didn’t have the breath to respond. The slope grew steeper and steeper until he had to use his hands to steady each step, then really climb. He was panting lightly as he reached the top of a crag and stared, judging the best route down the other side. The maze of grey rocks stretched into the distance, empty of life beyond the lizards that skittered away with every step.
‘You’d have me stand by and watch, doing nothing to help them?’ Octavian said suddenly. ‘A rape and a murder, Maecenas. You saw her body. What honour would there be in letting a few farmers chase them down while we stand and watch, confirming everything they say about idle Romans? Come on.’
He jerked his head at a route that would take them to the floor of the canyon and began climbing down. At least the shadowed clefts were cooler, until they climbed back into the burning sun once more.
‘Why should I care what Greek peasants say?’ Maecenas muttered, though he pitched his voice too low to be heard. Maecenas was of such ancient lineage that he refused to claim descent from the twins who suckled at a she-wolf and went on to found Rome. His people, he said, had owned the wolf. When they’d first met, he’d assumed Octavian had known Caesar, so a mere Roman noble could not impress him. Over time, he’d realised Octavian took Maecenas at the value he set for himself. It was slightly galling to have to live up to his own sense of superiority. Maecenas felt that Octavian had rather missed the point of noble families. It wasn’t who you were – it was who your ancestors had been that mattered. Yet somehow that simple faith was something he could not shatter in his friend. Octavian had known poverty, with his father dying early. If he thought a true Roman noble would be brave and honourable, Maecenas didn’t want to disappoint him.
Maecenas sighed at the thought. They wore simple tunics and darker leggings. Any clothing was too hot for climbing in the noon sun, but the leggings were terrible, already dark with perspiration. He was convinced he’d rubbed himself raw under them. He could smell his own sweat as he climbed and skidded down, wrinkling his nose in distaste. The scabbard of his sword caught in a crevice and Maecenas swore as he freed it. His expression darkened as he heard Agrippa laugh behind him.
‘I am glad to provide some amusement for you, Agrippa,’ he snapped. ‘The pleasures of this day are now complete.’
Agrippa gave a tight smile without replying as he came level and then went past, using his great strength and size to take enormous steps down the crag. The fleet centurion was a head taller than his companions and the constant labour on board Roman galleys had only increased the power in his arms and legs. He made the climb look easy and was still breathing lightly by the time he reached the bottom. Octavian was a few steps behind and the pair waited for Maecenas as he clambered down after them.
‘You realise we’ll have to go back up that hill again when we turn round?’ Maecenas said as he jumped the last few feet.
Octavian groaned. ‘I don’t want to argue with you, Maecenas. It would be easier if you just accepted we are doing this.’
‘Without complaining,’ Agrippa added. His deep voice echoed back from the stone all around them and Maecenas looked sourly at them both.
‘There are a thousand different paths through these cursed rocks,’ Maecenas said. ‘I should think the bandits are far away from here by now, sipping cool drinks while we die of thirst.’
Gleefully, Agrippa pointed at the dusty ground and Maecenas looked down, seeing the footprints of many men.
‘Oh,’ he said. He drew his sword in a smooth motion, as if he expected an immediate attack. ‘Probably local herders, though.’
‘Perhaps,’ Octavian replied, ‘but we’re the only ones following this path, so I would like to be sure.’ He too drew his gladius, shorter than Maecenas’ duellist’s blade by a hand’s breadth, but well oiled, so that it slid free with barely a whisper. He could feel the heat of the blade.
Agrippa freed his own sword and together the three men walked silently into the canyon ahead, placing their steps with caution. Without planning it, Octavian took the lead, with Agrippa’s bulk on his right shoulder and Maecenas on his left. Ever since they had become friends, Octavian had led the group as if there were no alternative. It was the kind of natural confidence Maecenas appreciated and recognised. Old families had to start somewhere, even when they began with a Caesar. He smiled at the thought, though the expression froze as they came round a spire of rock and saw men waiting for them in the shadows. Octavian walked on without a jerk, keeping his sword lowered. Three more steps brought him into the gloom of the chasm, with rock walls stretching up above their heads. He came to a halt, looking coldly at the men in his way.
There was another path out on the other side and Maecenas noticed laden mules waiting patiently. The men they faced did not seem surprised or afraid, perhaps because there were eight of them, staring with bright-eyed interest at the three young Romans. The biggest of the men raised a sword from another age, a great length of iron that was more like a cleaver than anything else. He sported a black beard that reached right down to his chest and Maecenas could see the bulge of heavy muscles under a ragged jerkin as he moved. The man grinned at them, revealing missing teeth.
‘You are a very long way from your friends,’ the man said in Greek.
Maecenas knew the language, though Octavian and Agrippa spoke not a word. Neither of them looked round with so many blades being pointed in their direction, but Maecenas could feel their expectation.
‘Must I translate?’ he said, dredging up the words from his memory. ‘I know the high speech, but your peasant accent is so thick, I can hardly understand you. It is like the grunting of a dying mule. Speak slowly and clearly, as if you were apologising to your master.’
The man looked at him in surprise, anger darkening his face. He was aware that the death of Romans would make him a wanted man, but the mountains had hidden bodies before and would again. He tilted his head slightly, weighing his choices.
‘We want the one who raped and strangled the woman,’ Maecenas said. ‘Hand him over to us and go back to your short and pointless lives.’
The leader of the bandits growled deep in his throat and took a step forward.
‘What are you saying to him?’ Octavian asked without taking his eyes off the man.
‘I am praising his fine beard,’ Maecenas replied. ‘I have never seen one like it.’
‘Maecenas!’ Octavian snapped. ‘It has to be them. Just find out if he knows the one we came to find.’
‘Well, beard? Do you know the one we want?’ Maecenas went on, switching languages.
‘I am the one you want, Roman,’ he replied. ‘But if you have come here alone, you have made a mistake.’
The bandit looked up the rocks to the blue sky, searching for any hint of a moving shadow that would reveal an ambush or a trap. He grunted, satisfied, then glanced at his sharp-eyed companions. One of them was dark and thin, his face dominated by a great blade of a nose. In response, the man shrugged, raising a dagger with unmistakable intent.
Octavian stepped forward without warning of any kind. With a vicious flick, he brought his sword across so that it cut the throat of the closest man to him. The man dropped his dagger to hold his neck with both hands, suddenly choking as he fell to his knees.
The leader of the bandits froze, then gave a great bellow of rage with the rest of his men. He raised
