David Drake - Killer

"Quite sure," N'Sumu said. His eyes focused on the courtier as if Crispinus were a slab of meat on a butcher's block. Still staring at Crispinus, the Egyptian went on. "If I may have your leave, lord and god, to proceed in informing you?"

"Granted," said Domitian softly. He was beginning to smile also, though no one around him could be certain of the reason. Crispinus was beginning to perspire heavily, as if he too had been a participant in the archery.

"Doubtless this sauropithecus was driven far to the north by this same drought I have described," N'Sumu continued, smiling again and toward Domitian now. "There it was captured, almost certainly in a weakened state, by the Numidians. Now, the sauropitheci invariably travel in pairs, but no doubt the other one died from starvation, and just this one survived. From the description I've heard, there has been no mention of the striking red crest and the long curved horn in the center of the forehead that characterizes the male of the species. So it is the female which survived, and she is almost certainly gravid. They breed very actively, these sauropitheci, and the female continues to lay fertile eggs through several broods. All we have to do is capture this one, provide her with a secure place for parturition, then wait for her to produce chicks."

The Egyptian paused. With a smile whose humor only the Emperor himself seemed to appreciate, he added: "And we must provide her with food, of course. Considerable quantities of food. But the meat need not be slaughtered before we offer it to the creature-and your divine excellency will not find these feedings dull."

Domitian began to laugh-a high-pitched cackle that increased the fear of those about him. He nodded to his loader and took the bow again, but it was to N'Sumu that he said, "You've spoken to the hunter, then? This Lycon?"

"Not yet, lord and god," the tall man replied. "I did not wish to interfere in the present search without your divine approval. I questioned only those who had some knowledge of the sauropithecus."

"All right," said the Emperor, as his fingers toyed with the bow. The nocked arrow had an ordinary head with a sharp point and edges in the form of a narrow wedge. "You're in charge of the hunt. Sosius!" The first secretary was already jotting shorthand notes on the tablet he held ready. "Cut the orders on that. Lycon is to take orders from you, N'Sumu, and if the beastcatcher objects to being placed under your command, send word to Crispinus here. That Greek's had time enough to recapture the beast."

"I don't think there will be any difficulty, lord and god," N'Sumu responded smoothly, as the Emperor's attention returned to his arrow and to the frightened steward still with his arms back against the beech. "I gather that your man Lycon is competent enough in the ordinary way. He simply lacks experience with sauropitheci; but then I am certainly the only hunter on this shore of the Mediterranean who has such experience. Lycon and the support system he has developed will be very useful to me in my operations-so long as he cooperates."

Domitian shot and reloaded, shot and reloaded again. "As you wish, Egyptian," he said without concern. The crack of iron arrowheads striking hard wood had been damped somewhat this time, because the most recent pair of arrows had pinned the steward's wrists to the tree. The man's mouth opened and closed like that of an ornamental carp sucking air at the surface of a pond. Because of the shock, both physical and mental, the steward was not making a sound. He was pinned as neatly as if he were being crucified; the arrows, like the supporting nails on the crossbar, were driven beneath the wrist joint. The flesh of the victim's hands would not have enough strength to support the body's weight.

"Only I want you to remember," the Emperor went on as he drew the third arrow that the loader had handed him, "that I do expect success. I don't like it when people fail me. Remember that."

Domitian loosed. This time the steward screamed. The last arrow had been one of the sickle-headed missiles intended for birds.

"Oops," said Domitian, daintily covering his lips to hide the amused giggle.

As his giggle became a high-pitched cackle, the onlookers joined in on his jest. "Bravo! Magnificent! Exquisite!"

Formion was nodding his way from pleasant reverie and into dream, when Dulicius shook him out of the warmth of the Gallic wench's body and back to the cold reality of the filthy alleyway in which the two lay in wait. The Greek boxer scowled for a moment into the darkness, wreathed with smoke and mist from the Tiber nearby. Formion did not utter a sound, despite relinquishing his dream. This was a familiar reality into which he returned, and if his partner's judgment proved sound as usual, there would be more visits to the blonde-haired whore whose favors defined pleasure to the full extent of the Greek's imaginings.

"Where?" It was more a sigh of breath than speech, as Formion unfolded to full height and alertness.

"There," Dulicius whispered, pointing toward the river. The full moon gave barely enough light to make out the moving silhouette. Once the figure glided into the shadow of surrounding buildings, it would be invisible.

"I've seen her before, I think," Dulicius confided. From its short stature, he had evidently decided the dimly seen figure was that of a woman-the tail of her mantle pulled over her head.

"Someone dressed like a Gaul with that hood," Formion advised. "We don't know who it is."

"Look again," sneered his partner. "Only a woman can move like that. I tell you, I've seen her here before. I ask you, why is she out at this hour of night?"

"Doesn't mean she has anything worth taking," Formion argued. He was cold from dozing against the wall, and his thick bunches of muscle seemed to grate together as he flexed them.

"Ass," Dulicius chided. "Any woman has something worth taking. Besides, it's growing late, and I'm near frozen."

"True enough," Formion acknowledged. Maybe it would be the blonde Gallic woman of his dream. He stretched his stiff muscles, glided outward into the fog behind Dulicius.

The two footpads had a simple routine, and it had always worked-at least, always worked when their mark was alone and more likely than not dull from drink and the late hour. Dulicius, a ferret of a man, approached directly-just another ragged beggar whining for a handout. Formion, moving quite silently for a man of his size, crept up from behind, choosing his moment to throw an armlock about the throat or to swing his weighted cudgel, as the situation required. If that situation required anything further, Dulicius could move very quickly with his knife he carried in one ragged sleeve, and that knife could pierce ribs or slit a throat with equal suddenness and finality.

"A cold night," Dulicius greeted the cloaked figure.

She had seemed to pause an instant before she could have been aware of his smiling approach, and that only confirmed his impression of tonight's victim. Coin or no, they would have a moment of pleasure, and then the Tiber awaited. In truth, she seemed hunched and thin within her cloak. Well, as was said…

Formion arose instantly from the darkness behind her-his strong right arm hinging across her throat, his left hand clamping over her face, doubly to stifle any outcry. Her feet lifted from the paving as the Greek drew back-she was smaller than her billowing cloak had indicated-and Dulicius glided in with his knife, to prove to her the sure outcome of any resistance.

The Greek's muscular forearm closed upon empty air and an emptier hood. His free hand only bunched her cloak together stupidly, as Formion's mouth opened impossibly wide and the big man stumbled backward. He sat abruptly down on the damp paving-damper now from the blood and fluids that spilled from his belly. He folded his hands over the tumble of intestines that rolled onto the paving. His eyes, as they focused dully upon his partner, were accusing.