“I feel it too,” Antonidus said in panic. “It could be poison. Put your fingers down your throat, quickly!”
Sulla staggered slightly, going down onto one knee. He seemed about to pass out and Antonidus reached toward him, ignoring his own smaller pain even as it swelled.
He pushed a finger into the Dictator's limp mouth, grimacing as a flood of slippery pulp vomited out of him. Sulla moaned, his eyes rolling back in his head.
“Come on, come on, again,” Antonidus insisted, pressing his fingertips into the soft flesh of the inner throat. The spasms came, ejecting dark bile and saliva from the lips until the Dictator heaved dryly. Then the wrenching chest sagged and the lungs ceased to draw, emptying in one last wheezing breath. Antonidus shouted for help and emptied his own stomach, hoping through his fear that he had not taken enough to kill him.
The guards were quick, but they found Sulla already pale and still and Antonidus semiconscious, spattered with a stinking broth of all they had eaten. He had barely enough strength to rise, but they were frozen, unsure without orders.
“Fetch doctors!” he croaked, his throat feeling raw and swollen. The pain in his stomach began to level off, and he took his hand away, trying to gather himself.
“Seal the house. The Dictator has been poisoned!” he shouted. “Send men to the kitchens. I want to know who brought this slop up here and the name of everyone who touched it. Move!” His strength seemed to leave him in that moment, and he let himself sag back onto the couch where he had been so peacefully discussing the Senate only minutes before. He knew he had to act quickly or Rome would erupt in chaos as soon as the news hit the streets. Once more he vomited, and when he was done he felt weak, but his mind began to clear.
When the doctors rushed in, they ignored the general to tend to Sulla. They touched him at the wrist and neck and looked at each other in horror.
“He is gone,” one of them said, his face white.
“His killers will be found and torn apart. I swear it on my house and my gods,” Antonidus whispered, his voice as bitter as the taste in his mouth.
* * *
Tubruk reached the small door that led out to the street just as shouts erupted in the main buildings of Sulla's city home. There was only one guard there, but the man was alert and ready, his face forbidding.
“Get back on your way, slave,” he said firmly, his hand on his gladius. Tubruk growled at him and leapt forward, punching him off his feet with a sudden blow. The soldier fell awkwardly, knocked senseless. Tubruk paused, knowing he could step quickly over him, through the little trade entrance, and be gone. The man would recognize him and be able to give a description, though he could well be executed for failing to hold the gate. Tubruk took a grip on the despair that had filled him since killing Casaverius. His duty was to Cornelia and Julius—and to the memory of Julius's father, who had trusted him.
Grimly, he drew his small knife and cut the soldier's throat, standing clear so as to avoid getting blood on his clothes. The man gurgled with the cut, his eyes clearing for a moment before death took him. Tubruk dropped the knife and opened the gate, stepping out onto the city streets and into the thin crowd of people and food stalls, walking their peaceful journeys unknowing as the old wolf moved through them.
He had to reach Fercus to be safe, but there was more than a mile to go, and though he moved quickly he could not run for fear of someone spotting and chasing him. Behind, he could hear the familiar clatter of soldiers' sandals as they took up position and began halting the crowds, searching for weapons, looking for a guilty face.
More legionaries ran past him, their gazes sweeping the crowd as they tried to get ahead and close the road. Tubruk took a side street and then another, trying not to panic. They would not know yet whom they were looking for, but he had to shave the beard as soon as he was safe. Whatever happened, he knew they must not take him alive. At least then, with luck, they might never link him to the estate and Julius's family.
As the soldiers began to close the road, a man in the crowd suddenly ran, throwing aside a basket of vegetables he had been carrying. Tubruk thanked the gods for the man's guilty conscience and tried not to look back as the soldiers brought him down, squealing as they cracked his head onto the stone street. Tubruk walked through turning after turning with hurried steps, and the shouting was left behind at last. He slowed his pace in the darkening shadows as he reached the alley that Fercus had told him to make for. At first he thought it was deserted, but then he saw his friend step out from an unlit doorway and beckon to him. He went inside quickly, his nerves close to breaking, finally collapsing in the dirty little room that meant safety, at least for a while.
