Chapter Eight
CHAPTER EIGHT
The brothel was the seedy kind, in the disreputable section of town where cutpurses swarmed the streets. Stilicho counted himself lucky getting to the place alive.
The madam was a buxom woman of indeterminate age, dressed in a cheap red toga. She smiled cheerfully, displaying a row of broken teeth, as she showed Stilicho to a narrow room flooded in oily light. A thin mattress was tossed over a rough stone shelf; little protection for bouncing hips and spines. She left a jug of cheap wine and two clay goblets when she went.
Stilicho settled into a chair to wait. As he had many times in the last forty-eight hours, he turned his thoughts to the boy in the arena.
The boy had been barely fourteen, not yet grown into his frame. An escaped slave, ragged and bruised; he had fought like hell when he’d been caught and the signs of that were all over his body. Alaric had laughed at the banquet, called it luck and the bear’s sickness. But Stilicho had seen the boy’s steady hand, his cool resolve. There’d been nothing of luck in that shot. When the boy stood victorious over the heaving carcass, Stilicho rose to his feet with the rest. Made sure he shouted the loudest. Bring him to me , he’d said. That boy is mine.
He never dreamed one day he’d face that cool, determined gaze from across a bloody battlefield. Meet him over and over, on frozen ice and howling plains, surrounded by bloating corpses in the heat of summer. Trying to save the boy in the arena from the man he had become.
The door swung open and a towering giant from the primeval forests of Thrace strode into the room. “It’s about damn time,” Stilicho said. “Could you not have chosen someplace clean?”
“You requested privacy. This is one of the few brothels in the city not infested by the Empire’s spies.” Calthrax slouched into a chair by the door. “Lettice is an old friend.”
“Yes. I thought I’d recognized Thracian tattoos.” Calthrax poured himself some of the rotgut wine. It seemed incongruous, all that hulking muscle sitting still, pouring wine; every inch of Calthrax seemed built for violence. “That stuff will kill you,” Stilicho observed drily. “They keep it flowing, the better to rob you later.”
“It’s no worse than we had on campaign.” Calthrax grinned. “And any who tried to rob me would regret it, I think. What do you want, old man?”
“Surely you can guess.” Stilicho raised his cup to his lips; caught a whiff of the contents and winced. “You have ears in every corner of the palace.”
“You must be referring to Alaric of the Goths pulling the roof down around your ears.” Calthrax’s eyes turned hard. “Are you surprised? You offered him everything he wanted on a platter and he still couldn’t bring himself to take it.”
“Alaric has kidnapped the emperor’s sister.”
“Yes, so I heard. And you let him.”
“I had no choice. Alaric would have cut her throat.” He could not let it happen. The princess Julia had been a joy, once; a bright, sharp girl who could beat anyone in the palace at latrones . “I suspect he will try to ransom her, but we cannot allow ourselves to be extorted. Not without sending a signal to every tin-pot usurper in the Mediterranean that Rome is ripe for the taking. Our only real recourse is war, and we cannot afford war. Not with the northern provinces in revolt.” He sighed. What he had to say next pained him deeply. But so many lives had already been lost. This was the only way that did not lead to mass bloodshed. “I need you to hunt down Alaric, kill him, and bring back the princess. Alive or dead, but I would strongly prefer alive.”
Calthrax went still. “I never dreamed to hear that from your lips.”
“It cannot be helped,” Stilicho said. “Alaric travels with fifty men. I’ve already blocked the ports, but he may aim for the mountains. My patrols will be thin on the ground and they do not have your tracking skills. You will need to assemble your best.”
“My best will cost you.”
Stilicho took out his purse and counted out a measure of gold—enough to outfit a small mercenary group, with plenty left over for bribes. “This should be enough.”
Calthrax examined the money. “If you had asked me to do this years ago, the north of Italy would not be in ruin.”
“I know.” How many had died for his wish to preserve Alaric’s life? He’d tried everything. Tried reason and military force; tried giving him what he wanted. Nothing else had worked. And now he was left with no other option.
Unbidden, the boy in the arena rose up in his mind. Hand steady on the broken spear, incandescent with the will to live.
Stilicho spread a worn leather map on the rickety table. “If Alaric is heading toward the passes, here is where I believe he will aim. Start your search in this direction.”
This was the best course, he told himself. Even if they went to war and won, Stilicho would be damned if he’d let Alaric be paraded through the streets and strangled at the foot of the statue of Mars. Instead he’d aim Calthrax like a spear at the heart of his enemy, and ensure he died a warrior’s death. He owed that much to the boy in the arena.