Aelianus raised his eyebrows and nodded, grinning. ‘Yeah, all of it.’
Magnus slapped him on the shoulder. ‘You did well, my friend, I hope you’ll be as successful with the fire.’
‘It won’t be a problem, Magnus, but I’d appreciate a couple of your lads to help me spread some oil.’
‘Fine. Come over tomorrow and collect your money.’
‘I’m looking forward to it.’
‘Oh, and leave those handcarts here, mate.’
‘They’re no good to you – they’ve got Cohort insignia branded all over them.’
‘I know.’ Magnus turned to his counsellor. ‘Brother, we’ve got work to do. Get a couple of the lads for our good friend here and see him out, and then slowly get the rest moving up to the Lamp-makers’ Street in twos and threes. I’ll meet you there in a couple of hours.’
The two doormen outside Terentius’ establishment were equally as large as those guarding the Albanians’ place. Magnus, however, had nothing to fear from them as he and his party approached the house awhile later.
‘Evening, lads, your master’s expecting me,’ he said, striding up the worn steps to the door of the elegant marble-fronted house. Torches attached to each of the two columns of the portico illuminated the well-crafted drawing of an erect phallus, above the door, succinctly advertising the business transacted within.
The doormen immediately stepped aside, one giving a coded knock on the door as he did so. The viewing slot slid back and a pair of eyes perused Magnus for a few moments before the door opened.
‘One of you show my boys around the back,’ Magnus ordered, pointing down the steps where Marius and his mates stood with the handcart. Behind them the inevitable night-time parade of carts and wagons rumbled past in both directions. The shouts of the drivers and the clatter of hooves and iron-rimmed wheels filled the cold air, and the moonlit darkness was given substance by wisps of smoke and the breath of both man and beast.
Once satisfied that his brothers were being taken care of, Magnus walked through the open door into a small vestibule lined with cloaks. He recognised one as that of a Praetorian. He stepped out into an atrium furnished with couches, some empty and some holding youths in various states of undress. Oil lamps and the orange flicker of flaming sconces gave the room a feeling of intimacy and homeliness. The sweet chords of a lyre blended with the gentle patter of a couple of fountains at either end of the impluvium and any conversation between the boys was conducted in a soft murmur.
A slave in his late twenties, evidently too old to be of interest to most of the clientele but strikingly good-looking nonetheless, proffered Magnus a tray holding cups of wines. He took one at random as Terentius appeared at the far end of the room.
‘You honour me with your presence,’ the whore-boy master said formally, walking elegantly through the room, one foot placed exactly before the other, dressed in a woman’s stola. His long auburn hair fell loose to below his shoulders, half-concealing two drop-pearl earrings. Kohl lined his sea-grey eyes, rouge delicately enhanced his cheeks and his lips were painted a soft pinkish-red.
Really not bad at all, Magnus found himself thinking as he downed his wine, if you like that sort of thing. ‘Thank you, Terentius,’ he replied, placing his empty cup back on the tray and helping himself to another. ‘We have business to discuss.’
‘Come.’ Terentius beckoned with his left arm and inclining his head so that a few strands of hair fell across his face; with an unhurried brush of his right palm he eased them back into place as he turned and walked back the way he had come. His body swayed sensuously beneath the fine fabric of his stola.
Magnus followed, glancing left and right at the whore-boys languishing on their couches and realised that Terentius had not been exaggerating about his taste. They were all exquisite but each in a different way, whether it be skin, hair or physical build; however, they all had one thing in common: they were undeniably beautiful. Each was immaculately turned out, clean and well-groomed and although the perfumes with which they adorned themselves were thicker and headier than those of women, they were still intoxicating.
Magnus raised his eyebrows and found himself wondering whether he might not take advantage of Terentius’ offer to sample the goods on display. He followed the whore-boy master into a corridor with a slanted ceiling. On one side lay moonlit windows looking out onto a courtyard garden; on the other, six evenly-spaced doors on with oil lamps set into a niche in the wall. Four of the lamps were burning.
‘He’s down at the end,’ Terentius whispered.
