for trade runs between Puteoli and Sardinia. Fast and light, but only useful for small cargo, ‘cause the hold’s not very big.”
“It was in dock in Massilia when we set off.”
Fronto shrugged. “We’ve travelled fast for a trireme, but a liburna can travel faster. He probably set off after loading. We came empty.”
But Galronus’ eyes remained locked on the ship. “I don’t like it.”
“I personally don’t care. It’s the ship with those two slimy bastards on that I’m bothered about, and that’ll have docked yesterday.”
Their attention was pulled back to their destination as one of the sailors bellowed a call and men began to run around on the deck, the rowers giving a last pull and then raising their oars as the vessel coasted in towards the dock. Workers in the port ran up and down the dockside, preparing to take ropes and help the boarding ramp settle into place. Boys scurried into position to do some hopeful begging from the passengers on this clearly important ship.
Fronto gripped the rail hard and waited for the bump, steadying himself. The ship settled to the dock with very little disturbance and the two officers waited for the ramp to be run out as two of the sailors hurried up to them carrying their bags.
“Thanks. We’ll take them now.”
Throwing the bags over their shoulders, they hurried down the ramp and onto the dockside. As the begging children crowded towards them, Fronto pulled half a dozen small, cheap coins from his purse and cast them to one side, drawing the gaggle of shouting boys and girls out of their path.
“Come on. Let’s go find the courier station.”
Galronus nodded as he moved on through the crowded port. They had decided on the speed afforded by a horse rather than taking Caesar’s trireme up the Tiber to the city. Given the river’s current and the traffic upon it, they would gain at least half an hour by horse.
Polyneikes took a deep breath and concentrated on the wooden crutch beneath his right arm that clattered along the stones of the port in time with his limp.
It was one of the hardest things to do, he reflected as he peered between the heads of the crowd: to fake such an injury. Many people could affect a limp and heave themselves along on a crutch, but it was too easy to do badly. Most people ended up limping with the wrong leg to the crutch, which was a rookie mistake.
Five years of training with some of the most dangerous men in Athens had taught him tricks that most people in the business wouldn’t even know could be done. The single raised shoulder was easy enough, particularly with the crutch, but to temporarily disfigure the neck and pull in one’s head so that one appeared to be a malformed half-man was a real talent, and Polyneikes would always be grateful to Crino for his expensive lessons — may the bastard rot in the pits of Hades for all eternity.
The only thing that still rankled about affecting such a disguise was the smell. To pull off the guise of a twisted beggar one really had to spend an hour or two carefully urinating oneself and saturating the clothes and even defecating and making sure the smell clung.
Still, for twenty gold aurei and the chance of many future jobs, Polyneikes was willing to live with a little shit.
His reputation was unmatched in Ostia, and even in Rome his services were sought and commanded an above-average fee. But a reputation was never too strong that it wasn’t worth strengthening with ties to wealthy, high class patrons.
His hand reached down the wooden crutch and his fingers caressed the tip of the blade attached to it with easily breakable twine.
He’d been lucky, and he knew it. The patrons had been uncertain as to whether the target would even pass this way. It seemed there was some doubt as to whether they would reach Italia at all. Not that it would have mattered really. He’d been paid up front and if his target hadn’t shown in a week, he’d have lost the chance to improve his reputation, but he’d still be living like a senator for a week or two.
But then the ship had arrived. The
The two men were making their way towards the courier station, where two legionaries lounged by the gate, leaning casually against the wall with the look of men who expected nothing more than to watch the world go by until their shift ended.
As was always the case with crowds in places like Ostia, the currents pulled three ways. Those with legitimate business went about it heedless of the two officers, often getting in their way until asked to move. Those whose business was illegal or underhand in some way scurried away from them, avoiding any possible confrontation with authority. And those whose business it was to accost strangers pushed through the crowd to get to them: traders; whores; beggars…
Polyneikes angled his approach. His very realistic limited mobility slowed any action and made planning that much more essential. Carefully, he swung and weaved, giving the impression of a man trying to keep on his feet despite his terrible afflictions, while in fact threading a speedy and neat passage between the crowds towards the two figures with the bags slung over their shoulders. He could easily earn an extra eight aurei if he could dispatch the big Gaul too, but Polyneikes was no fool. Twenty was plenty, as he was wont to say, and escaping the scene after one perfect, deadly strike was easy enough to a well-trained man. Whereas giving in to greed and attempting a second blow was tempting the Fates, and he was not about to push Atropos into snipping his thread this early in his career.
As he estimated the distance at ten paces and mentally added a count of six for the difficulty of movement, Polyneikes the assassin began to count under his breath.
Twelve.
The Roman had turned to speak to the Gaul. The pair were completely oblivious, It was almost too easy. His fingers closed on the pommel of the knife and gave a gentle tug.
The blade, a wicked thing of Parthian origin that had been sharpened to the point where it could almost cut through sound, came loose from the twine easily, the twin severed loops falling unnoticed to the ground beneath the ‘beggar’. His tattered, filthy wool cloak swung to and fro, concealing the glinting iron blade.
Six.
His hand twisted, the thumb releasing the tie carefully crafted to the inside of the cloak to keep it in position and covering the knife. The cloak billowed slightly as the knife began to rise.
“…at the Porta Trigemina” the Roman was saying. “Then I’ll make my way…”
Polyneikes’ grip changed on the hilt, raising it for the blow.
“Not so fast, sonny.”
The Greek assassin’s world collapsed around him as a hand clamped round his mouth and dragged him back through the crowd, a blade simultaneously sliding up between his ribs and plunging deep into his black heart. His eyes wide, he watched the dishevelled Roman and the big Gaul disappearing off through the crowd, completely unaware.
They were completely lost from sight when the hand came away from his mouth and he hit the cobbles, no longer able to scream as Atropos of the Fates snipped the thread and his eyes glazed over. By the time his death was noticed by anyone who cared in the press of bodies and the cry went up, both his targets and his assailant were gone.
Fronto and Galronus rode past the multitudinous beggars, traders, whores and bustling city folk outside the Porta Trigemina and slowed only slightly at the gate where two of the private militia raised on the orders of Pompey nominally monitored the traffic in and out of the city. The bored looking men barely glanced up, even at the unusual sight of a trouser-wearing Gaul entering the sacred bounds of Rome.
Once inside, Fronto glanced off toward the slope of the Aventine and then refocused as his mind locked onto
