Anno Mortis Read online

  Petronius read her expression. "I know, and it's no better on the inside. Wait here for a minute."

  He disappeared through the doorway, only to reappear again a few seconds later.

  "Empty," he said. "Even that ten-foot-tall slave of his is missing. Hurry now, while we can."

  He'd been right about the interior. A few candles flickered in sconces high on the wall, but they did little to dispel the general gloom. There was a musty smell to the place, and she wondered if it was ever cleaned. It would be a hard job to shift the dust from the piles of books and statues and trinkets which covered every surface and crowded every corner. It looked more like a warehouse than a home.

  "This way," Petronius whispered.

  He led her to the left, through a low doorway and into another wing of the building. Where the other parts of the house had been full to overflowing, these rooms were so stark they barely looked lived in. The first held a low table with just one cushion on the floor beside it, and she glimpsed a narrow wooden bed through an archway ahead.

  Petronius caught her expression and shrugged apologetically. "I think the old man's trying to teach me a lesson about the worthlessness of material things."

  "A lesson he clearly hasn't learned himself," she said.

  He choked off a laugh as they both heard the hollow sound of the main door closing. A second later there were voices, one quavering and male and the other low and sweet and female.

  "He's back," Petronius whispered.

  The sailors were quick, but Vali was quicker. He flung himself on Narcissus, toppling him to his back and out of their reach.

  For a moment the two men were face to face. A trick of the moonlight shaded Vali's red-brown eyes to scarlet, the exact colour of fresh blood. For a split second, Narcissus was more afraid of him than of the jackal-headed sailors. Then he felt Vali pressing something small and cold against his palm. He looked down to see that it was a simple silver coin.

  He would have dropped it, but Vali squeezed his hand, closing his fist tight. "You'll need it," he said. And then the sailors had hold of him, and they pulled him away and Narcissus had no one left to defend him.

  He slipped the coin inside his mouth in the brief moment before the sailors came for him. He couldn't imagine what good it would do. No bribe so small would turn them away from their course. But he needed a talisman to ward off what was to come.

  When the sailors descended, he fought. He knew it was futile, but the panic consuming him was beyond rationality. He bit and thrashed and clawed with his nails and it was all for nothing. Each of the sailors took a limb, pulling with inhuman strength, and when he was spread-eagled between them, they carried him to the prow of the ship. Face up to the sky, Narcissus could see nothing but the ghostly white of the sails as they slid in front of the waning moon.

  They tied him to something flat and wooden, the ropes tight enough to cut off the circulation in his hands. He clung on to that small pain, hoping it would drown out the greater to come. He could feel hysterical laughter bubbling inside him, at the thought that he'd once feared Caligula's wrath. That escaping it had brought him to this.

  The laughter died as the stars above him were blotted out by the dark dog-shape of the sailor's head. "You may speak now, and spare yourself this," it said. "Who sent you to us, boy?"

  The words were in his throat, pushing to come up. It would be so easy to speak. But he remembered what Vali had said and he didn't think he was ready to die. Not yet, not before his twenty-second birthday.

  "I won't tell you," he whispered.

  They didn't ask again. He'd been expecting blows and that was what they gave him. The first drove into his stomach, leaving him so empty of air that he couldn't scream when the others followed, against his chest and groin and on his face. His left eye swelled shut and he could feel the blood trickling from a cut on his forehead where his skin had split like a ripe peach.

  The agony was so intense that he was certain it must end soon. It didn't seem possible that anything could hurt this much for this long. But it didn't end, and when he had enough breath to scream he did. He screamed his throat raw and still they carried on.

  When they finally stopped, he was too dazed to realise it. His mouth was still open in a voiceless cry. The pain didn't abate, every part of his body joining in the chorus. But gradually sense returned and he knew that there were no new injuries being inflicted.

  "We ask again," the sailor said, voice so calm it was as if the preceding torment had never happened. "Who was it who sent you here?"