As they progressed down the corridor Magnus realised that the lit oil lamps were a sign of occupancy.
Terentius reached the last door and knocked three times. After a brief pause it was opened by the same scarred boy who had delivered the message earlier.
‘Is he still sleeping deeply, Bricius?’ Terentius asked, stepping into the room. Magnus followed him in.
‘Yes, master, I’ve poured a few more drops down his throat and he hasn’t stirred,’ Bricius replied, wincing in evident pain from his wound.
Magnus walked in; the room was of a good size and decorated with homo-erotic frescoes depicting acts between men and youths. It was furnished sparsely but with taste and was dominated by a large, richly covered bed upon which lay the recumbent form of Tribune Blandinus, breathing deeply.
‘You’ve done well, Terentius,’ Magnus said approvingly, patting him on the back.
Terentius looked down sadly at Blandinus and stroked his short-cropped black hair before running his hand over his tanned, high cheekbones and then tracing the line of his straight jaw. ‘I won’t ask what’s going to happen to him but I imagine that I won’t see him again. A pity – he was always very good to me, never too gentle but never too bestial, I shall miss him.’
‘Yeah, well, that’s one of them things,’ Magnus mumbled. ‘Fortuna wasn’t kind to him and he drew the long straw. Nothing you can do.’
‘No, I understand.’
‘Now, my lads are around the back with a cart, I need a couple of them in here to help move him.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Terentius replied in a small voice, running his finger along the drugged man’s lips. ‘Bricius, go and fetch them.’
The boy ran off, leaving Magnus watching uncomfortably as the whore-boy master continued caressing Blandinus’ face, kohl-stained tears trickled from his eyes.
Fortunately after a few moments the sound of footsteps came from the corridor. Marius and Sextus came through the door.
‘Right, lads,’ Magnus said with relief, ‘an arm over each shoulder and drag him out to the cart.’
‘Drag him to the cart,’ Sextus repeated slowly, pointing at Blandinus, anxious not to get anything wrong.
‘Yes, Sextus, that’s right, the man on the bed.’
‘Right you are, Magnus.’
As his brothers lifted the sleeping tribune, Magnus found himself putting an arm around Terentius. ‘I’m afraid that this comes from people far above us and there ain’t nothing that I can do unless I risk my standing with them, which I wouldn’t do for no one.’
Terentius sobbed gently. ‘Nor would I, Magnus; I understand how favours work, I’d be a fool not to. It’s just that he was a decent man, who knows what sort of bastard will take his place.’
Magnus nodded and slapped Terentius jovially on the shoulder. ‘You’ll have good news in the morning, my friend.’
‘I hope so. Bricius will see you out.’
As Magnus turned to follow the slave boy out he paused and looked back. ‘Get rid of that Praetorian cloak in the vestibule, just in case someone comes asking any questions.’
Terentius raised his eyes and smiled. ‘I shall have it made into a blanket for my bed.’
Magnus shook his head disbelievingly and left the room.
Magnus walked briskly and with confidence up a narrow street ascending the northern slope of the Viminal. Moonlight and the occasional spill of dim lamplight from an
open window provided just enough illumination for him to keep up a quick pace without fear of losing his footing on the uneven, wet paving stones. Behind him Lucio, Cassandros and the two Armenians struggled with the handcart containing their swords, helmets and the sleeping tribune, who was covered with a leather sheet. Marius and Sextus brought up the rear, hands on the hilts of their daggers at their waists. Now and again a snatch of conversation or the harsh tones of an argument floated out from the dwellings on either side but otherwise their route was comparatively peaceful. The few figures that came into view melted into the shadows before they passed, unwilling to confront or be confronted by a relatively large group led by a man with such an air of authority and purpose.
Upon reaching the top of the Viminal, Magnus turned east towards the looming bulk of the Servian Walls before turning back south and entering the Lamp-makers’ Street at the end furthest from the Viminal Gate.
Signalling to his brothers to stop he looked down its length. He could make out nothing to concern him unduly – a couple of stationary delivery carts off-loading their consignments of blocks of clay wrapped in damp cloth to various workshops on either side of the street.
