Адриан Голдсуорти - Brigantia

‘Go on!’ shouted the merchant. The other one looked back, then at the gap and hesitated for only a moment. He took two steps along the top of the crane and flung himself across, landing higher than Ferox, and hardly slipped at all. Behind him the merchant leaped and grabbed onto the rope.

The next building was higher by a good few feet, and Ferox managed to haul himself up, helped because this too had ridged tiles and they were easier to grip. By the time he was up the merchant was on the arm of the crane and jumped. He landed badly, scrabbling for a hold until the slave steadied him.

Ferox worked his way along and went higher up the roof, wanting to have a good chance of stopping his fall should he slip. He reached the top, felt around and found what he wanted so stopped, sitting astride the apex. Two of the tiles were loose, and one had a crack he could feel. He got the tips of his fingers underneath the first, prised it up and propped it against his thigh. The next one broke apart as he worked at it, and left him with two handier sized chunks.

‘There he is!’ The merchant’s voice cracked again as he pointed. He and the slave were peering over the edge of the roof. Perhaps the slave was surprised to see their quarry waiting for them, and it was the master who first climbed up, working his way across and upwards, using his hands just like Ferox had done. The slave followed, going slowly and carefully as the rain hammered down even heavier than before.

Ferox waited until he was four or five paces away and threw the first lump of tile. It was about the size of his hand, and a clumsy missile that flew past the merchant’s shoulder. He ducked, slipped a few inches and recovered just as the second fragment, almost as big as the first and more pointed, struck him in the face. If he gasped the noise was lost in the rain, and the involuntary jerk as his head snapped back unbalanced him and he was falling, sliding across the tiles. The slave was reaching for him, mouth wide in a noiseless cry, but he was too far away and the bearded man shot down and vanished over the lip of the roof.

‘You don’t have to die!’ Ferox shouted, trying to be heard over the rain.

The slave did not hear him or did not care, and advanced steadily, now coming as straight as he could towards the perched centurion.

‘I’ll see you’re well treated.’ Still the man came on, saying nothing. Ferox tried to grab another fragment of tile, but the only one that came away was too small to be of use. He lifted the whole piece and slammed it down on the beam underneath. It refused to break. Taking it with both hands, he hurled it at the oncoming slave. The man flung himself upwards, gripping the top of the roof as it flew past, smashing impressively when it landed, and breaking some of the tiles there. His knife must have slipped, for it rolled down until it too dropped into the alley.

‘What is your name?’ Ferox was trying to loosen the closest tiles. He wondered about attacking while the slave was scrabbling up, but did not trust the slippery tiles and still hoped to make the man give in, so that he could at least find out his master’s name. ‘I can help you.’

The slave was on the apex and he stood, his balance impressive on the narrow ridge covering the edges of the tiles. He started walking forward, arms out on either side for balance, going faster and faster. Ferox crouched down, hunching his back, his left arm protectively in front and the right poised to punch. He knew the timing would be crucial, and he still could not believe that the man had not fallen, then the slave hurled himself at the Roman, his arms out in front ready to grab. Ferox punched, felt a good blow connect with the side of the man’s neck, but his weight bore him on and they were both falling, rolling over and over as they sped towards the plunge down. Tiles came loose and slipped away as the struggling men struck them. Ferox butted hard with his head and the man’s grip loosened, then they were at the edge and he just managed to close his fingers around the ridge of a tile, then grasp the top of another, standing proud because the one above had slid away. He jerked to a halt, belly pressed against the edge of the roof, and an awful weight around his legs as the slave clung on. Ferox kicked, and writhed, trying to loosen the hold. The rain helped, for his trousers were soaking and he felt the grip slide down, until the man was hanging with both hands around one of his feet. He slammed the other boot down, felt the impact as the hobnailed sole smashed into the slave’s head. With a wrench that felt as if his other foot was being yanked off, the left boot snapped apart and suddenly the weight was gone. He was not sure whether he imagined the thump of the slave hitting the floor of the alley.

Breathing hard, he managed to get back up onto the roof. He could dimly see two dark shapes down below and neither was moving. There was no sign of anyone else. Much to his surprise, he realised he still had his sock on, and the wool tore several times as he made his way along the roofs. The slave was waiting for him at the hatch in the roof of the brothel. Once again, his face betrayed no surprise even when Ferox climbed inside, lacking a boot, drenched to the skin, and his face scratched and fingers showing numerous cuts. The slave led him down, and then others tended to him and provided him with dry clothes and a pair of shoes, roughly his size. Once he had his weapons on again and a cloak around him, he was ready to leave, profusely thanking the proprietor of the establishment.

‘I didn’t do it for you,’ she said. ‘I just owe Flora. Sure you are not stopping? This is the best in town. No? Please yourself.’

The rain had stopped, but the cloud was thick and the night dark. Ferox wondered about going back and asking for a lantern and then decided against it. Both men still lay in the alley, but someone was stooping over the merchant. It was hard to see, but the figure was not big and when it stood he saw the sweep of long hair. The woman saw him and ran. Without thinking, he gave chase. There was a little light spilled from the badly closed shutters of a bar in the next street and her shape was obvious in the short tunic and high boots – the same worn by the woman gladiator. He could only see the back of her head, but she had long hair that looked dark in this light. She was also fast, and he was not gaining. She swerved into an alley, and he followed, but once inside it was so dark he could no longer see her. There was a noise behind him and he turned too slowly. Something slammed into the back of his head and he felt the vomit coming as he dropped. Then there was only darkness.

FEROX OPENED HIS eyes and still saw nothing, for there was a bindfold tied fast around his face. He was lying on his side, hands pulled hard behind his back and held there, his feet bound together. His cloak had gone, so had his weapons and belt. The floor was wood, so he was indoors and it did not feel very different from the floors of the warehouses he had been in earlier. It felt as if he was in a small room, but whether that was true or he was among stacked goods was hard to say. There was a faint smell of beer and decaying fruit.

The back of his head throbbed and his mouth was full of bile. Memories came back and he could not believe his own stupidity. No one had known where he had gone even before he went chasing fleeing women down dark alleyways. He ought at least to have sent word to Vindex before he went charging off. The scout was a decent enough tracker out in the wilds, but it was too much to hope that he would somehow scent danger and come to the rescue. If he did he would laugh his head off at the thought of his friend being lured into a trap by a woman.

Ferox tried to move his hands, seeing if the knots were loose, and failed. His legs were just as securely bound and there was nothing left to do but wait for whatever fate his captors had in store. The woman had been a fleeting shape in the night and although he was sure it was the one from the arena that did not much help. Probably she served Domitius, and perhaps a woman was a useful killer because few would suspect danger until it was too late. The bearded merchant had not died in the fall and someone, presumably the woman who had been bending over him, had slit his throat. The smell of the blood had been strong and fresh as he had run past in chase.