Agrippa bowed his head.

“I will do the same,” he said, and took the priest’s walking stick from the dead man’s hand. He removed the covering that —yes— hid the suspected blade, and tested its sharpness on his finger. He tossed it to the scholar, who flinched slightly, but then gripped it. Agrippa turned the priest over and found his own knife tucked into the man’s belt. He smiled.

The priest had feared his prisoner. They were not so secure here as they seemed.

He took the priestly robe from the man’s body and threw it over himself. Augustus and Nicolaus pulled their hoods up over their heads, and Usem slipped out the window, pulling himself up onto the roof of the temple, followed by Augustus, wavering but courageous, and Nicolaus, gulping. Usem held out his hand for Agrippa, and the general took it.

The Psylli led, creeping along the roofline, bending low. He looked down into the protected courtyard of the temple, regretting all of this. The emperor was in no condition to be with him, and Nicolaus was not a soldier. Only Agrippa was a warrior, and he was still suffering the aftereffects of the poisoning.

“Watch them,” Augustus said, pointing into the courtyard. A guard walked a circle around the statue of Philoctetes. Another guard walked in the other direction, and they crossed each other. The priests were perfectly synchronized, perfectly prepared, though Usem could see only swords, not crossbows.

Agrippa nodded. He was meant to be unconscious in his room. The rest of his legionaries were similarly captive. The temple was not at the same level of readiness it had maintained the night before.

“The quiver will be in a box,” Nicolaus said. “A metal box. The arrows are too dangerous to be left uncovered. The priests will have them secured.”

Agrippa looked at Augustus and smiled. Long ago, in their youth, they’d fought and tricked, learning techniques for attack from a leader of the guard in Apollonia. The emperor smiled back at him. Still, he was not well. He’d lost weight over the past months, and he looked spindly and pale. It was a miracle he was on his feet. He seemed hardly to be drinking the theriac now, and that was a blessing, but Agrippa mistrusted the shaking of his hands.

They were barely concealed on a rooftop overlooking their quarry. It was time for action, not worry. There would be time enough, should they survive this.

Usem waited, counting. The rhythm of the guards marching regained its previous perfection.

“On my signal,” Usem whispered, and he positioned his dagger over his head, aiming carefully. He’d have only one chance. He threw the dagger, watching it twirl through the air, end over end, like a metal bird, a flying, winging thing.

The priest it was aimed at did not see it coming until it slid up to the hilt into his chest.

Agrippa was already leaping down from the rooftop, his sword drawn, Augustus in his wake, gasping with exertion.