Conspiracies of Rome (29 page)

    Then I heard the footsteps behind me.

    It was the same soft yet not-too-distant padding on the paving stones that I’d heard those few but long days ago with Maximin as we walked back from the prefect. I turned and pulled out my sword.

    ‘Show yourselves, you filthy bastards,’ I shouted. ‘Who are you?’

    I heard only the scurrying of the rats as they ran away from the sound of my voice.

    Staggering a little, I walked quickly back along the street. ‘I know you’re out there. Come on, you piles of shit – come and show yourselves like men.’

    I heard a sound behind me. I turned. At first, I saw nothing special in the patterns of dark and of seemingly intense moonlight. Then my eyes focused.

    There were four men facing me in the moonlight. I put aside the question of how they could have got behind me. Those streets could do odd things with echoes. I looked at them. They stood very still. They looked the sort of scrawny street trash I’d seen all over Rome, dipping in and out of the cheaper wine shops, lounging about the more populous squares. Only these men were armed. I could see the dull glint of steel from the knives they had in their hands. Silently, they fanned out and moved closer to me.

    A sword betters a knife any day. But there were four of these, and the intention was to take me from more than one direction. I backed away. I’d get a wall behind me. Ideally, I’d get into a doorway – that would cover me on three sides. Even against four knives, a sword would then still be better. If they didn’t turn and run, I’d rip a few up and try to keep one for some leisurely questioning.

    Such was my plan. But the streets in Rome are a disgrace. I’d have had firmer ground trying to fence on Dover Beach. I stepped back onto a line of fallen brickwork, and the mortar gave way. I fell flat on my back. I heard my sword land with a clank in some shadows.

    ‘Fucking hell!’ I muttered as I watched the men come closer. I’d really been too long in that wine shop. I could feel a headache coming on as I looked briefly up at the dark sky.

    I was up in a moment, my own knife out. But there was an end of my advantage. Even with my back now against a wall, I was one blade against four. Then again, I was bigger. I slashed out at the nearest. He danced away.

    ‘You’ve got something we want,’ said one of them in a loud yet conversational voice. He was a nasty little brute with his thin arms and pinched face. He didn’t look particularly strong. On the other hand, he did look just the sort of man who’d spent his life cutting people up in dark alleys. ‘Take us to them letters, boy, and you won’t come to no harm. That’s a promise.’

    ‘Fuck you, gutter-scum!’ I snarled, slashing out again. I sliced the air, a good few feet short of him. ‘Shitty-breathed cocksucker!’ I added.

    He smiled. ‘You can make this easy for us or hard for yourself,’ he said. ‘You’ll take us to them letters if you knows what’s best for you.’

    I pulled myself together. In England or in Rome, knife fighting is all the same. The first rule is not to move around too much. Don’t let the enemy see how fast you are. Don’t let him gauge how far you can reach. Don’t waste energy. Yes, so far I’d broken those rules. But I began now to keep them in a loose, semi-inebriated way. I stood with my knife at waist level, and waited.

    ‘Come on,’ the pinched man said impatiently. ‘Just give us what we fucking want.’

    ‘You want them. You come and get them,’ I snarled. I pulled off my cloak and wrapped it round my left arm.

    One of the four moved in just a little too close. I darted at him. I went for the face. That’s what you should do. Groin and face for close combat – arms and face from a distance. Don’t go for the body. It may be armoured. Otherwise, you may not hit something vital. Arms are good. You may get a tendon. Face is always good. You may get an eye if lucky. Even if not, you’ll give your enemy something to think about.

    I got him on the forehead, just above an eye. He fell back screaming and clutching at his bloodied eye. A lucky hit, but not at all fatal.

    Second rule of knife fighting: don’t try to follow up a hit when there’s more than one attacking you; not, that is, unless you can get a big advantage thereby. I did follow this one. The three others began at once to close in on my sides. One tried to get behind me. Just in time, I danced back against the wall. Out of action for the time being, the wounded man was dabbing at the stream of blood that ran down his face. He’d be back. But there were only three for the moment.

    Cautious now, the three spread wider around me. They were trying to wear me out. As one came close enough, I’d go at him. He’d jump back. The others would move in from another side. The trick is to be fast enough and strong enough to stop them from closing in at once – but not to look too fast and strong: you need another one to chance his luck just too far. If you can’t pick them off in this way and level the odds, they will eventually get you.

    And these men knew what they were doing. Little by little, they were closing in.

    I tried a tactic that had once saved one of my victims on the Wessex border. ‘Help! Help!’ I roared. ‘Bloody murder in the street. A reward for help! You there, go for help!’

    I didn’t expect any help. But I did just slightly unnerve them. One looked briefly round.

    That was the end of this fucker, I can tell you. I darted suddenly to the right, holding the others off with my covered left arm. I lunged, and got him straight in the bladder. I felt the knife jolt as it hit the back of his pelvis, and felt the gush of blood and piss as I pulled it out.

    He fell screaming to the ground. A good thrust straight up through the ball bag is best. You get more blood, and the moral effect is greater. But bladders are still good in themselves. Even if it doesn’t finish an enemy off in short order, it absolutely disables. And there is the added joy that he’ll suppurate in agony for days and days.

    Yes, I’d got another one. The only downside was that I’d lost the cover of the wall. I tried to get back there. But the two remaining had got me front and back. I darted sideways again. But they followed me and closed in.

    ‘Maximin!’ I cried and lunged forward. There’s nothing like a good battle cry. All good soldiers swear by them. They cost a bit in breath. But they can really set you up for a fight, and may unnerve an opponent.

