But he had the good name of his house to consider, and closure, just as it was for Tiberius Livonius, was the best method of securing that.
‘I wish to be sure they do as they are told! Go with them, Ragas. You need take no part, but you can bring back the news that what orders I have given them have been carried out to the letter.’
‘No one to survive?’
It was with a wolfish grin that Lucius replied. ‘Precisely.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Lucius waited till he was sure they had all gone before making his way to the room of the wet nurse, she asleep by the brazier, her own child cradled in her arms. He ignored her, passing on to look into the cot, which contained the new-born child he had publicly acknowledged as his son. The infant lay at peace, the long black lashes on his eyes seeming to cover a goodly portion of his face. The jet-black hair of his birth would go, but it would come back thick and as strong as the physical presence masked by the soft rounded features of a baby.
Lucius stroked the tiny hand. ‘I pray to the gods that you will grow to manhood, and stand as potent as I do as a representative of a noble house. You will be the son I have always longed for. Tomorrow we will commence the ceremonies. Within a week the whole Roman world will know of your arrival.’
With that he turned on his heel and left. On his way back to his study he passed the room in which his wife lay, silent and pale upon a bier, her white bloodless hands folded across her breasts. Lucius Falerius did not spare her cadaver a second’s glance.
The streets of Rome were never deserted, but for such a teeming, crowded city they were, on this night, ominously quiet. It was cold and perhaps the taverns were full, and what trouble the wine would bring was brewing within them. Those out, seeing Gafon and his band approach, thought it prudent to choose another route to whichever destination they were heading. There was a certain amount of shuffling of the pack as Gafon tried to ensure that Ragas, like the others in a heavy cloak, led them, while the slave was equally determined to bring up the rear, for the gang leader was gnawing on a tricky problem, whether to kill Ragas before his main task was completed, or after? The mistake Gafon made was to look so hard at Ragas while he tried to decide. For a man that loved to fight, had been a potent warrior and was at his happiest in the boxing square it sent a danger signal that other men might not have sensed. Ragas, noticing the indifference of the other members of the party, wondered if he was not indulging in a fantasy without foundation, but once alerted to a potential threat he could not relax.
Neither man had much time to think, since the Cave of Lupercal, where the rites to mark the cult were nearing completion, was no great distance from the Temple of Ceres. Home of the plebeian Aediles, this was the known destination of Tiberius Livonius and his supporters once the ceremonies were over. At least Gafon could be happy, as they skirted the Forum Boracum, they were heading in the right direction, towards the wharves and warehouses of the Port of Rome, a teeming warren of alleys, empty at night, where the dead body of a slave could be carried without causing fuss. He had finally decided what to do; assassinate Tiberius first, then see to his secondary task. Ragas would be decapitated after being killed, his head and body thrown separately into the Tiber. The waters of the river would carry both parts, at differing speeds, all the way downriver, and washed ashore in different places, they would never be connected.
Gafon heard them coming, four noisy individuals who thought themselves immune to the hazards faced by ordinary mortals. Like the men who had stopped on their way to the Cave of Lupercal to attend the recent Falerii birth they were dressed in goatskins. Now the dried sacrificial blood that gave potency to the adherents to the cult streaked their bodies, illuminated by the flaring torches they carried. Gafon had placed three men who would let them pass, and put himself at the head of the other three to intercept his prey. The lights they carried, plus their own noisy conversation, made things ridiculously easy and they did not hear the men who slipped out behind to follow in their wake, and showed little shock when further progress was barred by Gafon. Even when the hidden weapons were brought to their attention, no hint of fear could be detected in their behaviour.
‘Do you not know who I am?’ demanded the tallest of the group, lifting the goat’s mask from his head. Even sweat-streaked and blood-stained there was no mistaking the well-known profile of Tiberius Livonius, the plebeian tribune.
‘We know,’ Gafon replied.
Tiberius Livonius pointed towards the sword in Gafon’s hand. ‘Then you will know to even raise that in my presence is to invite eternal damnation.’
‘Damnation is something we have already, Tribune. Happen you’ll find when you cross the Styx that what awaits you is the kind of life we folk live as normal.’
So sure was Tiberius of his status that he did not even attempt to raise his hands to defend himself and the shock on his face was as much from the dent to his certainties as it was to the blade of Gafon’s sword slicing into his bare gut. The eyes opened wide as the body arched towards the gang leader as, with the same skill as he taught his gladiators, the weapon was rammed sideways and up, to tear through the vital organs and ensure instant death. Gafon felt the tribune’s blood flowing hot over the sword handle and his hand, watched as the croak of protest turned to a gurgle of bright red as the froth of yet more began to spill out of his mouth. Around him the light faded as those bearing the torches fell noisily to his men, screaming as they were repeatedly stabbed and clubbed by idiots who had no idea how to execute a clean kill.
In the silence that followed, Gafon took up a torch and turned to the alleyway in which Ragas was standing, hood up and cloak held tightly to his body. ‘Come, friend, and see that they are all dead. Then you can return to your master and give him the news.’
Ragas declined to move. ‘I can see well enough from here.’
‘Then you have the eyes of a god. For me, I would rather come closer so that I could be certain.’
Good with a sword, Gafon was less accomplished at the telling of falsehoods, so his words struck a false note that was highlighted by the torchlight and the bodies around his feet. Ragas, looking into Gafon’s eyes, saw no humour, no reassurance in those eyes, all he saw was the possibility of his own death. Having committed such a crime, the whole gang should have dispersed instantly. Yet there was still a lingering doubt, for his death would have had to be ordered and he could just not bring himself to believe that even Lucius Falerius would stoop so low.
‘Go on your way,’ he said to Gafon, ‘and I will return with the news of your success.’
‘Look at them,’ Gafon demanded, jabbing toward the bodies with his sword. Ragas threw off his cloak and ran then, and the voice behind him cried out the words he had dreaded to hear, words that told him that his fears were real. ‘Get him. Ten gold denarii to the man who brings me his head.’
The pitch-black alleys of the port were both a help and a hindrance. He was aided by the sheer number, but handicapped by the lack of certainty as to his direction, as well as the numerous objects that lay hidden in his path, objects which saw him more than once crashing painfully onto the hard packed earth. That he had to do silently, so that his ears could alert him to the proximity of the noisy pursuit. There were stars above his head, but not enough to steer a course by, and they were often cut off from view by the overhang of the higher warehouses. Common sense told him to stop on occasions and listen to see if the pursuit had passed him by. Renewed fear made him move, there being no security in noises, the distance of which he could not discern. Several times he nearly ran into one of Gafon’s thugs, alerted only by a flicker of torchlight that the route he had chosen was one to take him into danger, not out of it.
His luck ran out after about ten minutes. He saw one torch in front of him, only to find as he turned that another was casting a glow at an intersection to his rear. Ragas felt his heart contract as that glow turned to flame, and he saw behind him a scarred, grinning brawler carrying a spiked club. He was grinning because behind his quarry he could see quite plainly his leader, Gafon, sword in hand and so could Ragas when he turned to look. A boxer has fast reflexes; he has to, when in a bout only a split second separates him from delivering a blow or receiving one. Ragas did not hesitate; he ran at the thug holding the club, knowing that he stood a better chance against that than he did against the sharp blade and lethal point of a gladiator’s sword. The thug readied himself, club half-raised to smash in the approaching skull, as, behind him, Ragas could hear Gafon moving in to complete the kill.
