‘Two, and one more who will most likely die.’
‘You should have finished him,’ Domitius snapped. ‘He may talk.’
The woman did not sound overawed. ‘What can he say and what harm will it do now? We have brought what you wanted and have our payment.’
‘Then go.’ There was no warmth in the merchant’s voice. ‘If you are wise you will be on the ship and leave before dawn. In case he does talk and they are looking for you. Go. We will deal with this one.’
Footsteps departed and for a while there was only silence.
‘I will leave your sword here on the floor,’ Acco said. ‘You may manage to reach it and cut your bonds or you may not. Soon this place will be on fire. The timbers will burn slowly, but when the amphorae start to crack the oil inside them will…’ The soft voice trailed off. Ferox heard the sword drop and knew it was not close.
‘You have chosen your path, boy, and the gods will decide. Farewell.’
‘What of your prophecy?’ Ferox tried to inch across the floor.
‘It was a dream,’ the druid said. ‘Dreams can be wrong.’
Ferox heard the dog whimper as it was kicked and the tread of the druid as he left, by the sound of it climbing down creaking wooden stairs. He tried rolling over and that moved him a little more until he was on his front. He shifted his shoulders to turn again, managed to do it, but it was awkward now that his hands were under him. Halfway through the next roll his knees hit something hard and solid. There was a box or barrel in the way. He caught the scent of smoke. Pushing hard failed to shift whatever was blocking his path. Ferox rolled back and then brought up his knees and shifted his weight to edge clear. It took a while, and then finally he rolled again and this time it worked. Then his head struck another crate.
It was getting warmer and through his blindfold he saw a faint glow. As he rolled again it grew stronger and he coughed because smoke was filling the room. Two more rolls and he felt a shape digging into his chest. It was the pommel of his sword. He rolled away, so that his tied hands were towards it, and then shifted his weight again and again to edge back towards it. He felt the wooden pommel, wriggled with his fingers, trying to get them around the grip. Instead the sword moved away from him. He tried again, ever more desperate because the glow of the fire was stronger and he could hear the flames roaring below. He felt the sword, but it skidded and banged as it fell down the stairs.
Someone else coughed and he froze, then realised the folly of that so shouted. ‘Help! Up here!’ More coughing, a hint of a shape against the orange glow of the flames and cold steel brushing his ankles and a weight on his feet. A boot was planted on him to hold the rope steady as it was cut. It seemed to take an age.
‘Thank you,’ he gasped, but the only response was more coughing. His legs were free at last and he tried to stand, but would not have managed if his rescuer had not helped lift him. ‘My hands,’ he begged. ‘Please, cut the rope.’ The smoke was worse now that he was standing, and although the cloth over his head was a shield he began to cough and could not stop.
A hand took his shoulder, turned him, so that he must have had his back to the stairs and gently pulled him backwards. He followed the lead, almost slipping on the first step, but thankfully they were wide. They were both coughing and the heat was like a furnace, bright even through the blindfold. If it reached the olive oil then all of this would be for nothing. Sparks fell on him, and then they were down. The hand turned him, it seemed to push him towards the heart of the fire, but he decided to trust and ran straight ahead. His boot hit a beam on the dirt floor, and that was lucky because something bigger crashed down just in front. He was shoved again, to the right this time and he ran and suddenly the air was colder and the smoke starting to thin.
‘Thank you,’ Ferox gasped, and was hit hard in the middle of the back with what felt like the pommel of his own sword. He staggered, struggling for breath, and sank down onto to his knees in the mud. Somehow he managed to stand and ran, pelting across an alley until he slammed into a wall. With a great roar the fire burst up through the roof of the warehouse behind him and a hot wave of air pushed him against the wall. There were shouts now and he ran towards them, until someone grabbed him by the arm.
‘Watch yourself, sir.’ He heard the clink of sword and decorated belt that surely meant a soldier. ‘Been playing games, have we?’ The cloth hood was yanked off his head and he saw a round, leathery face staring at him.
‘Let me free. I am Flavius Ferox, centurion of II Augusta.’
‘Well, I’m buggered,’ the soldier said. ‘Hear that, Celsus? This is the one we’ve just been ordered to arrest.’
XV
THE SUN ROSE as they led him through the streets, which were already filling up and noisy. They took him to the principia, and that was something because if they had been attached to the procurator’s staff and under his orders then they would surely have held him at his offices. He did not think that any of the conspirators would have got a good enough glimpse to recognise him, but it was hard to be sure and he had seen Crispinus clearly and the tribune knew him well.
The older soldier was a speculator, a name that had once signified a scout or even a spy, but these days was just another title for a man who spent most of his time reading and writing reports as part of the governor’s headquarters. Celsus was a legionary and young, a big fellow chosen for size rather than brains or experience. They were both kind enough, but firm, and had no explanation.
‘No idea, sir. Orders came through in the fourth hour of the night. You were to be detained and taken under guard.’
‘What if I refused?’ They had cut the bonds on his wrists and life was slowly coming back to his arms.
The speculator tapped the hilt of his gladius. ‘Best you come along, sir.’
Ferox did not have the strength to argue and let himself be led. Prince Arviragus rode past him, accompanied by two troopers and a heavily tanned warrior whose nose had been bent and flattened years before. The prince noticed Ferox enough to sneer.
‘Should have seen that bugger fight,’ the older soldier said after the riders had passed. ‘The ugly one. They used to call him Brigantus in the arena. That was before the prince there bought him. Fastest man I’ve ever seen with a gladius.’
At the principia all was bustle, far more than was normal, and no one on duty had any idea why he was wanted or what to do with him. In the end, a beneficiarius had him locked in one of the side rooms. There was some light from a little window too small to climb through and a stool, so he sat and waited, or sometimes paced up and down and waited. Trumpets sounded the start of the second and third hours of the day and still no one came. Ferox was hungry, sore and so weary that he was tempted to lie on the cold floor and try to sleep.
At last the door opened. A legionary he did not know appeared. ‘You are to come with us, sir.’ Two others were waiting outside.
Ferox did as he was told and again there was no explanation. The soldiers led him out of the principia, which was worrying, until he realised that they were going to the praetorium. Even better was the sight of Vindex, Gannascus and the others, waiting near the entrance, fully equipped and standing by their horses.
‘What’s up?’ the scout asked.
‘I’m under arrest.’ Ferox tried to sound cheerful.
‘About time.’ Vindex nodded to the legionaries. ‘Chain him up, lads.’
There were more armed men than usual standing outside, and guards in the main corridors of the house. None of them saluted as he passed, but neither did they try to stop the escort leading him through. Even more to his surprise they went to the back of the house, which was residential rather than official, where even the corridors were finely painted and had mosaic floors. As they approached a door a slave appeared, his tunic of good quality and his manner suggesting that the legate trusted him with considerable authority. ‘You’re to go right in, sir,’ he said. ‘You will not be needed, soldiers.’