Path of the Tiger

revealing a large circular chamber beyond, the smooth stone walls of which were hung with colourful tapestries. Dominating the centre of the room was a pool, ringed with marble statues of gods and heroes of legend, and decorating the pool itself were stylised mosaics of dolphins, ships, fish, mermaids and mermen. Three men were wallowing in the hot water, from which wisps of steam were twisting and dancing, like hundreds of sea-snakes surfacing for air. All three were sipping on golden goblets of wine, and were being waited on by half-naked teenage serving boys, attired in spotless white loincloths and nothing else. One of the men, who at forty-five was a good decade or two younger than the rest of them, rose nude from the water. Standing, he beckoned to Claudius and Lepidus with a broad, welcoming smile.

‘Come my friends! Warm yourselves against the winter chill!’

The guard stepped aside to allow the two plump geriatrics enter the chamber, and he then drew his sword and stepped outside the door. Another guard closed it from the inside and bolted it shut.

‘What is the meaning of this, Octavian?!’ Claudius demanded, a sour expression of disdain smeared across his flabby jowls. ‘You summon us here to this, this vile house of lust where thieves, murderers and pickpockets frolic with slave wenches! There are far more reputable brothels in which we could have convened, you know!’

Octavian was a short, stocky man whose figure was still solid with the chiselled muscles of youth, and he sported a full head of thick brown curls despite being well into middle age. His wolfish grin remained in place, and he shook his head with condescending amusement, and then let out a guffaw of laughter.

‘Claudius, Claudius, ever the highly-strung senator!’ he remarked, the smugness of his words palpable. ‘I do apologise for dragging you into this place, which is clearly only fit for those who are several ranks below your acclaimed social standing, but please, give me a few moments of your precious time, and you will realise why I brought you here. Secrecy is a valuable thing, you see. I’m sure you both understand this, no? You may remove your cloaks and hoods now, for nobody here will recognise your faces. And even if they did, it would not matter; everyone here is absolutely loyal to me.’

Claudius grumbled, scowling darkly, but he removed the heavy velvet cloak from his shoulders and freed his bald head of the shadow in which it had been swathed.

‘Come my friends, step in!’ Octavian cried. ‘The water is lovely, and it is scented with fresh rose petals. Shall I have one of my serving boys fill you a goblet of wine? It is the finest to be had in this fair city of ours.’

‘Yes, yes, wine,’ Claudius muttered sourly. ‘I need some after that harrowing journey through the slums. Have you seen how these plebs live?! It’s revolting! The smells, the filth, the noise, even at this time of night! They have no sense of decency, none whatsoever. And our only protection from the scum that prowl these streets was that glowering, scar-faced mute you sent to escort us here! And by Jupiter, I’ll tell you this: I, I feared for my life a number of times! I’ll not stand for further treatment like this from you, Octavian! I am a senator of Rome, I’ll not stand for it, I say!’

Octavian, seemingly unmoved by his acquaintance’s outburst, took a deep quaff of wine from his golden goblet and then walked over to him, cheerfully placed a reassuring hand on the old man’s shoulder when he reached him, giving the flabby, pale flesh a playful squeeze with his strong, tanned fingers. He pointed at the guard who had brought the senators in, who was now standing sentry in silence next to the bath.

‘Do you know who that is?’ Octavian asked gently, pointing at the man, a towering, swarthy fellow with the massive shoulders of a blacksmith, and thick arms crisscrossed with abundant scars. His face was also heavily scarred, with one particularly savage old wound running from the left corner of his lip all the way up to his left ear, which was missing. The deeply pared flesh had healed from the grievous wound to twist his mouth into a permanent sneer. Upon each hip a long scimitar was sheathed, and beneath his cloak he wore a shirt of chain-mail, while each thick forearm was protected with bracers of steel-plated leather.

‘That “glowering, scar-faced mute” who I sent to escort you is my bodyguard Kurush,’ Octavian continued, massaging Claudius’s shoulders as he spoke. ‘He is an elite Persian warrior, and a former gladiator. Indeed, my friend, he was a reigning champion for a time. He could take ten of those untrained street thugs with one hand bound behind his back, I guarantee it; you’ll not find a more deadly bodyguard this side of the Tiber. Now, calm down Claudius, come, enter the water and sip on this delectable wine. Then let me present to you my discoveries, and you may well change your mind about this evening.’

‘Fine, fine,’ Claudius grumbled as he slipped the tunic off his rotund, wrinkly body and stepped into the bath. ‘Well, I suppose that this water is rather pleasant,’ he muttered as he sat down, his reluctance nonetheless plain to see. ‘Boy, make haste with that wine! My throat is dry!’

One of the slave boys rushed over to him, bearing a jewelled golden goblet filled with red wine. Claudius snatched it from the child, held it up to his nose and inhaled deeply of its woody aroma. A smile broke across his crimson lips as he took a tentative sip.

‘Ah, you were not jesting, Octavian! This is fine wine indeed. Well, let’s have it then, tell us what you’ve dragged us out here for.’

‘I think you would appreciate it more if I showed you, Claudius, rather than if I merely told you. Since we are all here now, let me