The King's Gambit(58)

I immediately attacked the lantern-holder, assuming that it would make him a bit more awkward, but he dropped the lantern and came for me. The lantern continued to cast its flickering illumination from the street, making the brutal, violent scene truly eerie and unreal. The sword was real enough as it came for me, though. I dodged aside but bumped into somebody, either Milo or his opponent, and saved myself from gutting only by sucking in my stomach as the weapon lanced inward. Even so, I felt its edge slice my flesh in passing. With my dagger I cut at his forearm, stepping in as I did so, catching his jaw with a neat left cross. I felt the jawbone crack under the caestus, but for good measure I ran my dagger through his body as he fell. It is never good to assume that a wounded man is through fighting.

When he was down I whirled to see Milo wrestling his own second opponent to the street. The fifth person was nowhere to be seen.

“Bring the lantern,” Milo said. I picked it up by its carrying-ring, carefully so as not to snuff out the light. I opened its gate and with the point of my dagger teased the wick up from its oil reservoir until it was burning brightly, and walked to where Milo held his man in an armlock with one foot on his chest. The handle of a sica protruded from the fellow’s chest. Apparently, Milo had stabbed him with his own weapon. The other three seemed to be dead. Weapons littered the street: a short sica and a long sica and even a gladius. The sword was smaller than those used by the legions: wasp-waisted with a long, tapering point like an oversized dagger. It was the type used by Roman soldiers a century before and still used in the amphitheater. I recognized none of the men. Rome was full of such gang-members and they were of little account.

The one Milo had down was of the usual type: a burly cretin whose age was difficult to judge through the map of scars that made up his face. He bore the caestus scars of a pugilist rather than the sword marks of a gladiator, and men of superior intelligence seldom took up the profession of pugilist.

“I think this fellow has some things to tell us, sir,” Milo said, giving the arm a twist and getting a groan in return.

“Excellent,” I answered. I squatted beside the man, holding the lantern high. He hadn’t long to live and so I had to ask my question quickly. “Who hired you?”

“Claudius,” he groaned as Milo continued the pressure. “He said that you’d be wearing a yellow scarf around your neck.”

I touched the scarf ruefully. I had been talking of disguise, forgetting that I was wearing the conspicuous thing when Claudius had seen me the day before.

“Who was your eyes tonight, pig?” Milo demanded. “Who guided you through these streets and kept us in sight?”

“A boy.” He seemed disinclined to say more, so Milo encouraged him to greater eloquence. “Ahh! It was a foreign boy, eastern. Had an Oriental accent. Said he’d know our man by sight. Went back and forth all day between the river and the Ostian gate. Came to join us when the gate shut for the night, got to the dock just as you did, says there’s our man. Led us through the street and around in front of you like it was daylight. Eyes in his toes, that boy has.” These last words were spoken in a whispering mumble and Milo released his arm.

“Well, that’s all we’ll get from this one. What now, sir?”

“Leave them for the vigiles. I’ll make a full report of it all when I get this case wrapped up. It would just be a waste of time now. Let’s go to my house.”

Now that we had a lamp, we made it to my doorway without difficulty.

“I’ll leave you here now, sir,” Milo said as Cato opened the door.

“I won’t forget your service,” I told him. “You were a great deal more than a guide on this little journey.”

“Just keep me in mind when you’re an important magistrate,” he said, then he left. I thought at the time he meant that he was likely to end up before me in court, but young Milo had higher ambitions than that.

I ignored Cato’s scandalized protestations about my late hours and dubious companions as I went to my bedroom. I told him to bring me something to eat and a basin and clean towels. Grumbling, he did as ordered. When he delivered what I had asked for, I bade him be off to his bed and closed the door behind him.

I stripped off my tunic and by lamplight examined the cut I had taken in the scuffle. It looked fairly trivial, but it stung when I washed it with wine as best I could, then bandaged it with a folded towel and strips cut from my tunic and tied around my waist. I would have Asklepiodes examine it in the morning.

Drained by the journey and the events in the street, I sat on my bed and forced unwanted food into my empty stomach. I had dealt wounds in battle, but this sort of close-in fighting was something new to me. I decided that it was the aftermath of the sudden, unexpected violence that made me feel dull and melancholy. The men had wished to kill me and they had been the lowest scum imaginable.