‘Who speaks for you?’
‘I do,’ a middle-aged man said stepping forward. He wore a long-sleeved, saffron tunic, belted at the waist, that came to just below his knees, half covering a pair of dark-blue baggy trousers bunched in at the ankle to expose delicate, red-leather slippers. His oiled hair was jet black and fell to his shoulders framing a lean, high-cheek boned face dominated by a sharp, straight nose. Two dark, mirthless eyes stared back at Magnus; his thin mouth was just visible beneath a hennaed red beard that came to an upwards-curling point.
‘And you are?’ Magnus asked, trying to keep the contempt that he felt for this outrageous-looking whore-boy master out of his voice. Behind him Sextus and Marius led half a dozen brothers, armed with knives and cudgels, out of the tavern
‘Kurush,’ the Albanian replied resting his right hand on the hilt of a curved dagger hanging at his waist. ‘And you must be Magnus?’ His Latin was precise and with little trace of an accent.
‘I am. Let’s get this over with; show me the two boys.’
‘They have not been harmed or even interfered with; I can assure you of that with my word.’
‘I’m sure you can but, nevertheless, I wish to see them closer.’
‘A man who won’t take another man’s word is not worthy of trust himself. Let me see my boy. His condition will determine the state of the other two.’
‘Sextus, tell Cassandros to bring him out,’ Magnus ordered, keeping his eyes locked on Kurush.
They waited in silence, staring at each other, for the few moments that it took Cassandros to appear with his charge.
‘Bring him here,’ Magnus said as the Greek dragged the struggling youth through the tavern door.
‘This man raped me,’ the whore-boy shrieked at Kurush, pointing an accusatory finger at Cassandros, ‘and paid nothing.’
Magnus spun round. One look at Cassandros’ face confirmed that the boy was telling the truth: he could not meet his eye.
‘It would seem that we have a problem,’ Kurush observed. ‘I don’t take kindly to people making free with my property.’
Magnus grabbed the youth from Cassandros’ grasp with his left hand and cracked his right fist into the Greek’s face, felling him. ‘I’ll take care of it once we’ve done the exchange; he’ll be punished, I give you my word.’
‘Why should I take your word when you wouldn’t take mine just now? But I’m not interested in him being punished, you can do what you like to him; I’m interested in a fair exchange.’
‘This is a fair exchange, more than fair, I’ve already given you one of your boys, let’s complete the transaction and then we need have nothing more to do with each other.’
Kurush smiled icily and turned to his three companions speaking to them in their own language. The blond-haired boy was brought forward. Kurush took him by the neck and propelled him towards Magnus. ‘There, an untouched boy in payment for the one you sent me earlier.’
The boy stumbled and fell at Magnus’ feet. Marius stepped forward, hauled him up and pulled him away.
Kurush looked back at Magnus. ‘Now that leaves us with another untouched boy to exchange for a soiled boy; I don’t consider that fair.’ He barked a command in his own language.
The dark-haired boy was forced down over a table. He started to shriek as two of the Albanians grabbed his arms, holding them firm, at the same time pressing their weight down on his back, pinning him. The third Albanian, a young, effeminate looking man with a wispy beard, barely out of his teens, pulled up the boy’s tunic and ripped off his loincloth, raised his own tunic and opened the flap in the groin of his trousers, his gaze never leaving the boy’s exposed buttocks. The boy screamed as the Albanian forced himself into him. The screaming stopped and the boy stared down at his white knuckled hands gripping the table’s edge as the Albanian took to his task with all the savagery of the abused that has become the abuser.
Magnus stood and watched in silence, indicating to his men that they should do so too, knowing that to interfere would jeopardise the deal; Kurush was not a man to lose face and besides, it was nothing to him whether the boy was raped or not, the important issue was to get him back to Terentius unmarked, his value intact if not his dignity.
‘Is this absolutely necessary, Kurush?’ Magnus asked as the Albanian quickened his pace and grunted to a climax.
‘Yes Magnus, for two reasons: firstly to show you that whatever is done to me or mine will be repaid in full, and secondly, to demonstrate that my men do as they’re told.’ He pointed down to Cassandros still lying prone on the ground. ‘Unlike yours.’
After a few moments collecting his breath the Albanian withdrew and wiped himself clean on the boy’s tunic, grinning at Magnus as he did so.
‘Very educational I’m sure, you’ve made your point. Now take your boy and give me mine.’
Kurush barked another order and the boy was immediately released, grimacing with pain and clutching his loincloth. Magnus pushed Kurush’s boy towards him and as the two passed each other they paused for a moment, sharing a look of mutual sympathy, before carrying on back to their enslaved lives over which they had no control or say and in which the best that they could both hope for was to get through each day with as little misery as possible.
‘Now get out of my area by the quickest route,’ Magnus growled at Kurush as the boy passed him. ‘The offer of safe conduct doesn’t extend to any sightseeing. If you ever go near Terentius’ house again you’ll be a dead man, no matter who protects you.’
‘I think Terentius understands, well enough to make a second visit unnecessary, that there is only room at the top end of the market for one of our establishments.’
‘I know he does,’ Magnus muttered under his breath as the Albanians turned and left. ‘And so do I.’
‘DO WE HAVE anything interesting on our Tribune yet?’ Magnus asked Servius. They were making their way in the crisp and clear dawn air up the Via Patricius, one of the main thoroughfares of the Viminal. Cloaked and deeply hooded to avoid being recognised, they had especially chosen this chill time of day so that their attire would not stand out as suspicious.
‘Nothing yet,’ Servius replied from within the depths of his hood, ‘but it’s only been one night; give the lads time. I’ve got quite a few of them going round and asking questions, one of them should come up with something soon enough.’
‘It needs to be today.’
‘Then I suggest that you help matters by going to see Senator Pollo after you’ve met with your mate from The Cohort. He may know something about him.’
Magnus muttered his agreement as the Viminal Gate came into sight.
‘It’s just up here on the left before the junction with the lamp-makers street,’ Servius informed him. ‘We should get onto the right-hand side of the road.’
They crossed at the next set of raised stepping-stones, designed to keep pedestrians’ feet free from ordure but also to allow the passage of wheeled vehicles, and disappeared into the throng of people opening shops, buying bread, firing up braziers, visiting patrons, clearing drowsy beggars from doorways. Pushing through the crowd, Servius led Magnus to a tavern with an outside bar.
‘Two cups of hot wine,’ he ordered, placing a small denomination coin on the wooden counter.
Once they had been served, Servius turned and nodded to a large two-storey, brick-built house. ‘That’s the Albanians’ place. As you can see it has no windows opening onto the street, no shops in its facade, it’s just a blank wall and a door.’
Magnus looked at the two huge, bearded doormen in eastern garb, armed with cudgels and knives, guarding the entrance. ‘Is that door the only way in and out?’
‘Fortunately not.’ Servius pointed to a small street that led off from the Via Patricius two houses up from the Albanians’ establishment. ‘That’s the Lamp-makers’ street. There’s an alley that runs from it along the rear of all the buildings opposite; I sent Cassandros to have a look at it last night after the swap; he says that the wall is only ten-feet high and we could easily scale it and get up onto the roof.’