The Dreams of Morpheus(22)

‘Are all your men in position, master?’ Pallas enquired as Magnus walked down the steps from the Temple of Asclepius to the Tiber; the groans of scores of sick slaves, left to die in the precinct of the god of medicine by masters refusing to pay for their treatment, blended with the gurgling of the river.

‘They are, Pallas.’ Magnus looked at the full-bearded Greek, aware that he was a slave, but in awe of the fact that with one question he had taken complete control of the operation; but he was used to it. In the course of his numerous contacts, in various capacities, with the Lady Antonia’s steward, he had developed a respect for Pallas’ judgement and discretion; Magnus knew him to be more than a mere slave. ‘I’ve got ten covering each bridge and a further ten round the temple; all with orders to keep out of sight. Plus I’ve ten of my best lads with me to guard the tablets and then transport the cash. Menes won’t be able to leave without handing over the money.’

‘Unless he tries to go by boat, which is why I took the precaution of bringing mine.’ Pallas stepped out of the six-oared river craft that had ferried him to the island. ‘We will return by river once the transaction has taken place. Get into position; I’ll be waiting here.’

Magnus nodded and picked his way back up the steps through the huddles of dead and dying slaves.

‘Looks like them,’ Marius announced as the first rays of dawn sun hit a high altitude cloudbank, accentuating ripples on its grey surface with highlights of deep red. ‘I’d say there are at least a dozen round that cart.’

Magnus watched the group cross the Fabricium Bridge from the Campus Martius, then turn off the main street bisecting the island and pull into the forecourt of the Temple of Asclepius.

‘My good friend!’ Menes exclaimed, walking towards Magnus with open arms as if it were a reunion   of acquaintances of many years’ standing after an unreasonably long period of absence; the expression of joy on his face, however, registered as a rictus contort.

Not wishing to cause offence, Magnus subjected himself to the embrace which was nothing more than a clumsy attempt to frisk him for hidden weapons, which he returned; Menes was unarmed.

‘You have tablets, my friend?’

‘Naturally.’

Magnus indicated the cart. ‘Four thousand, eight hundred aurii?’

Menes inclined his head. ‘In twenty-four bags of two hundred.’

‘Take one of them away; my patron is only selling twenty-three of the tablets.’

Menes attempted to transform his expression into one of shock and deep disappointment, but succeeded only in gurning like a tragic actor’s mask. ‘My friend, we had a deal.’

‘For two hundred aurii a tablet; my patron has just decided to keep one for himself. Now, let’s do this. Sextus!’ The brother lumbered forward, holding a bulging sack. ‘Put them down here. Menes, have the money stacked next to them and then all our men will withdraw twenty paces whilst you and I check the contents.’

Menes eyed the bag as Sextus placed it down, his smile returning, before shouting in his own language. The tarpaulin was pulled back from the cart and half a dozen of his men began unloading the weighty bags concealed within. When twenty-three were piled next to the tablets, Magnus and Menes nodded to one another and gave the order for their guards to withdraw back into the tangle of sick slaves who were too ill to pay attention to events around them. Once they were alone in the centre of the forecourt, Magnus pulled a square piece of leather from his belt, spread it on the ground and, choosing a bag at random, poured the contents out.

With practised fingers, the contents were soon counted and, after three more random selections revealed totals of two hundred aurii for each bag, Magnus felt satisfied that Menes was not trying to cheat by underpaying. Magnus eyed the Egyptian in the growing light as he finished examining the last couple of tablets. He found it hard to believe that the man’s blatant greed would not tempt him into a double-cross.

‘Very good, my friend,’ Menes announced, rewrapping the final tablet. ‘Now we go, yes?’

Magnus nodded and called his brothers back. ‘Marius, have the lads take the sacks down to the boat.’

Standing opposite Menes, who was grinning furiously as if to convey a feeling of calm and normality, Magnus kept his eye on the Egyptian’s men as they turned their cart round and loaded the tablets under the tarpaulin.

It was no more than an anxious twitch of Menes’ eyes towards the cart, followed by an almost imperceptible tensing of his leg muscles in preparation for a quick sprint, which alerted Magnus; he dived to the left, putting Menes between him and the cart as a fletched shaft hissed through the air where his head had been. ‘Down!’ he bellowed as three more bows just grabbed from beneath the tarpaulin thrummed arrows towards his lads, felling two.