Servius appeared out of the shadows of a nearby doorway. ‘I’ve had a couple of the lads take a look at the place, there’s no one down the back alley but there was a group of four Vigiles chatting with the doormen at the front.’
‘With luck they should be called away very soon,’ Magnus replied, looking west in the direction of the Tiber. ‘Where’re the rest of the lads?’
‘They all arrived here without mishap; they’re scattered around within earshot of a whistle.’
‘Good. Get a man up on the wall and tell him to keep a lookout for a nice big orange glow from the banks of the Tiber. I’ll take eight men to get rid of those carts.’
Servius nodded and gave a brief, shrill whistle and within a few moments the full complement of eighteen other brothers had assembled; all were wearing Urban Cohort tunics. Urban Cohort cloaks were quickly exchanged for their own, and helmets and swords were distributed from the carts. Cassandros scaled the wall by one of the many sets of steps constructed to allow defenders access.
‘Right, lads,’ Magnus said quietly, addressing the eight men gathered that were to accompany him. ‘Remember, we’re Cohort, so we’re smart, just like we used to be in the legions or the auxiliaries. You march in step and stop as one when I command. If I give any of you an order, you reply, “Yes, sir” or “Yes, optio”, is that clear? Now form up.’
A few of the lads grinned, trying out Magnus’ new title quietly as they arranged themselves into two files of four. At Magnus’ signal they marched forward and turned right into the Lamp-makers’ Street.
Approaching the carts Magnus counted a dozen or so men unloading them. He brought his men to a smart halt ten paces away and walked forward with the strut of a man used to command. The work ceased at the sight of a unit of the Urban Cohort.
‘Whose carts are these?’ Magnus demanded, looking around the faces in the gloom.
A couple of men stepped forward, indistinct in the patchy light.
‘We’re the drivers,’ one of them replied nervously.
‘Then you had better drive them out of here now unless you want them to be impounded and find yourselves up before the aedile.’
‘But we’ve got every right to be unloading at this time of night,’ the other man protested.
‘Not tonight you haven’t.’
‘Why not?’
Magnus pulled back his cloak to reveal his sword. ‘Look, son, I don’t make the rules, I’ve just been told to keep this and a couple of other streets clear until dawn. You can come back tomorrow. Why? I don’t know, nor do I give a fuck. I just do what I’m ordered because it’s easier that way. Now, I’m doing you a favour, I could just impound your carts and take you in but instead I’m giving you the opportunity to bugger off in good order. Which is it to be?’
The two carters looked at each other and came to a mutual agreement. ‘We’ll come back tomorrow.’
‘Good choice, lads.’ Magnus looked at the assembled lamp-makers and their slaves. ‘Inside, all of you, and if you know what’s good for you keep your windows shuttered until after dawn.’
With a deal of muttering, but no outright dissent, the tradesmen dispersed with their slaves and whatever clay they had managed to grab.
The carters mounted their vehicles.
‘I’d turn them around if I were you, lads,’ Magnus suggested helpfully. ‘If you go towards the Viminal Gate you might find a brother optio of mine who’s not nearly as good-natured as myself.’
Muttering their thanks and looking nervously over their shoulders the carters turned their mules, brought the carts round and disappeared back down the street. With a barked order, Magnus turned his men about and they followed.
A whistled double note came from the wall as Magnus reached the end of the street; he looked up to his right to make out the silhouetted figure of Cassandros waving at him. Leaving his men with Servius he jogged over to the steps and mounted them, two at a time, to arrive puffing on to the wide walkway at the top.
‘Over there.’ Cassandros pointed west.
Magnus followed his gaze over the shadowy rooftops of the Subura below, past the white marble edifices of the Palatine and on to the warehouse district in the lee of the tree-lined Aventine. There, sure enough, was a faint orange glow outlining the group of Cypress trees surrounding a temple on the side of the hill. ‘Good man, Aelianus,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Cassandros, go and tell Sextus to have the lads stand by, I’m just going to watch the fire for a few moments to make sure that it’s growing.’