“Did you do it?” Fercus asked as he tried to get his breath back and his racing pulse to slow.
“I think so. We will know tomorrow. They have closed off the streets, but I made it clear. Gods, it was close!”
Fercus handed him a razor and motioned to a bowl of cold water.
“You still have to get clear of the city, my friend. And that will not be easy if Sulla is dead. If he is alive, it will be next to impossible.”
“Are you ready to do what you have to?” Tubruk said quietly, rubbing the water into the bushy growth that covered his face.
“I am, though it hurts me to do it.”
“Not as much as it will hurt me. Do it quickly once I have shaved.”
He noticed his hand trembled as he used the narrow blade and cursed to himself as he cut the skin.
“Let me do it,” Fercus said, taking the razor from him. For a few minutes there was silence between them, though their thoughts ran wildly.
“Did you get out without being seen?” Fercus asked as he worked at the stubborn bristle. Tubruk didn't answer for a long time.
“No. I had to kill two innocent men.”
“The Republic can stand a little blood on its hem if Sulla's death restores equality to Rome. I cannot regret what you have done, Tubruk.”
Tubruk remained silent as the blade cut away the last of his beard. He rubbed his face, his eyes sad.
“Do it now, while I feel numb.”
Fercus took a deep breath, walking around to face the old gladiator. There was nothing left of the shambling Dalcius in his strong face.
“Perhaps . . .” Fercus began hesitantly.
“It is the only way. We discussed this. Do it!” Tubruk gripped the arms of the chair as Fercus raised a fist and began to beat his face into an unrecognizable mess. He felt his nose break along old lines and spat onto the floor. Fercus breathed heavily and Tubruk coughed, wincing.
“Don't stop . . . yet,” he whispered through the pain, wanting it to be over.
When they were finished, Fercus would return with him to his own home, leaving the rented room behind without a trace of them. Tubruk would be chained into a coffle of slaves leaving the city, his face swollen. His last act before the slave market had been to sign a chit of sale under his own name. Fercus would deliver one more anonymous slave to the estate outside the city, ready for a backbreaking life of work in the fields.
At last, Tubruk raised a hand and Fercus stopped, panting and amazed at how much effort the beating had taken to give. The man who sat in the chair bore only a small resemblance to the one who had come in from the streets. Fercus was satisfied.
“I never beat my slaves,” he muttered.
Tubruk raised his head slowly. “You have not beaten one now,” he said, swallowing blood.
* * *
Brutus ducked below a ridge of stone, panting. Their pursuers had brought bows and his quick glimpse had shown two archers hanging back while the others crept cautiously toward their position. As soon as he and Renius were forced to show themselves, the shafts would bite into them and it would be over.
Brutus pressed as closely as he could to the dark rock, thinking furiously. He was sure he'd recognized Livia's husband as one of the archers, so it looked as if the man had been persuaded of her innocence while there was no
one to argue with her. No doubt she would welcome him home as a hero if he dragged Brutus's body behind him.
The thought of her warmed Brutus for a moment. Her dull husband would probably never appreciate what he had.
Renius had given his dagger to the younger man, preferring the solid weight of his gladius. Brutus had his own sword sheathed and a small blade in each hand as he waited. He knew he could throw them well enough to kill, but he would hardly have a chance to aim before the archers sighted on him. It would be close.
He put his head over the ridge and took in the positions of the men climbing toward him. The archers shouted a warning to their companions, but Brutus was already out of sight and moving to a new position. This time, he rose fully and sent one knife flashing before he threw himself down.
A shaft buzzed overhead, but Brutus grinned as he heard the knife strike flesh. He moved again, further along the ridge near to Renius, the second knife ready in his hand.