  Narcissus had no voice left to answer and the sailor took his silence as a refusal. He saw the dark space inside the creature's maw as it snarled.

  "They sent you to this," it said. "You owe them no loyalty."

  Narcissus agreed. He wanted to tell them, but only a dry croak emerged. He shook his head to clear it, and the creature thought he was refusing it again.

  "Very well," it whispered. "Then the torment will be increased."

  Narcissus saw a flash of silver as it brought its knife to his hand, and though he hadn't known he could feel any more terror he felt it now, at the thought that he was about to lose a part of himself. He remembered Julia, hiding the stump of her hand behind her back. Was that his future? Would his mind crack, as hers had?

  The blade slid over his forearm, leaving a slick trail of blood behind. It pressed into the bone of his wrist for a moment, a sharp agony, then slid down the length of his hand to his fingertip. A pause - and then it drove inches deep beneath his fingernail.

  His body convulsed and his back arced from the board, straining against the binding ropes. For one second the stars blazed so bright they blinded him, pinpoints of white fire in the darkness. And then everything was black.

  Petronius and Boda stood face to face, ears pressed against the door as they listened to the conversation beyond. He'd begged her to hide in the relative safety of his bedroom, but she'd ignored him, and he couldn't risk further conversation to make his point.

  She was utterly infuriating. What did these barbarians teach their women? He'd never met another like her, and certainly not one who was a slave. She'd asked him earlier why he saved her life, and the truth was he didn't know. Oh, he'd felt guilty about leaving her to her fate, but not guilty enough to steal a purse full of Seneca's gold to rescue her. And she was pretty, but Rome was full of beautiful women who could be had a lot more cheaply.

  Now, though, he was glad he'd brought her here. Seneca and his female guest were talking in low, guarded tones, but they'd chosen to seat themselves right next to the door to Petronius's quarters, so that almost every word was clear. And the more he heard, the less he liked.

  "It's all prepared, then?" Seneca said. He sounded almost meek, a tone of voice Petronius had never heard from him. Whoever this woman was, she seemed to make the old man nervous.

  "Everything's in place."

  Seneca grunted. "We've cut it fine this time. One night to spare till the dark of the moon."

  "True. But this is the thirteenth, the most important. Everything must be perfect - the goddess demands it."

  Petronius heard a grating sound, as a chair scraped back against the floor. When Seneca spoke again, his voice was more distant. "And you're satisfied with the body?"

  "Indeed," the woman said. "The body is ideal - young and strong. And the man died a violent death. The power of it will fortify the spells."

  "Excellent," Seneca said. "Quintus may be ill-educated and vulgar, but he's proven his value to us."

  Boda gasped, a voiceless puff of air Petronius felt against his face.

  Outside there was a sudden silence. It stretched on so long that Petronius begun to wonder if Seneca and his companion had left, though he was sure he would have heard that.

  A moment later, the door was wrenched open and he and Boda fell forward into the main room. She kept her feet, but Petronius stumbled to his knees. From there he looked up at Seneca's furious face.

  "So," t
he woman said. She was Egyptian, he could see that now, though there was no trace of it in her voice. Her face was perfectly round and very smooth but still not quite young. She could have been any age from fifteen to fifty. She smiled when she saw him looking, a delicate pout of her rosebud lips. "You heard us speaking, I suppose?"

  He nodded. There was no use denying it.

  "And do you know who I am? Who we are?" She was looking at Boda now.

  The gladiator glared back, blue eyes as dark as midnight in the ill-lit room. "Worshippers of the gods of Egypt," she said. "And you are their priestess."

  The woman looked momentarily startled. Then she smiled - a dazzling expression that transformed her face from serenity to almost unearthly beauty. "Indeed. I am Sopdet, high priestess of the Cult of Isis, and when you spied on our meeting last night you trespassed on secrets which only the initiated may know."

  "We didn't hear anything!" Petronius said. Sopdet gave a small satisfied nod, and he realised he'd been played. Until he'd spoken, she hadn't been entirely certain that he'd been at the cult meeting.