Cassandros nodded and then clattered down the steps, the hobnails of his Cohort sandals causing a few dull sparks on the damp stone. Magnus took in the view. Almost a million people resided in this city – most of them crammed into half of it whilst the lucky, elite minority enjoyed the rest. From where he stood it seemed almost peaceful, hardly a sound reached his ears and the only sure sign of habitation were the many trails of smoke climbing high into the air to form a hazy, moon-drenched ceiling over the Seven Hills. He glanced over his left shoulder towards the brooding presence of the Praetorian camp, just two hundred paces outside the Viminal Gate. Constructed like any other legionary camp its torch-strewn layout was very familiar to Magnus, even though he had never visited it. He offered a silent prayer to Jupiter and Fortuna that it would remain that way after the events of the next half-hour, then checked the progress of the fire. Satisfied that it was escalating, he made his way back down to his brothers who stood ready in a column three abreast. The Armenians stood to the rear with the handcarts that held the ladders and the still recumbent tribune.
Taking his position at the head, Magnus raised his right arm, brought it down swiftly and the column set off in step down the Lamp-makers’ Street. As they progressed, Magnus saw a few shutters on either side of the street open and close quickly, the occupants wanting nothing to do with a unit of the Urban Cohort marching down their road. Magnus smiled to himself, knowing that when questions were asked there would be more than a few witnesses able to swear that they saw the men of the Cohort.
Bringing the column to a halt just before the alley, he turned to Servius. ‘All right, Brother, get your boys into position. And remind the lads we need two people left alive: one of their whore-boys and that bearded bastard who raped the boy the other night.’
Immediately the five ladders were unloaded, and the fourteen men who were to accompany Servius over the rear wall made their way up the alley.
Once the ladders were set against the wall with three men waiting behind each one Magnus patted Servius on the shoulder. ‘Keep the boys quiet, Brother, whilst I go and take a look at the front. I’ll come back and tell you once it’s clear.’
Taking his four lads and the Armenians with the second cart, he made his way to the end of the street and cautiously peered around the corner. The Vi
giles were still there with the doormen but their attention was on the orange glow in the sky to the west.
Magnus waited for what seemed an age, praying that what he had counted upon would come to pass. After many a muttered entreaty to the whole pantheon of gods, a Vigiles optio eventually came pounding up the Via Patricius.
‘You men! Follow me at the double,’ he shouted to his subordinates.
‘But we’re meant to stay here for the night, optio,’ one of the Vigiles protested.
‘Fuck the whore-boys, that’s the Cohort’s depot on fire. The Urban Prefect will have our guts out if he hasn’t got anything to dress his toy-soldiers up in tomorrow. Macro’s ordered every available man down there.’
With a shrug the four Vigiles jogged off towards the conflagration leaving the two doormen alone.
Magnus ran back to the alley. ‘Now, Servius,’ he hissed.
Instantly five men scaled the ladders, then crouched and leant back down to help their comrades. Once all fifteen were on the roof, the ladders were pulled up after them and they split into three groups.
As they disappeared from his vision Magnus went back to join his party. ‘Tigran and Vahram, get our guest ready.’
The Armenian cousins pulled back the leather sheet and, with a degree of difficulty, hefted Blandinus out of the cart and supported him between them, an arm around each shoulder.
Faint shouts and screams suddenly emanated from within the Albanians’ establishment. ‘Right, they’re in,’ Magnus whispered, looking at the two Armenians. ‘When I give you the signal you run around the corner hollering in Albanian for all you’re worth that the place is under attack and you’ve brought a wounded man from round the back. We’ll be twenty paces behind you so you won’t have long to hold the door once you’ve killed the doormen. Don’t worry if you drop matey-boy here, he won’t feel a thing and we’ll pick him up.’
Tigran and Vahram grinned and nodded.
Good boys, Magnus thought as he peered around the corner, could be useful in the future. The doormen had now heard the fighting and were knocking violently on the door. Magnus heard the bolt slam back. ‘Now!’
Magnus and the Crossroads Brotherhood Page 5