    As one of the remaining enemies fell back, I threw my cloak at him, then whipped suddenly round on the other and went for the face. I’d take one more with me. There are worse ways to die than giving out twice what you’re getting.

    I got the one now in front of me in the throat at close quarters. It was a slicing, parallel blow. I felt the momentary resistance as my knife brushed hard against flesh and gristle. With a little surge of hope, I grabbed him and twisted round with him in front of me for cover.

    I looked at the remaining able attacker. It was the pinched man. He stood a few feet away looking back at me. What was he doing? I wondered as I pulled my human shield better into place. I was ready for him to come at me. I was rather hoping he might run away. I was ready to expect anything but stillness.

    He opened his mouth in a silent cry. I saw the trickle of dark blood from his mouth. I saw the dark shining point of a sword projecting from his chest. As the sword was pulled back, he fell to his knees. He raised his eyes to heaven, another silent cry on his bloody, frothing lips. It was almost as if he were praying. He fell face forward with a long, rattling sigh. I heard the crack of his skull on a paving stone.

    The one I’d just got on the face was nowhere to be seen. Instead, I saw a darker blackness in the shadow of the wall. I heard the sheathing of his sword. I had an impression of great size and bodily power. Before I could collect myself, he turned and was off, still in shadow.

    I stood, two fallen men around me, another still alive, but choking out his last in my arms. From the blank, still expression on his face, I saw that the one I’d got in the bladder was dead. I must have got a blood vessel. My legs began to shake. I was in no position to follow the stranger.

    ‘Who are you?’ I cried feebly.

    No response.

    I thought to cry out a few words of thanks. But I could think of nothing appropriate. The stranger was gone. There was silence where he’d been. The shadows now were all of the same darkness.

    I pushed the dying man forward. He fell with a crunch onto his face. Still cautious, I knelt down to examine him. I’d got him in the windpipe, sure enough, and he was going fast.

    ‘Who sent you?’ I asked, twisting at the now shattered nose. ‘Give me his name. Did you kill Maximin?’

    The hole in his throat gave a shrill whistle. His lips moved in an obscenity. I reached down and tried to cover the hole, so he could get some air into his lungs. But the damage was too extensive. He was bleeding to death. I’d get nothing from him. No point in further questioning.

    But you don’t respect the dying moments of someone who’s just tried to kill you – and may have killed your best friend in the world. There was no time left for anything elaborate. I thought briefly, then stabbed him short in both eyes. I stood up and watched the bloody tears flow black in the moonlight. I looked on gratified at the bubbling, agonised convulsions in which he finally died.

    ‘
Ite feri, ut se sentiat emori
,’ I muttered, quoting one of the madder emperors. ‘Strike, but let him know that he’s dying.’

    A shame I hadn’t been able to question him. But I’d got the shitbag too deep into the throat. Annoying for me, if a blessing for him.

    My fit of the shakes had passed. Indeed, I felt rather good. I was alive and uninjured. At least three other men who’d intended to change that state of affairs were dead. Perhaps there was a justice in the world, I thought, as I cast round for my lost sword.

    I found it. I sheathed it. I stepped into the full moonlight. I looked round to get my bearings, then set off in what I supposed to be the right direction home.

    All the while, I was followed down the silent streets. I knew that I was followed behind. Those footsteps were now so familiar, I’d have noticed if they weren’t there. But I could have sworn there was someone in front of me. It was just one person, I thought. I never saw anyone, but I knew someone was there. He’d stop some way past each junction, to see which way I’d go. If I turned left or right, this watcher would go silent awhile, and then be heard quietly walking in front of me again.

    I kept a hand on my sword. But whoever was following me had no present wish to come any closer. Slowly, and with much turning back on myself, I found my way back to Marcella’s house on the Caelian.

29

‘Well, you certainly had a busy night.’ The Ethiopian diplomat smiled broadly and unstoppered another jar of the fizzy water he’d urged on me in place of the normal wine.

    He was right – and I’d only given him the incomplete version. I’d go back to find the house dark and locked up. The old watchman had still been about, however, and he’d let me in. His eyes had opened wide at the bloody mess all over me.

    ‘Sir, you ought to know better by now than to be out alone at night,’ he’d said, clutching at the door handle for support and breathing wine fumes at me.

    I’d agreed. Certainly, Rome was turning out to be heavier on the wardrobe than I’d expected – another suit that would never look the same, even after cleaning. I’d pressed a silver coin into his hand. ‘I don’t think we need to upset your lady,’ I’d explained. ‘These past few days have been hard for her as it is. Just send me up some water, if you can.’

    He could and did. And Gretel had brought it. I don’t know about you, but killing often makes me lustful, and I was wildly inflamed. I’d ripped off my clothes, washed a bit, and then dragged her into bed. I’d worn the little slut out long before rolling off her, and – according to her later description – snored like a pig till well after dawn.

    Now I was having breakfast, as agreed, with the diplomat. I say ‘as agreed’. In truth, I’d clean forgotten. He’d invited me after Maximin’s death, and I’d have agreed to anything at the time without knowing what I was doing. As if that weren’t enough, there were the events of the previous night. But he’d got me out of bed with impeccable manners.

    ‘It’s my lady!’ Gretel had whispered at the first gentle knock. ‘She’ll have me flogged for this. She’ll sell me to the Lombards – er, back to the Lombards  . . .’

    ‘I don’t think so,’ I’d grunted as I staggered from the bed. ‘I’m virtually the son of the Most Holy Saint Maximin. Besides, my rent is up to date – which probably counts for everything with the old witch.’