The Emperor's Knives: Empire VII (Empire 7) Page 11

  ‘And that’s the other problem.’

  Scaurus turned his attention back to the veteran centurion.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Being followed around the city. I wondered yesterday, when Excingus appeared at the front door of the doctor’s house so very soon after she’d arrived, but something he said just now, about newcomers being amazed at how many whores there are in the city, pretty much confirmed it for me. We might be thinking about tracking him around to see who he talks to, but our informant friend seems to have beaten us to the punch.’

  ‘He’s going to turn this time.’

  ‘No, he not.’

  ‘I’m telling you he’ll turn, you barbarian fuckwit … here it comes … come on … shit!’

  ‘Tell you, he no turn. Next corner.’

  Sanga grimaced, speeding up his pace a little.

  ‘Yeah, good guess Saratos, you lucky prick. Come on, get ready to run.’

  Up ahead the centurion’s distant figure was approaching the next cross-street, and Sanga looked quickly across the road at the two men walking on the left side, both of whom were watching Qadir with the same hungry intensity he was feeling. The closer of the two looked back at him and the Briton winked.

  ‘You ready girls? One gets you two he’ll turn right!’

  The closest of them waved a dismissive hand, then tensed as Qadir abruptly turned, looked back and crossed the road from right to left, disappearing out of sight in the opposite direction to the one he’d expected. The men closely following him split up, one of them walking on past the turning as if nothing had happened to cover the next street along in case Qadir turned right again, while the other bent to tie his boot lace, his body turned to indicate the direction the centurion had taken. The men to Sanga’s left smirked at him as they turned their own corner and sprinted for the next junction, knowing that they had to reach the next street along and be settled back into a walking pace before their quarry emerged in order to take up the role of his new tails.

  ‘Come on!’

  Sanga was already halfway across the road, ignoring the entreaties of a tavern owner to sample his meat stew. With Saratos at his heels, the pair crossed to the far side and hurried up the street, closing the distance to the point where Qadir had disappeared from view. They were barely twenty paces from the point where he had disappeared from sight when the centurion reappeared around the corner at a pace close to a run, looking back as if he was being pursued by furies and only seeing the two soldiers at the last moment. Nodding a brief recognition he spoke swiftly as the two men stared at him.

  ‘I’ve seen you once, gentlemen, so if I see you again then this exercise is over!’ Dodging around them he made off in the direction from which they had come. ‘And next time try not to stare quite so obviously!’

  The two men looked at each other for a moment before Sanga tapped his comrade on the shoulder and pointed at the other side of the street.

  ‘Go!’

  Walking swiftly around the corner from which Qadir had reappeared so suddenly, he ran for the far end, crouching to pop his head out at ankle level to peer down the street to his left. Seeing only the bemused-looking soldiers who had turned left to take up the follow, he bounded round the corner and sprinted past them.

  ‘He’s doubled back!’

  They stared after him as he ran across the first junction, sure that Qadir would not have stopped or turned again so soon. Looking to his left he saw Saratos crossing the junction two streets away and running hard, and accelerated to match the other man’s pace.

  ‘Look at this one, he can’t wait to get down to business!’

  A pair of prostitutes stepped into his path, and it took all of the Briton’s agility to avoid crashing into them. Looking about him he saw a stall selling rough wool tunics, and he grabbed a handful of coins from his purse.

  ‘How much?’

  The stall holder leaned back and looked up at the looming soldier, grinning at the handful of money with the look of a man who had seen his chance and intended to grab it with both hands.

  ‘For a man your size? Five sestertii.’

  Tossing the coins at the vendor Saratos snatched up a large blue tunic and ran to the next road junction, skidding to a halt and repeating the crouch-and-peep act, retracting his head quickly as Qadir turned the corner and walked purposefully towards him, shooting a glance back over his shoulder. Backtracking hastily he was still looking round for somewhere to hide himself when the older and clearly more experienced of the prostitutes took matters in hand, pushing him up against the wall and thrusting her body against his, her hands roaming under his tunic to find his hardening member.

  ‘Come on you dirty bastard, you know you want to!’

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Qadir stride past barely half a dozen paces away, but the desultory flick of the Hamian’s gaze clearly failed to register that the helpless man pinned against the wall beneath yet another of the capital’s money-hungry working girls was one of his men. Finding his penis already erect, she laughed eagerly, tugging hard enough at the organ’s shaft to sorely test his resolve.

  ‘Come on! I’m fucking starving! Three sestertii!’

  ‘Just …’ He caught her hands and gently pushed her way. ‘One minute, eh?’

  He walked back to the crossroads and waited for Saratos who eventually came past with the look of a man out for a gentle stroll.

  ‘Put this on, and give me yours!’

  The Sarmatian ducked into the side street and pulled off his tunic, much to the amusement of the watching prostitutes, his tattoos bright blue in the afternoon sunlight. He pulled on the new garment and renewed his pursuit of Qadir without a backward glance, and Sanga turned back to find the prostitute standing behind him with a hard smile on her face.

