The Shrine (A Prelude to Eagles at War)

Part Two

Fighting his way free of the crowd – the inn was packed – Tullus pushed past the doormen, three bruisers who bore more than a passing resemblance to ill-carved slabs of stone. After the room’s pungent fug, the cool night air felt wonderful on his flushed face. He took a deep breath, and another. A walk would do him good. Once his offering had been made, he could return here if he still had a stomach for more drinking. Removed from the twin temptations of wine and Hathor’s body, though, Tullus wondered if finding his guesthouse might be wiser. ‘Which way to the shrine of Magna Mater and Isis?’ he asked of the nearest doorman.

          ‘That way, sir.’ A massive arm pointed down the darkening street, which still had decent numbers of people on it. ‘It’s not far, perhaps a quarter of a mile.’

          Tullus considered his options. The temple wasn’t far, but the light was fast fading from the sky. His return journey to either inn or guesthouse would be made in complete darkness, that was clear. All kinds of lowlifes emerged onto the streets after sundown. Noticing the look in the doorman’s eyes, which suggested he thought Tullus was afraid, Tullus rolled his shoulders angrily, and checked that his sword hilt was where it should be. Without a backward glance, he set off for the temple.

The uneven paving was treacherous to a sober man, let alone a pissed one. Like the unfortunate Liberalis earlier, Tullus knew he could break an ankle with ease. Twenty steps from the inn, he paused to let his eyes grow accustomed to the darkness before continuing his journey. Drunk legionaries made up much of the traffic. Arms slung over each other’s shoulders, they ambled along, whistling at the painted whores in dimly-lit doorways, and arguing over which restaurant they should eat in. Head down, walking with purpose, Tullus passed unseen by all. By the time he had crossed several intersections without event, his confidence was growing. No one would dare hinder an officer of the legions.

‘Get away from me, you vermin!’ The voice came from off to one side. ‘Help! I’m being robbed!’

          Tullus searched for the cry’s source. A short distance down a side street he could make out three figures, two confronting the other. Under normal circumstances, a night patrol of Castra Regina, say, Tullus would have had six or more soldiers with him. He was ten strides closer to the trio, a challenge issuing from his lips, before he remembered that he was in fact alone. A glance up and down the street revealed none of the legionaries who had been so plentiful on the first part of his journey. It would have been cowardly to have shouted for help, or to have done an about face, so Tullus summoned all of his bravado, and drew his sword. ‘Be off, you sewer rats! Find someone else’s ankle to bite.’

It became clear in the next six heartbeats that no robbery was taking place. The three were acting in concert, Tullus realised with dull horror, as they spread out, two facing him and one darting around to his rear. He saw no big blades, only a knife and two clubs. That was small comfort. ‘What’s going on here?’ he demanded in his best parade ground voice.

‘Nothing at all, optio,’ said the nearest, a burly man in a hooded cloak. ‘Hand over your purse. Do it quick, and you’ll never see us again.’

‘There’s precious little in it,’ replied Tullus with mock sorrow. ‘I’ve been drinking since before the race began.’

‘We want it nonetheless. Now.’

The man’s tone implied that he knew about his winnings, thought Tullus with alarm. Had the betmaker followed him after all? Or had he missed something at the inn? Acutely aware of the thug already behind him, he had no time to work it out. Casting a look over his shoulder, he cursed. The third man stood ten paces away, blocking his path back to the larger thoroughfare. He’d fallen for one of the oldest tricks in the book, and if he didn’t give up his winnings, he would end up choking on his own blood, or with his brains oozing out of the soup pan of his skull. Yet the thought of handing over his money made Tullus’ pride flare up, white hot. Whoresons, he thought. They’re not getting it.