Castricius had done well. There were at least a hundred, perhaps many more, scoured from the drinking dens and brothels of the slums. Some carried firebrands, sawing in the wind. Most had knives. A knot of men near the front hefted a large beam of hardwood.
Enemies, enemies! Nail the friends of Maximinus on a cross!
Under his hood, Timesitheus smiled. Armenius had been a Praetor under Maximinus, but was no more his friend than most of the dozens who had held office during his reign.
Hostes, hostes! Nail them, drag them, burn them alive!
Young Castricius had shown admirable resource. Even the sordid plebs fought better if they believed they had a motive beyond mere gain. As if summoned by the thought, like an evil daemon conjured by an incautious word, Castricius was in front of Timesitheus.
The back gate?
There are men there, Castricius said.
Then get to work.
Castricius smiled a look of pure delight on his little pointed, angular face and skipped away.
Timesitheus wondered if he had met his equal in decisive amorality. He was seized by a transient curiosity. Where had the knife-boy come from? What had brought him to the Subura? He was intelligent, spoke good Greek, had educated manners and no lack of courage. Of course, none of it would do him any good. He was destined for the mines, the arena, or the cross.
Ineptly swung, the makeshift battering-ram struck the door. It did no more than rattle the boards.
In an instant, Castricius was there; darting about, pulling men into place, gesturing, shouting one, two, three. The door jumped on its hinges, groaned. One, two, three. On the third blow, the leaves cracked open.
The mob surged through, momentarily choking the throat of the house with their numbers.
Timesitheus turned to the men behind him. It was important to have friends. Alcimus Felicianus was the Procurator in charge of the Flavian Amphitheatre and the Ludus Magnus, the largest gladiatorial school in Rome. Given the unrest, he had been unsurprised when Timesitheus had requested the loan of a couple of gladiators, not demurring when it was stressed that they should be men of discretion, not the sort who would baulk at any order. All Romans had debts to settle.
The gladiator called Narcissus handed Timesitheus the pantomime mask. The silvered leather depicted a young girl, impossibly beautiful, cold, with narrow slits for eyes and mouth. When Timesitheus put it on, his world narrowed, like a horse in blinkers.
The last of the mob were disappearing into the house. Timesitheus went after them, Narcissus and the other gladia-tor Iaculator following. Toughs from the Subura were fine for looting, spontaneous murder but calculated killing called for professionals.
The battering-ram lay among the wreckage of the door. Timesitheus stepped over it. The passage into the house was dark, the atrium beyond light. As he emerged into the open space, the noise hit him. Behind the mask, he could not tell its direction. Through the eye holes he saw Castricius men hard at work in the surrounding rooms. Portable ornaments were thrust into bags, larger ones wantonly smashed. Furniture was broken, mosaics defaced. A man defecated in a corner. In one chamber a girl had been stripped naked, and was held down ready to be gang raped. Everything was going well.
Timesitheus hurried through the open-sided room that connected the atrium to the peristyle garden. Not many of the mob had penetrated so far yet. A few domestic servants flitted through the columns on the far side, seeking some illusory safety. A handful prostrated themselves before the lararium, beseeching the domestic deities. Fools, there were no gods to hear their prayers.
The set of rooms favoured by Armenius were to the left. A suborned slave had drawn a plan. Timesitheus had memo-rized the entire thing. The outer door was locked. The gladia-tors put their heavy shoulders to the painted panels. It was their diet, all those beans they ate, that made them so bulky. When the door gave, Timesitheus sprang through, sword in hand. The reception room was empty. A Corinthian bronze of an athlete, sheened with age, stood in the centre.
A connecting door led to a bedroom. Not waiting for the gladiators, Timesitheus kicked it open. The cover on the couch was rumpled. A papyrus roll and a glass stood on the bedside table. Timesitheus put his hand on the couch. It was still warm.
Armenius had fled moments before. Signing the gladiators to silence, Timesitheus wondered what he would have done. There were two choices: run or hide. If the latter, Timesitheus would have hidden in the servile quarters, hoping the mob would overlook them as containing little worth looting. Flight was a better option. There was only the one rear door, and that also was through where the slaves lived.
Follow me.
Outside, under the colonnade, Timesitheus ran to the opening on the left. The passage was narrow, the unmortared bricks nearly brushing his shoulders. It was unlit, the air close. His own breathing and the boots of the gladiators were loud in his ears. Tiny cells opened on either side. Check the rear door first. The third opening on the left led there.
