Lepidus was the first to respond.
‘Could we not bring them over to our side? They would be powerful allies, and an indoctrination into our philosophy would certainly keep them from ever coming close to unlocking their potential or discovering these lost … “Mothers”, whatever those things may be. It would keep them in a safe and inactive state, if you will?’
Octavian masticated on this for a second, but he then began to shake his head.
‘Lepidus, what is the motto of this secret society?’
‘Gold begets power, power begets gold,’ Lepidus answered hesitantly.
‘Yes, exactly. Now, did it not occur to you, as Demetrios was delivering his most informative lecture, that what is at the heart of these monsters’ potential, and what these “Mothers” represent, is completely antithetical to our doctrine, to our ultimate goal? I am sure that some of the creatures, perhaps many in fact, could be swayed to our cause. Rare is the man, or beast, perhaps I should say, whose honour cannot be bought with the right amount of gold. But as Demetrios explained, it is simply too much of a risk. Should these creatures be permitted to continue their existence on this earth, even if we bring every one of them butone to our side, there remains that single one who may realise the potential of which Demetrios spoke … and that alone would be enough to trigger a revolution, the likes of which would be unstoppable. Senators! We agreed, many years ago, when we were young Romans and when we founded this secret society, that our goal would be to lay the foundations for our successors to build the greatest empire of wealth, power and control that the world has ever seen. Our names will be remembered in the annals of history, and we will be revered as gods for what we have begun here. Our families, our class of society, we will rule over the length and breadth of the known universe! Is this not our goal?’
The senators murmured replies of affirmation.
‘Then you can see, in the light of what Demetrios has told us, that these creatures could utterly destroy that hope, that lofty dream. We cannot abide this, my friends, we cannot. So, with this in mind, I propose that a new goal be added to the overarching mission of our secret society.’
‘And what goal might that be, Octavian?’ Claudius asked, leaning forward and narrowing his eyes, his fingers subtly tightening their grip on the golden goblet in his hand.
‘That goal, Claudius, is the extermination of every last one of these vile monsters from existence. What say you? Do you agree, after what you have seen and learned today, that this is of the utmost necessity?’
Unanimous cries of ‘aye’ echoed through the chamber.
‘Excellent. Then, in light of this addition to our goals, I also propose a new name for our secret society.’
‘What name do you propose?’ Lepidus asked.
Octavian’s countenance hardened, and a darkness multiplied across the topography of his features, like storm clouds cresting distant mountain peaks on an otherwise sunny day.
‘From now on, my friends,’ he said, ‘we shall call ourselves … the Huntsmen.’
13
LUCIUS
July, 78BC. Capua, Republic of Rome
Lucius Sertorius strolled before the row of nearly nude male slaves with the casual ease of a seasoned connoisseur, eyeballing the offerings before him with a clinical gaze. He paused in front of one particular man, a tall, flaxen-haired Celt, and moved in to examine him more closely. Lucius stood at least a foot and a half shorter than the towering figure before him, and the thin, hairless limbs that trickled from his expensive silken tunic made him seem like a mere boy next to this impressive specimen of masculine physicality. The unimposing nature of Lucius’s build, however, was no impediment to his arrogance, and he stepped up to the huge man and examined him with callous impunity; he pulled at the captive’s ears, lifted his lips to scrutinise his teeth, and gripped the muscles of the man’s shoulders and upper arms between his long fingers and squeezed them. He then ran his fingertips somewhat provocatively over the man’s chest and stomach while locking an aggressive stare into his eyes – and as he did this a heady rush of power accompanied this act of dominance. As the irresistible drug, power, set his nerve endings aflame and quickened his breath, he knelt down and gripped the man’s thighs and calves, and then stared at the slave’s feet and ankles for a while.
‘This one looks promising. Where does he come from? How was he acquired?’ he asked, keeping his eyes fixed on the body, evaluating, calculating, and dissecting all the while.
The slave trader, a swarthy, obese ruffian with greasy shoulder-length hair and a wiry black beard, shuffled up to the Celt and stared at him – or rather, at a spot a few paces to his left, for he was cross-eyed.
‘This one,’ he grunted, ‘he was a farmer, captured with most of his village in a conquest in west Hispania. I don’t know if he’s exactly what you’re looking for, although he does have the build for it, no?’
Lucius scratched at his smoothly shaven chin, and then absentmindedly fingered one of the golden earrings that decorated his earlobes before answering.
‘Yes, he does, but his mental constitution is just as important as his physical prowess. It depends a lot on what kind of farmer he was; those who butcher pigs and cattle on a regular basis graduate with ease to the butchering of men, whilst those who simply till the soil for their sustenance are