  "I tried to keep you out of this, boy," Seneca said. "What concern was this of yours?"

  It was a good question, so Petronius just shrugged and looked away.

  Sopdet put a restraining hand on Seneca's arm. "This boy - he's of good family, is he not?"

  Seneca sniffed, but nodded grudgingly. "Good enough."

  "Precisely," she said. "Good enough for him to be eligible to join the Cult. And if he were an initiate himself, the secrets of the Cult would be open to him. No need to punish him for his intrusion then." Her face was friendly as she looked at Petronius, her expression almost conspiratorial.

  He felt a flood of sweet relief coursing through him. He had no particular desire to prance around in subterranean caverns with bandage-wrapped lunatics, but it was definitely preferable to the alternative.

  Seneca frowned. "And what of his joining fee?"

  Sopdet's eyes swung to Boda and her expression shifted, only a subtle movement of muscle beneath skin, but suddenly her face didn't look friendly at all. "This slave will do very nicely," she said. "The dark of the moon is in three nights' time. Let her be sacrificed then."

  When Narcissus woke he was by a river. It was dark all around and that made sense, because it was still night, but then he realised it was the darkness of an underground world. The river ran through a cavern, more vast than any he'd ever seen.

  The air was full of a gentle hissing sound. After a moment he understood that it was voices, thousands of them. He strained to make out the words but they remained, tantalisingly, always at the edge of his consciousness. And whoever whispered was hidden from him, though his eyes strained into the outer reaches of the enormous, dim cave.

  There was only one person visible. An old man stood by the banks of the river. He was ankle deep in the brown-green mud, an unclean smell oozing into the air around him. The slapping of small waves against wood grew louder as Narcissus approached, and he saw that there was a boat in the river. It looked half-decayed, and a foot of water sloshed inside, but it was the only way to cross.

  The old man wore a cowl, like the sailors. Narcissus thought he might be human, though. He caught glimpses of a thin white nose and the gaunt curve of a cheek in the darkness. Sometimes it looked like a skull beneath the hood.

  Narcissus needed to cross the river. He wasn't sure why, but he knew it was important. If he stayed on this side, he was in danger. Something awful was following him, a person or maybe just a sensation. An agony he had to escape.

  The old man looked up as he approached, though his face remained hidden.

  "How much to take me over?" Narcissus asked.

  He'd expected a dry croak, but when the old man's voice came it was high and light. It sounded like birdsong. "One piece of silver, son."

  Narcissus felt for the pouch that usually hung at his neck, but there was nothing there. His money was gone. Only... what was that sharp metallic taste in his mouth? He probed his tongue between gum and upper lip and felt the edge of something solid. When he spat it out he saw that it was a small silver coin.

  "Will this do?" he asked.

  The old man took it from him, bone-thin fingers ghosting over his as he picked it up. "This will get you there - and back."

  Narcissus looked behind him. Something seemed to be resolving itself out of the darkness. It almost looked like the deck of a ship. There was a body on it, tied down and bleeding. Whoever it was must be suffering terribly. "That's all right," he said. "I'm not sure I want to come back."

  "You will," the old man said. A yellow slice of teeth smiled beneath his hood. "Everyone wants to return while they still can."

  Narcissus nodded, and stepped into the rickety boat...

  ...And on the deck of the Khert-Neter, the jackal-headed sailors prodded and struck his unconscious body, but nothing they tried could wake him.

  PART TWO

  Morituri Te Salutamus

  CHAPTER SIX

  Petronius woke, sweating and frantic, from a dream he'd already forgotten. There was no light in his room, so he didn't know what time of day it was, but he suspected it was late. A painful stab of guilt told him he should have been up with the sun, searching the streets of the city for Boda. But he'd been doing that for the last two days, and to no avail. Wherever Seneca and Sopdet had hidden her, he was pretty sure it wasn't within the walls of Rome.

