Nick Brown - The Emperor's silver

The owner had told them that it was exactly a hundred feet wide and fifty deep, a two-storey building bookended by modest but elegant towers with a fine terrace overlooking the drive. Ivy covered much of the brickwork, providing a home for dozens of pretty little birds. Above the front door was an old carving of some local god; a female figure reaching for the heavens.

His sister was already on the terrace, awaiting their visitor. Alexon glanced down at the main gate. Kallikres had just tethered his horse. He shut the gate behind him and started up the sloping drive, head bowed.

‘A pleasant walk, brother?’ asked Amathea.

‘Very, thank you.’

Alexon sat next to her, under a parasol.

Skiron, their steward, looked on silently from the side of the terrace. He was fifty-something but had the upright stance and muscled physique of a man half that age. He had no hair upon his head and a pair of bulging, piercing, bright blue eyes. He had been with them for years.

‘Oh, you’ve almost finished it,’ said Alexon, looking at the sewing draped across Amathea’s lap. She had been working on the tablecloth for some time and he was pleased she had persisted; it seemed to help her relax. She smiled and pushed the needle into the cotton once more.

Though they were not identical twins, the resemblance was obvious. Both were slim and tall, with less than an inch of difference in height and only four at the waist. They had the same flawless skin, green eyes and dark brown hair. In Alexon’s experience, everyone found one of them attractive, many people both. It had often occurred to him that even naked their superior breeding and status would have been clear. In their clothes of Egyptian linen and Oriental silk, and with their jewellery of gold and silver, it was unmistakable.

‘They’re here,’ said the steward. ‘In case we need them.’

‘Thank you, Skiron,’ said Alexon.

Kallikres came up the steps warily. He was wearing a well-made tunic and a wide-brimmed hat which he now removed. He ran a hand through his curly black hair – which glistened with sweat – and offered a thin smile.

‘Good day to you.’

Alexon nodded.

‘Good day,’ said Amathea.

Alexon gestured at the chair opposite them. Kallikres found himself facing the sun; he had to squint just to look at them.

‘Wine?’ asked Alexon.

‘Thank you.’

Skiron came forward and poured it from a silver jug into a multicoloured glass. Kallikres drank half of it in one go.

‘Well?’ said Alexon. ‘You wanted to see us?’

‘Yes. One of your men was spotted at the market yesterday. By a Milanese clerk who remembered his face. The clerk told the procurator. The procurator told the magistrate.’

‘We are aware of this situation,’ replied Alexon calmly.

Kallikres leaned back and crossed his arms. ‘I told you to be careful. And yet there he was, walking around in broad daylight without a care in the world.’

‘Steps have been taken,’ said Alexon. ‘There won’t be any more mistakes like that.’

‘One is enough. I thought you people were professional.’

Alexon kept his tone conciliatory. ‘Not everything can be foreseen. That’s why we have you – to keep us informed. What action is being taken?’

‘Nothing specific that I have heard about yet.’

‘Hardly any need to panic then,’ said Alexon. ‘So the man was spotted. Taken alone, his presence here means little. They may well assume that he was simply passing through.’

‘Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps the magistrate will do nothing. But if there’s another “mistake” then things could get very difficult very quickly. Sorry, but I’ve made my decision.’

Kallikres reached into his tunic, retrieved a bag of coins and put it on the table. ‘I haven’t taken a single one. Count them if you wish. Let’s just pretend this never happened.’

Alexon glanced at his sister. She pushed her hair away from her face and discarded her sewing.

‘I think we all know it’s a little late for that,’ said Alexon.

‘You have my word. I’ll say nothing. Here.’ Kallikres pushed the bag across the table and got to his feet.

‘Stay where you are.’

Alexon was sure Kallikres had never exchanged more than a greeting with his sister. Her words halted him.

Skiron walked around the terrace and stood behind their guest.

‘With respect,’ said Kallikres, ‘I am a city sergeant. I can do as I please.’

Amathea gestured at the meadow below them. ‘We’re a long way from the city. This is not going well for you. Sit down, or I promise you it will get a good deal worse.’

Alexon kept quiet. He supposed other men might have felt ashamed. But not him; he loved and admired her too much.

Kallikres looked at him, then back at Amathea, who pointed at his chair. The sergeant smiled in disbelief. Alexon guessed he had never been told what to do by a woman before. But he sat down.

Amathea turned to Skiron. ‘Bring them.’

The steward whistled and a lad ran out of the house. Skiron whispered to him and he hurried back inside.

Nothing more was said for a while.

Kallikres tried to appear calm by finishing off his wine. ‘What are we waiting for?’

Amathea watched the three men file on to the terrace. ‘Them.’

The trio were dressed in long green tunics with breeches cut of the same hardy material. They had thick, dark beards and unkempt hair. Each was carrying a long bow on his shoulder and a knife and quiver at his belt. They appeared unrelated but shared the same rangy physique, leathery skin and resolute gaze of those for whom violence is a way of life.

‘Itureans,’ explained Amathea with some relish. ‘Hunters from the hills below the great mountain. We don’t even have to pay them, would you believe? All they ask for is enough to eat and drink and a girl each. They all insisted on blondes, of course.’

One of the maids was dusting furniture just inside the door. A word from Amathea and an order from Skiron sent her running up to the table. She wasn’t overly pretty but had a pleasant enough face and a fine head of straw-coloured hair. She and the other two were from Germania and had cost a small fortune; but they could at least double as domestic staff.

Amathea was still looking at the hunters. ‘Every one of these fellows can skewer a pear at a fifty paces.’

Kallikres wiped his clammy face. ‘You wish to intimidate me, is that it?’

Amathea said, ‘It is one thing to hear of such skill, but another to see it. Girl, are you Lyra or Chloe? I always get you two mixed up.’

‘Lyra, Mistress.’

‘Take a pear from the bowl there.’

The girl did so.

‘Amathea.’ Alexon spoke softly. He expected to be ignored but felt he had to say something. Surely this would cause more problems than it would solve.

Amathea appeared not to have heard him. ‘Lyra, walk down to the meadow beside the drive. Stop when you’ve taken thirty paces, then turn towards us and put the pear on your head.’

Kallikres put up both hands. ‘This is not necessary. Why involve the girl?’

‘Off you go,’ said Amathea.

Lyra looked at Skiron, who cursed at her in Latin. Instead of obeying, she turned to one of the hunters, eyes pleading. The man spoke to Skiron in Aramaic. The steward translated.

‘Mistress, he doesn’t want his girl harmed.’

‘Then he’d better shoot straight,’ said Amathea.

The hunter understood that he had been given his orders. He took Lyra’s arm and led her to the steps. She descended them shakily.

‘Let’s end this now,’ said Kallikres, retrieving his money. ‘You’ve made your point. I’ll cooperate.’

Amathea ignored him too.

As Lyra continued down the slope, the hunter took his bow from his shoulder. He tested the string a couple of times then shook his head and spoke once more to Skiron.