‘Wonder what that’s all about.’
‘They are celebrating, sir,’ said Simo. ‘I spoke to the water-carriers about it. The court must have decided on clemency for the youths who defaced the statue.’
‘Probably a flogging, then. Looks like Diadromes got his way with the magistrate.’ Cassius sat down next to the boots Simo had put out for him – a well-worn pair with a thick sole, comfortable and without the nails or studs that could be unreliable on a smooth surface – Cassius often referred to them as his ‘running boots’. Once they were on, he stood up and walked over to the table. ‘Right, I suppose I’d better get this crap on.’ He reached for the brown padded shirt that would go under his armour.
Indavara got up off the bed. ‘You’re really going to wear your mail all night? In this heat?’
‘Indeed I am. You know how much I paid for the accursed thing and yet events have continuously conspired to ensure that I am usually found without it when I actually need it. What if there are more guards under that factory?’
Indavara drew his short sword from the sheath lying on his bed and ran a finger along the edge. The setting sun was still providing enough light to illuminate the tower.
‘Might be tight down there.’ He pointed at Cassius’s sword, which was on the table beside the armour. ‘Probably best if you keep that bloody great thing sheathed. Swinging it around in a small space you’re as likely to cut me or yourself as anyone else.’
‘Don’t worry. As I’ve already caught you once this week, I shall do my best to spare you further injury.’
To avoid embarrassing himself in front of Indavara, Cassius had taught himself to put on the undershirt and the armour without Simo’s assistance. Once the mail shirt was hanging straight, he put on a thick leather belt and buckled it. Next he lifted the sword belt and put it over his right shoulder. Indavara had made a good point; the blade was unwieldy and the ornate eagle head made it hard to draw quickly, but many officers favoured such weapons and Cassius was determined to get used to it.
‘You’ve cleaned and oiled it, I hope,’ said Indavara.
‘Did it this morning. Just like you showed me.’
Indavara offered a grunt of approval.
Cassius took his dagger sheath and fitted it on to his main belt. ‘Tell me what’s in my satchel, Simo.’
‘Lantern and the fire-starting kit, sir; your money bag, a flask of water, and the food.’
‘Good. Put the spearhead badge in there too. I can hardly pin it on this.’
Cassius watched as the big Gaul did as instructed. In the old days he might have taken him with them. Simo was a peerless practitioner when it came to sparking a flame and knew a great deal about treating injuries, but his refusal to fight or even carry a weapon made him a liability; not to mention his lumbering frame and complete inability to run.
Simo was about to buckle the satchel but paused. ‘If you’re going underground might you need some rope? I believe we have a coil somewhere.’
‘I don’t think we’ll be going far enough down to need a rope,’ said Cassius.
‘No, it’s a good idea,’ said Indavara, kneeling down to retie his bootlaces.
Simo waited for a nod from Cassius before delving under the table. He pulled the rope out of a sack and tied it to the strap of the satchel.
‘You will be careful, sir,’ he said as he put the bag over his master’s shoulder.
‘I will. Ready?’
Indavara sheathed his blade and followed Cassius to the door.
‘Bolt it behind us and keep it locked.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Simo as he opened it.
Outside, the streets and buildings were bathed in the orange glow that preceded dusk.
Cassius stopped just beyond the ruined wall. ‘At the risk of repeating myself, I wanted to say – if we do run into trouble … you will stay calm?’
Indavara glared at him. ‘I will do what I need to, when I need to.’
‘Of course.’ Cassius had felt he needed to say something but now wished he’d kept quiet. ‘Sorry. I have every confidence in you.’
‘Wish I could say the same.’
Alexon thumped a fist on to the iron rail of the balcony. ‘How long have we been here? Not even a hundred days. I knew it. I knew it.’
He had seen the lantern at the gate and the two men hurry up the drive. Skiron had been gone for a long time and was now returning with Kallikres. Alexon was in no doubt that they were bringing the worst possible news.
Outside the lounge, the maids were packing up clothes and ornaments. Amathea had resisted to begin with but as the hours passed and darkness fell, she had acceded to his request that they at least be ready to leave if need be. She kissed him gently on the cheek and offered him his glass.
He returned the kiss but refused the wine. ‘I must keep a clear head. So should you.’
He heard boots on the steps then hurried across to the landing, Amathea close behind. Skiron came up first. His tunic was soaked, his bald head wet with rain. Kallikres’ hair was plastered to his brow.
‘Well?’ demanded Alexon.
Before Skiron could speak, Kallikres came forward, accidentally kicking a box of valuables.
‘Sorry,’ he spluttered. ‘I wasn’t hiding. I was out working – getting information for you.’
Alexon glanced at Skiron, who nodded. ‘And?’
‘Crispian is reporting to Pomponianus daily. I couldn’t find out what he passed on today but Cosmas – the sergeant who’s been working with Crispian – has been sniffing around the basilica, asking about the factory’s owners and Bathyllos.’
Alexon felt as if he’d been struck. He scraped his fingers down his cheeks then rubbed his forehead.
‘You’re still not exposed, Master,’ said Skiron. ‘They know the name Pylades but not that it’s you.’
Amathea put a hand on his arm. ‘Skiron is right, brother, this is why you were so careful. You have protected us.’
‘Gods, why can’t you see it? Once they had the factory it was over. It’s just a matter of time.’
‘They may not know what’s really there,’ said Kallikres.
‘You,’ spat Amathea. ‘You do not speak unless you are spoken to. If you’d done as you were supposed to we could have eliminated this threat immediately.’
Behind the two new arrivals, the maids were looking on.
‘Get downstairs, you three!’ shrieked Amathea. ‘And send the men and the boy up.’
Alexon walked back into the lounge, past the candles and the couches into the dark centre of the room.
Amathea followed him. ‘Alexon, this is not over yet. We can get rid of this Crispian, this sergeant too.’
‘No, Amathea. It has gone too far now. We have made a good profit and we have the dies; we can start again somewhere new. We clear out the workshop and leave nothing behind. You and I will depart in the morning.’
He looked around the room. ‘I’m just glad we didn’t buy this place.’
Having expected resistance, Alexon was surprised by his sister’s reply.
‘You are right.’ She walked back across the lounge.
Alexon had done his part. Now Amathea would do hers. He followed her back to the landing and watched the three Itureans come up the stairs.
They had been ordered not to drink and had already armed themselves. Their bows were strung and their quivers and long knives hung from their belts. The last of them also had a chain in his hand. Attached to the other end of it was an iron collar around the neck of the young slave Pedrix. The hunter pushed him forward.
Alexon watched Kallikres. The sergeant reached out and touched his lover on the arm. The young man looked up, eyes widening as recognition dawned. The sergeant gulped and opened his mouth but said nothing.
Amathea pointed at Skiron. ‘Grab the workshop crew and a cart. You will empty the place of anything essential and bring it here.’ She pointed at the hunters. ‘Take these three with you in case of trouble.’
‘Yes, Mistress.’