  He didn't know why he felt responsible for her. She had, after all, got herself into this mess all on her own, and if it hadn't been for him, she'd be crow-meat already. But the thought of her dying was unbearable to him. And now time had almost run out. Tonight would be the dark of the moon.

  He'd managed to track down a few cultists, but they'd said nothing, only reported back to Seneca everything Petronius had asked them. After that he'd tried to talk to his father. The old man hadn't listened past the point where Petronius described following Seneca to the secret meeting. Then he'd offered a beating if his son ever did anything so disrespectful again. And it turned out he'd been a fool to buy Boda with Seneca's money. That made her Seneca's possession, to do with as he wished. No one would help him, and no one but him could help Boda. However futile it seemed, he had to keep trying.

  He rose from the bed, joints creaking, and splashed some cold water onto his face, but didn't bother to shave. His dark, curling hair hung limp with grease. He hadn't been to the baths since Boda was taken. What was the point?

  There was no one in the main room when he entered. The door to Seneca's quarters stood at the far end, enticingly unguarded for the first time in three days. Could this finally be his chance?

  He sidled up to the entrance, glancing behind him for any sign of the old man's huge, silent slave. No one. Not quite believing his luck, he put his hand on the doorknob and turned.

  The door was yanked out of his hand as Seneca pulled it inward. He paused when he saw Petronius, eyebrows raised. "Something I can do for you?"

  Petronius felt a sudden flare of rage. The old man was treating this like a joke. As if he found the death of a woman nothing to get too worked up about. "You know what you can do," he said. "Release Boda."

  Seneca shook his head. "Really, boy. I don't understand why this concerns you so much. She is, after all, only a slave - and a barbarian one at that."

  Petronius opened his mouth to give a heated response. A second later, he closed it again. A slave, yes. How could he have forgotten?

  "You're right, of course," he said, bowing. "I shan't trouble you again."

  The old man smiled cynically. Petronius could tell he didn't believe a word of it. "Won't you? Well, just be sure to be here before sundown tonight. I wouldn't want you to miss the ceremony." And he slammed the door in Petronius's face before he could say anything further.

  Petronius didn't mind. The sooner he got out of there, the sooner he could start searching for someone who really could help. Someone who not only knew Boda's location, but might have
some motivation for revealing it. He couldn't suppress a wry smile. No doubt it would amuse Boda to hear that it had taken him three days to realise the best person to ask about the fate of a slave was another slave.

  Narcissus woke to a wavering blue-green light. He was aware of pain, but it was faded and dull, and when he rolled to his feet he felt only a residual discomfort.

  "Awake at last," Vali said. The other man was sitting cross-legged on a small crate. When Narcissus looked around him, he realised he was back in the ship's hold.

  "What happened?" he said. His voice was a dry croak, rusty with disuse.

  "You passed out when they started torturing you, and they didn't seem able to revive you. So they left you in here to deliver to their mistress when we reach our destination."

  Torture. Yes, Narcissus remembered that. He examined the blue-brown bloom of bruises on his arms, and when he lifted his tunic he saw that his stomach was covered in them, barely an inch of pink skin showing through. His eyes were caught by the index finger of his right hand, the red blood clot where his nail had once been.

  He let his tunic drop and looked back at Vali. "So why didn't they torture you?"

  Vali hesitated, then lifted his own tunic, exposing a white, lightly muscled chest. Tattooed in its centre was a five-pointed star. "A hex of protection," he said. "They couldn't harm me."

  Narcissus thought about the silver coin which seemed to have bought him these three days' respite from torment. He'd heard that the northern tribes had powerful sorcerers among them. "And have we reached our destination?" he asked.

  Vali nodded to the far wall, and Narcissus saw that he'd somehow managed to carve a large chunk out of the ship's hull. The sea surged in choppy little wavelets only a few feet beneath. And closer than the horizon, a broad low land began. Narcissus held to the side of the gap, leaning out to enjoy the warm sun and refreshing sea-spray.