He tried to shake off the sensation, tried to banish these gnawing thoughts from his mind, but they would not go. Cold beads of sweat began oozing through his pores, despite the heat of the summer evening, and they dripped their chill down his spine as they crept earthward. A brief zephyr rippled through an open window nearby and licked its cool tongue across his skin, causing him to shiver involuntarily. Outside he could see the yellowy pie-face of the full moon in the clear sky, sneering at him with a mocking smile, and flanked by a gallery of leering, malevolent stars.
Flee! Take on your wolf form, take on your wolf form and flee now!
‘Stop it,’ he hissed to himself under his breath. ‘Stop it now! Stop thinking these things! You’re perfectly safe inside this skin of steel, and your face is completely hidden behind this warrior’s mask. To them you’re just a guard, a servant. Nobody knows, nobody but my trusted friend Batiatus…’
Batiatus’s booming voice snapped Lucius out of his semi-daze of contemplation and consternation.
‘Honoured guests! Please stand as the high priest of the Temple of Mars burns incense for this great deity and opens our feast with incantations and libations! Everyone, hold out your goblets that the ceremonial wine may be poured and consumed in the name of Mars Invictus!’
A withered-looking priest, bent over and hobbling along with the aid of a gnarled walking stick, knelt before a small idol of Mars. He lit a few sticks of incense, poured a cup of fresh bull’s blood over the idol, and muttered a few words of prayer. He then dipped his fingers in the sticky blood that remained in the cup, and with a grunt he got back up to his feet. A junior priest, a young man with curly black hair and stocky limbs, carried a bronze amphora of wine, which the priest blessed with his blood-soaked fingers. After that the priest began limping around the room, dabbing a droplet of the crimson liquid onto the forehead of each guest he passed. After each such blessing, his assistant would pour the wine into the guest’s cup for them to drink, muttering a prayer as the cupful of blessed liquor disappeared down the guest’s gullet.
Lucius watched the proceedings with an increasing sense of anxiety building like a worsening infection in his gut. He was wondering now how he had allowed Batiatus to convince him to come here tonight. Somehow, his friend had made it sound like such an enticing opportunity, and it was, in a sense. Here he was able to closely observe the very men who wanted him dead, to learn their identities and idiosyncrasies; to study his prey. And in addition, as Batiatus had promised, he’d soon be privy to all of their secrets and accumulated knowledge. Nevertheless, something felt very, very out of place.
At least that was how it felt at this moment – as if that promise had been a con, a setup. Was that white-haired senator at the end of the table staring at him, or was he just lost in a daydream? Had Octavian himself just given him a double take? The man had fired a glance over his shoulder this way, just seconds ago, had he not? They couldn’t tell who he was through this veil of steel, surely … unless … no, no, that was impossible.
Betrayed.
No! Batiatus was one of his oldest and most trusted friends. Well, as much as a former slave could trust someone who used to be their owner. Batiatus, though, prided himself on his soldier’s loyalty. He would never, ever besmirch that reputation with lies and treachery. Never. Not an old soldier like him.
‘Shake it off man, shake it off! You’re being paranoid here,’ Lucius muttered to himself, the words bouncing like loosed midges around the confines of the full-face helm, which was starting to feel unbearably stifling and hot. He swallowed a mouthful of sticky and cloying saliva and shifted uneasily in his leather sandals. Ringing clear in his mind were Batiatus’s words, spoken to him the previous night, when he had arrived here after journeying from Neapolis, and these recalled syllables drowned out the buzz of laughter and conversation.
‘Prey, Lucius, prey … This is what you must do if you are to escape the clutches of these so-called “Huntsmen”! You must turn the tables, my friend! You must make the hunter the quarry, and thus become the master of your own fate! Turn things around, Lucius, turn them around. Learn all that you can of these men … and what better way to do it than by the method all great hunters use: observation. Yes, keen observation and study of their prey. And soon my little rats in their service will steal more of their secret documents for you to peruse.
On the night of the feast of Mars Invictus, a banquet that I will be hosting at my villa, Octavian and his snivelling lickspittle senator friends will be attending. This is why I want you to come! You can observe and eavesdrop on them from mere feet away, while they have no idea that you are close enough to slit their throats … although I trust you enough to know that you will not do this in my dining hall, will you, friend?’
Somehow, it had seemed like a brilliant plan at the time. Now, however,