“I think you just scratched him,” Renius muttered.
Brutus frowned at him for disturbing his concentration, flushing as a stream of raging oaths sounded over the crest.
“And annoyed him,” Renius added.
Brutus tensed for another attempt. He would have loved to aim at one of the archers, but the bows could just be picked up by another and they stood farthest from the small ridge that hid the Romans.
He leapt up to find one of them almost on top of him. The man gaped at the sudden apparition and Brutus sank the blade into his exposed throat, dropping back and scrambling away on his stomach, raising dust.
Two more came at Brutus then, swinging blades. He rose to meet them, trying to keep an eye on the archers behind and spoil their aim with sudden steps left and right.
A shaft creased the air by his legs as the first Greek was impaled on his gladius. Brutus hung on to the slumping body, using it as a shield. Though he was dying, the man shouted and swore at Brutus as the young man danced him to one side and then another. An arrow came from nowhere to spear into the man's back, and blood spilled out of his mouth onto Brutus's face. Brutus swore and heaved the body into the arms of his companion, then whipped his gladius up into the man's groin in the classic legion thrust. They fell away in silence onto the shrubs and flowers, and Brutus found himself looking at Livia's husband at the moment he released his arrow.
He began to move, but the blurring shaft reached him as he turned, knocking him onto his back. The armor had saved him and Brutus blessed his gods for luck as he rolled. He came up to see Renius punch Livia's husband flat before facing the last of them, who stood terrified, with his arms quivering under the strain of the bow.
“Easy, boy,” Renius called to him. “Go down to your horse and go home. If you fire that thing, I'll bite your throat out.”
Brutus took a pace toward Renius, but the old gladiator held out a hand to stop him.
“He knows what he has to do, Brutus. Just give him a little time,” Renius said clearly. The young man holding the taut bow shook his head, looking pale with tension. Livia's husband writhed on the ground and Renius pressed a foot onto his neck to hold him.
“You've had your battle, boys, now go home and impress your wives with the story,” Renius continued, gently increasing the pressure so that Livia's husband began to claw at his foot, choking.
The archer eased his grip and took two paces away. “Let him go,” he said in a heavy accent.
Renius shrugged. “Throw your bow away first.”
The young man hesitated long enough for Livia's husband to go purple, and then threw the bow over the rocks behind him with a clatter. Renius removed his foot, allowing Livia's husband to scramble up, wheezing. The old gladiator didn't make a move as the two young Greeks put distance between them.
“Wait!” Brutus called suddenly, freezing them all. “You have three horses you don't need down there. I want two of them.”
* * *
Cornelia sat with her back straight, her eyes bright with worry as she faced Antonidus, the one they called Sulla's dog.
The man was merciless, she knew, and he watched every change in her face as he questioned her with a terrifying concentration. She had heard nothing good of Sulla's general, and she had to fight not to show fear or relief at the news he had brought. Her daughter was asleep in her arms. She had decided to call her Julia.
“Your father, Cinna, does he know you are here?” he asked, his voice clipped as his gaze bored into her.
She shook her head slightly. “I do not think so. Sulla called for me from my husband's home outside the city. I have been waiting in these rooms with my baby for days now, without seeing anyone except slaves.”
The general frowned, as if something she had said didn't ring true, but his eyes never left hers. “Why did Sulla summon you?”
She swallowed nervously and knew he had seen it. What could she tell him? That Sulla had raped her with her daughter crying at her side? He might laugh or, worse, think she was trying to blacken the great man's name after his death and have her killed.
Antonidus watched her writhe in worry and fear and wanted to slap her. She was beautiful enough for it to be obvious why she had been summoned, though he wondered how Sulla could have been aroused by a body still loose from birth.
He wondered if her father had been behind the murder, and almost cursed as he realized there was yet another name to add to the list of enemies. His informants had told him Cinna was on business in the north of Italy, but assassins could have been sent from there. He stood suddenly. He prided himself on his ability to spot a liar, but she was either witless or knew nothing.
