‘You bastard!’ Tullia spat. ‘You sent him to his death!’

That answered Murena’s question. There was no further need for words. He drew his sword.

‘Help!’

Murena smiled. No one would hear their cries. They were trapped behind the counter. He moved forward. Finish them, then quickly check there was no one in the back, and be gone before the alarm was raised. Nothing incriminating left behind.

‘Help us now!’

Above the shouts, Murena heard hurried footsteps. The hanging was torn open. A soldier with shoulder-length hair and luxuriant moustaches stood there, sword in hand.

Now someone was pounding on the front door.

Shifting away from the newcomer, Murena flicked a glance towards the sound. In the corner of his eye he saw two figures slide out from behind the huge barrels. He knew them at once. The big Persian Narses and the young officer Valens. Of course, the one with the moustache was Hairan.

The Hatrene was blocking the rear exit.

‘Throw down the weapon,’ Valens said.

Murena backed into a corner, covering himself with his blade.

Narses went and unbolted the door. The bald figure of that mad bastard Iudex entered.

‘It is finished.’ Valens spoke softly, as if calming a horse.

Odds of four to one; Murena knew he was right. Hairan ushered Tullia and her father out of the room. The other three spread out and watched Murena.

An image came into Murena’s mind of Acilius Glabrio cornered on that dark, windswept roof. He envied the senator the poison concealed in the ring. Like Acilius Glabrio, he would not be taken alive.

Still, it was a hard thing to do. Murena thought of the cells, and the pincers and the claws.

Without warning, he turned and dropped to his knees. Wedging the hilt of his sword against a barrel, he threw himself forward.

At first it was little worse than a punch in the stomach. Then the pain overwhelmed him. As his body toppled sideways, he felt the blade twisting in his guts.

Murena lay very still, clutching the steel, as if that might ease his last agonies. His lifeblood was hot on his hands.

He was dimly aware of the men standing over him.

His face was in the sawdust. His shallow breaths lifted flakes from the floor.

‘Why?’ someone asked from far away.

Murena could not answer.

Epilogue

EPILOGUE

Constantinople

I call upon thee, O Lord; make

haste to me!

Give ear to my voice, when I call

to thee!

Let my prayer be counted as incense

before thee,

And the lifting up of my hands as

an evening sacrifice!

THE OLD SENATOR DID NOt lift his hands very high. God and man allowed a certain latitude when you were in your eighty-third year. At least it was Sunday, and one did not have to kneel.