Simon Scarrow - Gladiator - Vengeance

‘Your turn, Marcus.’

He saw Festus reaching a hand down to him, and used Lupus to step up against the wall. His fingers groped in the air and then he felt the man’s powerful grip clamp round his wrist, and he clutched at Festus’s forearm as the latter drew him up the side of the wall on to the tiles running along the top. Marcus felt his heart pounding in his chest, partly from the effort but mostly from the anxious excitement of the moment. Looking down into the garden, he saw a long arrangement of paths, neat flower beds and ornately clipped shrubs. The sound of water tinkling in a fountain came from the far end, close to the slave quarters at the very rear of the property. The main house itself was dark and silent.

‘Come on,’ Festus hissed as he swung his legs down and lowered himself cautiously behind a large bush from which a sweet scent rose into the cool night air. Marcus followed suit and eased himself down before dropping the last few feet and landing softly on the soil. Both of them waited a moment before Festus emerged on to the path beside the flower bed. Fortunately, it was paved rather than gravelled and they made almost no sound as they followed it up to the rear of the main house. An outdoor dining area stood to one side, in the Roman style with long, low stone couches on which cushions could be spread for the comfort of guests. Next to the dining area was a portico with a corridor leading into the darkened interior of the house.

‘How are we going to see our way inside?’ Marcus asked as loudly as he dared.

Festus pointed into the darkness. ‘By the front door. I’ll wager there’s a lamp burning beside the shrine to the household Gods. We’ll use that.’

Marcus followed him into the dark corridor. They proceeded slowly, feeling their way cautiously along the wall. Some twenty feet further on, the corridor opened out into the atrium and a small amount of moonlight shone through the opening above the shallow pool that collected the rainwater. A staircase led up to the second level of the house where the bedrooms were arranged round a landing overlooking the pool. A faint sound of snoring came from above. On the far side was another short length of corridor, at the end of which a wan yellow glow came from a tiny flame.

‘I thought so,’ Festus muttered. ‘Wait here.’

He padded round the edge of the pool and returned a moment later with a small oil lamp. The wavering flame gave just enough light for them to make their way back down the corridor in the direction of the garden. Festus stopped outside the first door and eased it open. He leaned in and raised the lamp high enough to see the interior, then backed out. ‘Just a storeroom.’

The door on the next room let out a dull creak from the hinges as Festus opened it and both of them froze, straining their ears for a few heartbeats. But no one stirred and Festus resumed, easing the door open very slowly, while Marcus winced at each creak of the hinges. When there was enough space to squeeze through, Festus entered the room. Marcus followed and saw by the dim glow of the lamp a desk and a wall covered in sectioned shelves that were piled with scrolls and waxed tablets.

‘Looks promising,’ Festus whispered. ‘Let’s get started.’

He set the lamp down on the desk and indicated the shelves. ‘You start at that end and I’ll begin with the other.’

‘What exactly are we looking for?’ Marcus asked.

‘Anything with a reference to Decimus, Thermon, or any estate in the Peloponnese. Your name, and your mother’s, of course.’

Marcus nodded and padded to the end of the shelves, taking down a small pile of documents, then returning to the desk to look through them. There were bills of sale, inventories of each week’s auctions, a running record of expenses and commissions relating to each sale, and a daily log. Pindarus was clearly in the habit of recording his business affairs in detail and Marcus felt his spirits rise. Such a man would have made some reference to the events of two years ago. Marcus and Festus worked methodically and silently through the scrolls and slates, section by section, being careful to replace them as they had been found. It was a while before it dawned on Marcus that he had been reading through documents in date order. He paused and looked up at the shelves, counting back to where he had started.

‘Of course!’

‘Shhhh!’ Festus hissed.

‘Sorry.’ Marcus pointed to the shelves. ‘I’ve worked it out. Each shelf, starting from the top left, represents six months. Which means that the one we are looking for is …’ Marcus counted the shelves silently and then pointed. ‘It should be that one.’

He crossed to it from the desk and bent down to retrieve the documents. Placing them in the light of the lamp’s flame he opened a scroll and pointed to the date. ‘There. It’s the same year, two months from the date we were kidnapped by Thermon’s men.’

Festus replaced the documents he had been looking at and began to sift through those Marcus had brought to the table. They examined them eagerly and Marcus felt a rising sense of excitement as he wound his way through the scroll on which Pindarus had neatly completed his log at the end of each day. Then he stopped.

‘Here it is … Arrival of cart with six slaves; two Nubians (nameless), two boys from Lesbos (Archaelus and Demetrius), one woman (Livia), her son (Marcus). Placed in cell XIV for auction next day. ’ Marcus looked up triumphantly.

‘Read on,’ Festus ordered. ‘Does it say anything about Decimus?’

Marcus began to wind the scroll, then stopped and looked up quickly.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘I heard something. Outside in the corridor.’

Festus turned towards the door as a shuffling noise came closer. Then the handle turned and the door swung inwards. Blocking the door frame was Pindarus, in a flimsy linen nightshirt, oil lamp in hand. His flabby jaw dropped in astonishment as he stared wide-eyed at the two figures poring over the documents on his desk.

Festus reacted first, throwing down the waxed slate he was examining as he snatched out his dagger and raced towards the door.

His movement broke the brief spell and Pindarus lurched backwards, screaming in a high-pitched voice. ‘Help! Thieves! Murder!’

‘Quiet, you fool!’ Festus snapped as he chased after the auctioneer. Marcus dropped the scroll and raced after his friend. Outside in the corridor he saw Festus with the bulky outline of Pindarus a short distance in front as he rushed into the garden.

‘Help! Help!’

Festus sprinted another few steps and launched himself at Pindarus. He landed on the man’s back, knocking him forward. The auctioneer let out a cry of terror as he fell face first against an urn. There was an explosive grunt before he lay still, with Festus sprawled on top of him. Marcus rushed over as Festus rolled to the side and came up in a crouch, dagger held out to one side, ready for action. But there was no response from Pindarus. No more cries of alarm, not even a sound of breathing.

Marcus dropped down beside the auctioneer’s head and saw in the moonlight that it was twisted at an awkward angle where it butted up against the base of a heavy stone urn in which a small conifer had been planted.

‘Something’s wrong with him. Help me turn him over, Festus.’

Between the two of them they managed to turn the fat man on to his back and his head lolled limply on the flagstones of the garden path. A small, dark dribble spilled out of one of his nostrils as he stared up at the moon. Marcus knelt down beside him and lowered his ear above the man’s lips, but there was nothing. No sound and not the slightest movement of air. He shuffled down and pressed his ear over the soft flesh of the auctioneer’s chest but could detect no heartbeat. Marcus looked up at Festus.