As soon as he turned, Timesitheus suspected that he was mistaken. Another corridor led to a storeroom, and no further. Forcing past the gladiators, retracing his steps, he took the next left. A longer passage. It doglegged left then right. The place was a rabbit warren, or a paltry vision of Hades.
More cells on either side. Cheap lamps burnt in some, illuminating tawdry trifles, pathetic attempts to humanize the occupants servitude. Timesitheus glimpsed a daubed scene on a wall. A large, pale woman sprawled, naked on a painted bed. Between her meaty thighs a diminutive darker man licked her cunt. He was all eyes and tongue, degraded forever by his unnatural desire.
Shouting ahead. A change in the air. Nearly at the door. Timesitheus rounded a corner, and almost impaled himself on the tip of on outthrust sword. Flinging himself sideways pain flaring where his left shoulder crushed into the wall the blade missed his ribs by a hands breadth.
His assailant recovered his balance with surprising grace for a large man. Another gladiator. He dropped into a fighting crouch. Timesitheus did the same. The eye slits of the mask restricted his vision; pantomime artists did not often have to fight for their lives. Sword up, he flipped his cloak around his left arm as an improvised shield. The space was too confined for his own gladiators to help. At least they were not crowding his back.
The bodyguard waited. He was there to delay. Timesitheus would have to take the attack to him. Too narrow to cut, it would have to be at the point of the sword, the steel close and deadly.
The bodyguard waited. He was there to delay. Timesitheus would have to take the attack to him. Too narrow to cut, it would have to be at the point of the sword, the steel close and deadly.
Timesitheus felt the rodent breath of fear. He would not let Armenius escape. He steadied himself, forced his terror away, heard the scrabble of retreating claws.
He feinted at the face, thrust to the stomach. The gladia-tor caught the blade on his own. Steel rasped on steel, high up near the pommel, near their fingers. They were almost chest to chest, an unwanted intimacy. Their breath hot in each others faces. Garlic and stale beans repulsive in Timesitheus nostrils.
Both stepped back, careful to give no opening.
Armenius could not escape. Not after all these efforts.
Ten thousand sesterces, let me pass.
The gladiator did not answer.
Twenty.
The gladiator spat.
Timesitheus did not see if the saliva hit him. Peering out from the mask, his eyes never left his opponents sword.
Suck my prick, the gladiator said.
He talked too much. He was a fool. Everyone had a price. Timesitheus had given him a chance. Now he would have to die.
Timesitheus moved his sword to the right. The mans eyes followed the blade.
Without warning, Timesitheus flicked the trailing edge of his cloak up at the gladiators head. Instinctively, his oppo-nent brought his weapon across to protect his face. Ducking low, Timesitheus drove the point of his sword into the mans guts, twisted the hilt, and withdrew.
Steel clattered onto the brick floor. Both hands clutching the wound, the gladiator dropped to his knees.
Timesitheus seized his victims hair with his left hand, yanked his head back. With precision, he thrust down into the mans throat. A painful death, the steel scraping down inside the ribcage, but quick. One convulsion, and it was over.
Recovering his sword, Timesitheus pushed the dead man to the floor.
Follow me.
Timesitheus stepped over the corpse. He was covered in blood, his hands and forearms slick.
The rear door gaped wide. No one was on guard. The rain-swept street was bright after the gloom of the corridor. Everywhere men shuffled and stooped, picking things up from the wet paving, like demented farmworkers harvesting some inedible crop. They straightened, bright things in their hands.
The oldest of ruses. Throw a purse in the air, and watch the plebs scramble for coins. They could not be blamed. Like dogs, they had been well trained in such tricks at the spectacles. It was their nature.
Armenius had got away. The rain beating on his back, Timesitheus wondered how to win something from this defeat. The antique bronze statue would go well in his house. No, with Armenius alive, it would be too easy to trace. This had been about principle, not short term gain. Another day.
Timesitheus would take a clean cloak from one of the gladiators, remove his mask in the shade of its hood, and slip away. Only three men knew he had been here, and Castricius and the gladiators had been well paid for their silence. Armenius could wait until another day.
Chapter 11
Africa
Carthage,
Seven Days before the Ides of March, AD238
Gordian the Younger stood outside the governors residence. The quickening north wind fretted at his dark clothes, tugged at the black fringes of his cloak. They carried the corpse feet first, out through the door decked with its doleful branches of cedar. With much solemnity, they lifted Serenus Sammonicus onto the bier.