Gordon Doherty - Legionary

The location was unbecoming of men of such high station. Dank and musty, the dripping brickwork glistened all around him like the night sky. The life of a sewer rat, Senator Peleus shivered, pulling his robe a little tighter around his slender frame.

From above, the dull and distant clopping of palace slaves going about their business reverberated around the cellar vault. Yet, while they worked in the sunlit land of the living, their master was to conduct his business down here with a senator. How absurd!

Even more absurd was the fact that Peleus had never taken such a risk, indeed any risk, in his entire career. Until now. And this risk would be shared with every soul in the empire. The promise of wealth and power had seemed so much more glamorous when he had talked it over with the bishop at the festival, hubris and wine coursing through his veins. Now there was only the chill reality of what they had set in motion. It’s not too late , a voice screamed in his head. He tried to remember the count of pillars, and then turned to step away from the candlelight.

Behind him, a shadowy figure emerged from the gloom.

Outside the main gate of the Palace of the Holy See, a gangly, hook-nosed and shaven-headed young man stood in front of the two urban guards, looking to each one expectantly.

‘Yep, he’s legit,’ the first guard grunted to his colleague, ‘the bishop said to expect a slave from Senator Tarquitius. Search ‘im though.’

Pavo raised his arms with a sigh of resignation as the second guard began patting down his frayed brown tunic. Clearly, he carried only the wax tablet in his hand, but slaves will be slaves and the urban guard will be whoresons, he chuckled to himself. Then he winced as the guard ran fingers over the fresh scabs on his ribs. He gazed up at the main gate and then the ornate structure inside. This would be his first visit to the palace. Despite passing it almost every time he was sent on one of these errands, its magnificence never failed to captivate. Indeed, he considered, it rivalled even the Imperial Palace in sheer size.

‘He’s clear,’ the guard grunted, ‘smells like he’s been rolling in camel turds though.’

‘Funny you should say that. I have , just for you…’ Pavo beamed.

‘On your way, stinkin’ runt,’ the first guard shoved the gate open and the second bundled him forward.

Pavo inhaled the fresh medley of winter blooms lining the courtyard. If only he had time to dawdle, he mused. No, hand over the wax tablet, pick up the package, and head straight back by noon. Otherwise, as his ribs testified, Tarquitius’ animal bodyguard, Fronto, would use him as a whipping post yet again. So no time to sneak in a little reading session at the library either, he sighed. There was a tiny sliver of give in his schedule though, he mused, feeling the coiled wire concealed under his tongue.

He hopped up the steps, waving the wax tablet at the guards on the door.

‘Secretary’s office is straight through,’ the guard nodded to the door at the end of the hallway.

The air inside was pleasantly warm thanks to the underfloor heating, despite the cavernous ceilings. He noted the small and very ordinary oak door about half way along, touching his tongue to the concealed wire once more. Each of his footsteps sent a clattering echo around the vast space, quieting only as he entered the modestly sized office at the end. Between a tight spiral staircase and a window on the far side of the office, the secretary, a squat and puffy faced old man, sitting by a table covered with sealed papers and a stack of scrolls; his brow furrowed as he studied one.

‘Message from Senator Tarquitius?’ Pavo offered.

The secretary looked up, angered at the interruption. ‘Hmm?’ Then his face lightened. ‘Oh, yes.’ He ducked down under the table and rummaged before reappearing with a small canvas purse. He held his hands out for the tablet and dropped the sack into Pavo’s grip, then scribbled something on a piece of parchment, tore it free and handed it to Pavo and returned to his scroll without further comment. Pavo wondered at the metallic clunking from the weighty purse. Probably enough currency to buy his freedom a thousand times over, he mused. Then his mind turned to his other business.

Turning back into the corridor, he checked all around; no guards looking his way. He slipped off his sandals and tucked them into his belt; now his steps were silent on the floor and the guards at the main entrance oblivious to his presence. He rooted the wire from his mouth with a finger, uncoiled it into a two-pronged fork-shape, and then slipped it into the lock, placing his other hand on the handle. He twisted until something caught on the prongs and then turned, but the wire bent like a limp rag. Damn it! Even his thoughts seemed to echo along the hall and he shot another nervous glance at the door guards, but they were still turned. He reshaped the wire and tried again. This time, with an iron clunk, the lock moved and the handle turned. The door edged open in merciful silence. He held his breath and slipped into the darkness it concealed. With a muted clunk, the door was closed again, and he was on a shadowy staircase, punctuated only by an occasional candle. The cold stone grew damp underfoot as he descended, until it became decidedly wet as he reached the bottom. A network of cellar vaults disappeared off into darkness in front of him. He made his way carefully forward. The treasure room was just beyond this shadowy honeycomb. The treasure room and the golden idol of Jupiter. A shiver of fear and anticipation danced up his spine.

Only a week previously, Pavo had been sitting on the edge of the Augusteum resting against a palm, swigging from his water skin. Having run to the senate house and then to the walls to drop off packages, he had earned himself some precious time. He had resolved to catch his breath and then head for the library, but a hand had gripped his shoulder.

‘I have a job that needs taking care of, and I hear you’re always keen to earn a few extra coins?’ A jagged Greek voice asked.

Pavo had looked up to see a broad nose poking from a hooded cloak. ‘You must have mistaken me for someone else.’

‘I don’t think so,’ the Greek continued, unperturbed. ‘My client is unhappy that something which belongs to him is in the hands of the Holy See. The door to the treasure vault has a flaw in its lock. Take this wire…’

Forty folles were to be his for retrieving the idol. Probably a scant fraction of the value of the piece, but a slave could never hope to sell the idol. More importantly, those forty folles were another step towards buying his freedom. Well, if his money did not go missing again, as it had last year when he had almost accrued enough.

Pavo stumbled on a loose flagstone, yanking him back to the present in the dark, cold cellar vaults. How long had he been walking? Had he taken a wrong turn? He cursed his own absent-mindedness. Then his eyes settled on a dim orange glow up ahead. Then, as he stalked forward, something flickered in the light that halted the blood in his veins; some amorphous figure, as tall as a person, writhing in the gloom. He crouched as he approached, feeling his way around each pillar until he heard it — a soft gurgle.

His heart thundered as the shape took form in the candlelight: two heads, one facing Pavo, eyes bulging, mouth retching, blood sputtering from its lips; the other, white haired, faced away from Pavo, hugging the first and jerking violently once, twice and again, each time another jet of blood would lurch from the first head’s mouth. Pavo covered his lips and stumbled back in disgust, the purse thudding onto the ground.

At once, the shape split into two. The first part was a bleeding head with staring eyes on top of a tall, lean body, pockmarked with stab wounds. The second part was a white-haired old man in equally white, pristine robes, his hand and the dagger in it coated in a starkly contrasting crimson. The tall figure crumpled to the ground with a last rattle of breath. The old man stared at Pavo. Then he stalked forward. Pavo mouthed silent syllables, scrabbling back on the heels of his hands. The old man emitted a howl and rushed for him, dagger raised. Pavo grabbed the purse, scrambled to his feet, and hurtled into the darkness of the vaults.