloody s
tupid old story, Ulysses single-handedly slaughtering his enemies all together in his house, the day he came home. What that had to do with anything I had no idea; but you know how it is when you're all overwrought, your mind gets full of the damnedest things.

  And then there was someone behind me, and I said to myself, there, I knew it wasn't over. So I wheeled round — getting to be second nature by then, of course — and had the presence of mind to move my feet to give myself room before striking down with the hoe. I made it a good one, too, every last ounce of bodyweight behind it. Felt like when you sink your hoe into a thick seam of fat, sticky clay Whoever it was slid off the tines and went thump. I took a step back to catch my breath, while I checked my mental arithmetic. Five enemies; two in the barn, plus the governor, plus two in the yard here just now, makes five. Mum was dead, I'd seen her blood spurting out of her neck, so who the hell did that leave over?

  Blandinia, I thought; and then, oh well, never mind. She'd been marginal in my calculations, and I'd only spared her the first time because I'd been on a schedule. I swung the hoe up on my shoulder and walked slowly over to the barn steps, and sat down. The hoe felt heavier and more ponderous than ever before, but I wasn't letting go of it, not for Dido's treasure. And let that be a lesson to you, by the way, never to piss off a farmer.

  So there I was; and I was thinking, All I need to do now is collect up all these bodies, load them in the cart, take them a long way up onto the mountain and dump them, over the side of a canyon or off a cliff; sure, some nosy bastard will find them sooner or later, and it won't be long before someone else starts wondering whatever became of the governor of Sicily But who the hell would ever associate me (blameless ex-soldier, hard-working respectable farmer) with the death of a noble senator? Also, who in their right mind would ever believe I could've killed a cavalry officer and three gladiators, all on my ownsome? I'd have to make out that Mum and Blandinia had died of some nasty disease, and we'd had to burn them fast to stop it spreading, hence no public funeral; but Smicro and Ptolemy would back me up on that, what are friends for? Oh sure, I wasn't free and clear quite yet, but all it'd take would be a little care and discretion, and all my troubles would be over.