  ‘Soldier, are you? That explains the muscles. Well now, Soldier, since you’ll probably lose your load in seconds, I’ll do you for two sestertii. Which you can get by reclaiming what you overspent on that tunic …’ She jerked her head at the tunic vendor who was looking up at them with an expression of unease bordering on naked fear. ‘He usually only charges two.’

  As the late-afternoon sun dipped towards the roofs of the transit barracks, a bored-looking boy dressed in a tunic cut in the military pattern wandered out of the main gate. He was wearing a belt that ensured the garment’s hem hung above his scabbed and somewhat grubby knees but which also, far more to the interest of the five children sitting around and playing knucklebones on the other side of the road, carried the weight of a half-sized sword. Dressed in an assortment of clothing that appeared to be either too big or worn threadbare, they watched the child with expressions of calculation as he walked slowly towards them. After a swift discussion, the biggest of them stood up and approached him with a hard grin, but the boy’s calm stare and firm grip of the sword’s hilt swiftly dissuaded him from his initial idea of simply stealing the weapon.

  ‘Who are you? We ain’t seen you before.’

  The child looked up and down the road before answering.

  ‘I’m Lupus. I live with the soldiers in there.’

  ‘Lupus? What kind of stupid fucking name is th—’

  The boy was quicker than his inquisitor expected, drawing the sword and taking guard in a way that put the blade’s edge within an inch or so of the urchin’s neck.

  ‘My name. Have you got one, or did your mother not bother?’

  His inquisitor danced back with a look of alarm.

  ‘I’m Julius! And there’s no need for the sword!’

  Lupus grinned at him, slotting the blade back into its scabbard.

  ‘Maybe not, Julius, but now we all know where we stand. Arminius always says that—’

  ‘Who’s Arminius?’

  ‘My fighting teacher. He’s German.’

  The children, who had gathered round him with looks of bemusement, stared at each other in further disbelief, and another of them, a boy with a long scar across his cheek, piped up in
a disbelieving note.

  ‘You ain’t got no fighting teacher! You’re making it up!’

  Lupus simply grinned, waving a hand back at the barracks behind him.

  ‘Want to see me training with him?’

  Julius shook his head.

  ‘We’ll never get in here. That’s army ground. If we even try to get in we’ll just get a good hiding and then be kicked out.’

  Lupus shrugged.

  ‘I can get you inside, if you’re not too scared to come with me.’

  They stared at him in collective uncertainty for a moment, and then one of the smaller children stepped forward, pushing Julius aside. It was obvious that they were brothers, although where the older child had the look of a bruiser in the making, the younger had more of a sly look about him.

  ‘Why?’

  Lupus frowned at the question.

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why would you want to get us inside?’

  ‘Because I’m bored! The only other children in our cohort are babies, and they’ve gone into the city. I’ve got no one to play with.’

  ‘Pla—’

  The scar-faced child’s incredulous guffaw was cut off by a hard elbow in the ribs from the younger boy, something which to judge from the unmoving faces of the other children was nothing out of the ordinary.

  ‘Yeah, we’ll play with you. We love to play … But how do we get in there?’ He shot a meaningful glance at the gate guards. ‘It ain’t like those bastards are going to let us just stroll in, is it?’

  Lupus nodded, leaning forward to whisper quietly.

  ‘Follow me. I know another way in.’

  He walked away confidently, ignoring the risk that the children would mob him once they were safely away from the guards at the barrack’s gate, and their ringleader shook his head at his companions to deter just such an attempt, muttering a quiet command to them.

  ‘Not now. Later.’

  On the south side of the barrack’s encircling wall he led them to a small doorway inside an arch set in the stonework.

  ‘I found this while I was exploring. It was bolted inside, but there’s no lock …’

  Lupus swung the door open and went in through the gate, leaving the street children standing outside looking at each other. The small child pushed Julius towards the door.

  ‘Go on. If it’s safe we’ll follow you inside.’

  The boy sidled up to the gateway and peered through it at the barracks buildings on the other side, taking a nervous step forward to the threshold, peering in to either side.

  ‘I can’t see anything.’

  His brother stepped forward and swiftly thrust him through the gate.

  ‘Ah, you bastard Gaius!’

  His outburst was met with a stony-faced stare, as his younger brother pointed a finger at the barracks behind him.

  ‘Stop fucking about and have a proper look!’

  The child walked slowly forward three paces, staring about him wildly as he regained his equilibrium. Nothing moved, other than Lupus who raised an arm to point at the barracks.

  ‘Half of them are empty! We could play hide and seek …’

  Gaius walked through the gate, looking around as if he could hardly believe what he was seeing, and the remaining children followed him into the enclosed space.

  ‘We could play hide and seek, but I’d rather play at looking round this place. There must be plenty of stuff we could sell back in the city, and—’

  The gate slammed shut behind him, and the children whirled to find a huge bearded centurion standing behind them with his back against the wooden door.

  ‘Get them!’

  A dozen men sprang from the cover of the barracks to either side, their arms outstretched to prevent any of the children from escaping into the maze of buildings, but rather than looking to escape, Gaius shrugged his shoulders and waited meekly for the soldier to take him by the arm.