“Don't travel. Where will you be if I need to bring you back here?”
Cornelia thought for a moment, fighting the sudden elation. She was going to be released! Should she return to the town house or travel back to Julius's family estate?
Clodia was probably still there, she thought.
“I will be outside the city at the house where I was sought before.”
Antonidus nodded, his thoughts already on the problems he faced.
“I am sorry for the tragedy,” she forced herself to say.
“Those responsible will suffer greatly,” he said, his voice hard. Again, she felt the intensity of his interest in her, making her own expression seem false under his scrutiny.
After a moment more, he stood and walked away across the marble floor. The baby awoke and began to whimper to be fed. Alone and deprived of a nurse, Cornelia bared her breast to the child's mouth and tried not to cry.
CHAPTER 7
Tubruk awoke, cramped and stiff with cold in the darkness of the slave house. He could hear other bodies move around him, but there was no sign of dawn in the chain room where they slept and were made ready for travel.
From the first hours with Fercus, working out the details, it was this part that he had barely allowed himself to consider. It seemed a small worry with the possibility of torture and death to come if the attempt on Sulla's life had failed, or if he was caught escaping. There were so many ways for him to suffer a disaster that the night and day he would spend as a slave had been pushed to the back of his mind, almost forgotten.
He looked around him, his eyes making out shapes even in the dark. He could feel the weight of the metal cuffs holding his hands to the smooth chain that clinked at the slightest movement. He tried not to remember what it had been like the first time, but his memory brought back those nights and days and years until they clustered and murmured within him and it was hard not to cry out. Some of the chained men wept softly, and Tubruk had never heard a more mournful sound.
They could have been taken from distant lands, or had slavery forced upon them for crime or debt. There were a hundred ways, but to be born to it was worse than all the rest, he knew. As small children, they could run and play in happy ignorance until they were old enough to understand they had no future but to be sold.
Tubruk breathed in the smells of a stable: oil and straw, sweat an
d leather, clean human animals who owned nothing and were owned themselves. He pulled himself upright against the weight of the chains. The other slaves thought he was one of them, guilty of something to have been beaten so badly. The guard had marked him as a troublemaker for the same reason. Only Fercus knew he was free.
The thought brought no comfort. It was not enough to tell himself that he was just a short journey from the estate and freedom. If you are thought a slave and if you are chained in darkness, unable even to rise, where then is precious liberty? If a free man is bound to a slave coffle, he is a slave, and Tubruk felt the old nameless fear he had felt in the same room decades before. To eat, sleep, stand, and die at another's whim—he had returned to that, and all his years of pride in winning his way to freedom seemed ashes.
“Such a fragile thing,” he said, just to hear his voice aloud, and the man next to him grunted awake, almost pulling Tubruk over as he struggled up. Tubruk looked away, thankful for the darkness. He did not want the light to come through the high windows to reveal their faces. They were heading for short, brutal lives in fields, working until they fell and could not rise. And they were like him. Perhaps one or two of the men in this room would be picked out for their strength or speed and trained for the circus. Instead of ending their lives as crippled water carriers or taken by disease, they would bleed away their futures into the sand. One or two might have children of their own and see them taken for sale as soon as they had their growth.
The light came slowly, despite him, but the chained slaves were still, listless in their confinement. For many, the only sign of wakefulness was a slight noise of the chain as they stirred. With the light came food and they waited patiently.
Tubruk reached to his face and winced as he gauged the swelling from Fercus's blows the night before. The guard's surprise had been obvious when Tubruk was brought in. Fercus had never been a cruel man and the guard knew Tubruk must have insulted him grievously to have such an obvious beating on the very night before being delivered to his new owners.
No questions had been asked, of course. Even though the slaves might pass only a few days in the house while Fercus took his profit, he owned them as utterly as the chair he sat in or the clothes he wore.
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