despite the fact that the temperature in his bedroom was always quite chilly. His tongue felt as dry as a piece of leather and stuck to his palate. He took another sip of water and tried to calm down.
He heard the dog whining in the rear courtyard, the creaking of the outside door, the scamper of feet on the gravel and then on the pavement of the
The sound was coming closer, turning into the footsteps of his young friend in the corridor leading to his room. At last!
He waited for the boy to knock.
‘Come in,’ he said.
‘You know those two out there in the hallway are gone?’ said the boy, entering.
‘That’s not possible!’
‘Look for yourself.’
Artemidorus opened the door a crack and looked out into the corridor, which was lit by a single lamp. No one was there.
‘I can’t explain it. I’m afraid it’s a trap.’
‘They probably think you’re sleeping. They’ve got other things to take care of. The master’s guests are leaving.’
He picked up the tray with the uneaten cakes and made to leave, then turned at the touch of Artemidorus’s hand on his arm.
‘I’m afraid,’ he blurted out. ‘I heard terrible things downstairs. You must let me go.’
‘No, wait,’ said Artemidorus. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you told me and I’ve come to a conclusion. You have to leave this house now, while you are still free to do so, before they start to suspect you. I’m saying this for your sake. I don’t want them to hurt you.’
‘I know, Artemidorus,’ said the boy with a smile. ‘But where can I go? Don’t you know what they do with runaway slaves?’
‘I would testify that I sent you out on an errand. I’m a free man and I have a good reputation. What’s more, Decimus Brutus is the Praetor Peregrinus and deals with all foreign residents. He knows me well. Listen to me. As soon as day breaks, leave the house with an excuse. Say that you’re going to buy me some medicine for my vitiligo; say the itching is driving me crazy. It’s true. Here, take the money. Go to the Tiber Island and look for the hospital. Find Antistius, who is my doctor. Tell him that I’ve sent you and that you need to stay with him for a few days. You’ll be safe, because he lives with Caesar, in the Domus Publica. No one will ever think of looking for you there. Do you understand?’
‘Yes. I understand. Do you want me to tell him the names?’
‘Shh! Are you mad? Whisper! No, don’t tell him anything for any reason whatsoever. You stay out of this. I’ll see to the matter myself.’
‘Do you want to give me something to take to him?’
‘Worse yet. If they catch you and search you, what will you say? They’ll cut you into little pieces, one piece at a time, until they’ve got every scrap of information from you. I’ll take care of this. I’m not sure how, but I’ll take care of it. Sooner or later they’ll have something better to do than keep me confined here. Do you understand what you’re to do?’
‘I do,’ answered the boy.
Artemidorus opened a drawer and took out a little piece of parchment. ‘This is a prescription Antistius gave me. It’s a cure for constipation. He’ll recognize it and be sure that I’m the one who has sent you. If you’re stopped on your way, no one will have reason to scold you or suspect you of anything. If Antistius asks about me, tell him that I’m not free to move but that as soon as I can I will contact him personally.’
‘I’ll go first thing in the morning, then.’
‘Go, and good luck. If everything turns out as I’m hoping, we’ll see each other in a few days.’
The boy gazed into his eyes for a moment with a curious, enigmatic expression, halfway between affection and pity. He opened the door and walked away.
Artemidorus watched him for a while from the threshold and then, as no one seemed to be around, took a few steps down the hall to see if he could find out what was happening. But as he was about to turn left towards the peristyle, he found one of his guards in front of him.
‘Out for a walk, maestro?’ he said with a jeer. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’
Artemidorus felt a wave of fear and then one of powerless anger. ‘To have a crap,’ he replied.
The Old Etruscan Trail, 13 March, second guard shift, eleven p.m.
Publius Sextius, hanging one-handed from the branch of a thorn bush, was trying to grab on to a rocky outcrop and failing. He was bleeding from an extremely painful flesh wound and he could feel a warm trickle on his left side. All at once he heard his horse snorting.
‘Here, boy, over this way. . over here,’ he said.
The horse seemed to understand his master’s words. He drew close and pushed his whole head over the brink of the drop. In so doing his reins dangled forward, practically brushing against the hand gripping the thorn bush. Publius braced himself and swung back and forth until he had built up enough momentum to reach the reins with his free hand and grab them.
As soon as the horse felt the sharp tug he became frightened, dug in his rear hoofs and began to back up with all the strength he had. Once he had hauled his heavy load over the rim of the embankment, Publius let go, so that the terrified horse would not drag him off.
He tried to bandage his wound as best he could, then waited for the skittish animal to calm down sufficiently to approach his master again, helped along by the sound of Publius’s voice and a handful of fresh grass in his fist. When the horse was finally within reach, Publius grabbed the reins and leapt on to his back, ready to resume his journey and make up for lost time.
As he was advancing at a good pace under the moonlight, he thought of the strange coincidence that could have cost him his life. How could those four be waiting for him, there in the
If someone had been there at that moment, they would have seen a grin forming on Publius Sextius’s face. He was satisfied and triumphant at having solved the mystery. The arm that had so conveniently been used against him — Nebula’s map — could be turned just as easily against them. So, in the same way that the enemy knew where to lie in wait, Publius Sextius knew where he’d be able to ambush his enemy.
The road was becoming wider and the vegetation less thick. More bare-boughed trees, rather than evergreens, let the moonlight filter through.
How much further did he have to go? Publius Sextius wished he could fly, even though his weariness was dragging him down considerably. He didn’t remember when he had last had enough sleep, when he had consumed a normal meal sitting at a table with a jug of wine in front of him. He had been racing, racing against time itself, tiring one horse after another, but never giving up, never stopping to catch his breath. He would make it. He was Publius Sextius, senior front-line centurion, known as ‘the Cane’.
The message he had to deliver rang through his mind a thousand times each day, each night.
He pulled up, exhausted, at the entrance to an inn on a road with a cluster of rather wretched-looking stone and brick houses encircled by pens full of sheep and goats. The inn doubled as a message station for those travelling on behalf of the state.
The innkeeper was a heavy-set man of about sixty, with thinning hair combed back from his brow. His shoulders were wider than his paunch, a rarity in his line of work.
‘I’m a centurion,’ said Publius, showing him the
