Conn Iggulden - The Death Of Kings

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.