Anyway, I reckoned we’d call it a day. I headed through the Palatine complex towards Staurian Incline, the flight of steps that was the quickest way, if you were on foot, of getting from Palatine to Caelian. The easiest, too, because especially at this time of day they were pretty quiet. There was a punter a flight or so ahead of me, and another about the same behind, and that was about it.
I’d got almost to the foot, where there was one of the public litters parked with its two litter-men leaning against it shooting the breeze, when I noticed that the guy ahead of me had stopped and turned round. He reached into his belt and drew out a knife, while the two off-duty litter-men stopped lounging and did the same.
Oh, shit. I turned — or half-turned, rather — just in time to see that chummie behind me had closed the gap …
Which was when something that felt like a decent-sized marble column smacked me behind the ear, and I went out like a light.
TWENTY-ONE
I woke up with my back to a wall, a thumping headache, a definite no-go area on the back left-hand side of my head where I’d been clouted, and my slinger pal from the Janiculan looking down at me. We were indoors, I could see that much, although vision wasn’t exactly my best feature at the moment and my eyes were actually telling me said slinger pal was overlapping identical twins. I could see we were somewhere with no windows, because the only light came from lamps.
I reached up and gingerly touched the no-go area on my head. There was a lump there the size of a goose egg, but my fingers came away dry. A sandbag, then, or a blackjack — chummie had been careful, which, considering the knives his three mates had been carrying, was interesting.
‘You’re awake,’ the big guy said.
Nine out of ten for observation, with one point deducted for stating the totally bloody obvious.
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘More or less.’ I felt like something the cat had dragged in, and woozy as hell, but apart from the pain in my head and the double vision, everything else seemed OK. ‘Why am I still alive? Not that I’m complaining, mind.’
He grunted and stood up. ‘Not by my choice, friend,’ he said. ‘If I’d had my way you would be fucking dead. You prat!’
Yeah, well, I wasn’t going to argue: I hadn’t exactly covered myself with glory here. Which reminded me …
‘So where exactly am I?’ I said. ‘If it’s not a stupid question.’
‘In a wine cellar.’
Great. Very informative. ‘You care to elaborate a little, chum?’
‘No. That’s all you need to know, Corvinus. Except that it’s under a house that’s been empty for the past six months and that there’s only the one way in or out, through a three-inch-thick reinforced oak door with a lock and a couple of iron bolts on the other side. So this is where you fucking well stay.’
Uh-huh. That would just about do it; curiosity satisfied. ‘Until when?’
‘Until it’s all over. Boss’s instructions. As I said, me, I’d’ve gone for the more permanent option and left you back there on the Stairs with your throat cut.’
Ouch. Well, at least I could be thankful that I was still breathing. ‘The boss?’
He ignored me. ‘Up you get.’ He pulled me to my feet and I felt my head explode. ‘Just don’t try no fucking funny business, right? Killing you might be out, but the boss didn’t say nothing about loosening a few teeth or breaking a couple of fingers. And believe me, after the trouble you’ve caused, I’d whistle while I did it.’
‘Pal, the way I’m feeling just now, I couldn’t get past your white-haired old grandmother.’ I wasn’t kidding, either; the room was swimming round me, and the inside of my skull felt like someone was hitting it with a mallet. Wine-cellar the place might be, but it looked more like a prison cell. Which, evidently, was what its present purpose was: no more than ten feet square, with a table and stool against one wall, a cot and blankets against another, and a chamber-pot in the corner with a bucket and sponge-stick beside it. Right; at least we had all the amenities. No windows, of course, and like the guy had said a door that looked like it’d need an army battering-ram to get through.
So much for any dramatic escape plan I might think up. Hell.
The table, mind …
It wasn’t empty, not by a long chalk. There were three loaves of bread, a whole chicken, three or four covered pottery bowls, a couple of jugs, and the full complement of tableware. Plus a mixing bowl and strainer, and — leaning against the wall beside it — two sizeable flasks in their iron foot-rests.
I certainly wouldn’t starve, and given the presence of the flasks, the mixing bowl and wine strainer, I wouldn’t go thirsty, either. The accommodation might be pretty basic, but I couldn’t complain about the catering. The boss, whoever he was, had done me proud.
What the hell was going on?
Chummie walked across to the table, filled a cup from one of the jugs and brought it over.
‘Here,’ he said.
It was wine. I tasted it …
Shit, that was Caecuban! Good Caecuban! The best, in fact, that money couldn’t buy, because it all went to the one place. I took a proper swig, and it kissed my tonsils on the way down like liquid velvet …
Things began to make sense.
‘You should be OK now,’ he said, turning away and moving towards the door. ‘The oil for the lamps is in the corner by the latrine. Enjoy your stay.’
And he was gone, slamming the door behind him. I heard the key turn in the lock and the bolts slide home.
Damn!
Yeah, well, I might as well see what I’d got here, because there was bugger all else to do. The loaves and the chicken were self-evident, but I took the lids off the bowls. Cold bean stew, braised mixed vegetables, assorted pickles and some dried fruit and nuts for dessert. Not bad, well beyond the bread-and-water stage. Not up to Meton’s standard, of course, but better than I’d get in most cook shops. I topped up my wine cup and investigated the other jug and the flasks. Water and — whoopee! — more of the Caecuban.
There was a leather case for book-rolls beside the bed. I opened it up and took out the first roll. Plautus’s Captives. Oh, hah; someone had a sense of humour, anyway. I put it back and pulled out the others: Cato’s On Farming, the first couple of books of Ennius’s Annals, and Cicero’s Tusculan Disputations. Good solid reads, all of them, bloody dry as dust, except for the Plautus, and I’ve never found that bastard particularly funny. Boredom, I could see, was going to be a major problem. If it’d been the lady stuck down here for the duration, then …
Oh, fuck. Perilla. I hadn’t thought about her. She’d have no idea where I was, let alone whether I was alive or dead, with the probability being the latter.