  ‘Not going to run, little man?’

  The child shook his head, grimacing up at the soldier.

  ‘Nah. If you wanted to hurt us you’d have your knives or your cocks out by now, so I figure you want something from us. So let’s talk, eh?’

  ‘There’s no demand for it I’m afraid. We get the odd German asking for it, but I can’t make a living selling that foul muck and it doesn’t keep for long either, not like wine. What’s wrong with a good honest cup of Iberian, that’s what I want to know?’

  Marcus nodded his agreement, putting down enough coin for a flask of the good falernian that the tavern owner kept under the counter, and ushered a still-fuming Dubnus to the table to which Qadir had already laid claim. The establishment’s working women, whose instincts for silver were clearly well honed, had swiftly surrounded the Tungrians on their arrival, but then equally quickly worked out that the three centurions weren’t looking for the particular services they were offering. Dubnus poured three cups of wine, raising his own in a weary salute before sipping at it in a disconsolate manner.

  ‘Bloody wine. It’s all very well for you lot that grew up with the stuff, but it gives me a foul headache. Where can a man get a beer in this city, that’s what I want to know?’

  ‘You had a beer the other night, and spat it out onto the floor. Remember?’

  The big man nodded, pulling a disgusted face.

  ‘Do I? I could never have imagined that it was possible to ferment a brew that I wouldn’t enjoy, but this place just keeps on coming up with new ways to piss me off. What was it called?’

  ‘Cerevisia. It’s a Gaulish recipe, I believe.’

  Dubnus shuddered.

  ‘Well it was just wrong. I won’t get a decent drink until we’re back in Britannia, that’s obvious.’

  He sipped at his wine again, looking down into his cup with a resigned expression, and Marcus turned to Qadir with a question.

  ‘So then, spy master, how many of your trackers do you think have managed to master the art of following a man through the city then?’

  Qadir looked out of the window of the tavern with a small smile to where a pair of his newly trained spies lounged insouciantly against the wall of the building on the street’s far side, watching the neighbourhood women walk by.

  ‘Consider this, my brother. We take soldiers, or rather the one soldier in ten with the wit to cope with such a task. These are men who are well accustomed to making a little work go as far as possible, and to whom the art of idling and generally avoiding the attention of their superiors has become second nature. Thus it is that on the street they are most adept at blending into the background, and, when forced out of whatever cover they are using, at then giving every impression that they have no interest whatsoever in the man they have been set to follow.

  He took a sip of wine, nodding in appreciation of its quality, raising the cup in salute to Marcus and Dubnus.

  ‘That really is very good. Anyway, later this afternoon, once we had practised tailing a mark – myself, as it happens – with mixed results, I sent them out to follow randomly selected citizens as those innocents went about their business, under my own watchful eye. Most of them did well enough, including the two men who started a fake fist fight to throw one of our marks off his suspicions. I think you can guess which two soldiers were willing to get blood on their tunics in the pursuit of authenticity?’

  Dubnus snorted a quiet laugh, tipping his head towards Marcus.

  ‘Two of his men, perhaps?’

  ‘Exactly. I’ve never seen a couple take to the art of tailing quite as quickly. Sanga bought Saratos a different coloured tunic to wear at one point, once I thought I’d thrown them all off, and the man tracked me for a dozen blocks from so far back that I had no idea he was there, until I led him back to the rally point. Assuming that he had become lost in the city’s maze, and would eventually find his way back to us, I was berating them for failing to keep me in sight when Sanga just coughed, and pointed to his fellow soldier who was lounging in a doorway and listening to it all with an expr
ession of such innocence that it was all I could do not to burst into laughter. The ten men I have retained are all good enough to risk following Excingus the next time that we get the chance, but those two are head and shoulders the best of them. I have another idea in mind for them …’

  The three men looked up as Cotta walked into the establishment, dropping into a chair opposite Marcus and pouring himself a cup of wine from their jug. He drank, smacking his lips appreciatively, wiped the sheen of sweat from his brow and then flashed his usual hard grin at the Tungrians.

  ‘Well then! We, you will be pleased to hear, are now the proud proprietors of the shop around the corner from your woman’s house, young Marcus. I drove a hard bargain with the landlord, given that I discovered from the neighbours that the place has been empty for almost three months. Something to do with bad drains. All we need now is something to sell from it.’

  ‘Well that’s easy enough.’

  Marcus looked round at Dubnus, whose previously morose expression had clearly brightened at the thought which had occurred to him. Cotta leaned forward with a mischievous smile.

  ‘Go on then, spit it out.’

  The big Briton raised a weary eyebrow.

  ‘We’ve already done that one, thank you. Anyway, as to what business to run in the shop, the answer’s obvious.’

  ‘Is it?’

  He nodded emphatically at a bemused-looking Cotta.

  ‘What’s the one thing that a man has to have done to him no less than once a month?’

  ‘Once a month? I like to get my leg over a good deal more regularly than that!’

  ‘Not that!’ Dubnus reached out and took a hold of the veteran officer’s hair, tugging at a stray lock. ‘This!’