Domitian began to laugh—a high-pitched cackle that increased the fear of those about him. He nodded to his loader and took the bow again, but it was to N’Sumu that he said, “You’ve spoken to the hunter, then? This Lycon?”
“Not yet, lord and god,” the tall man replied. “I did not wish to interfere in the present search without your divine approval. I questioned only those who had some knowledge of the sauropithecus.”
“All right,” said the Emperor, as his fingers toyed with the bow. The nocked arrow had an ordinary head with a sharp point and edges in the form of a narrow wedge. “You’re in charge of the hunt. Sosius!” The first secretary was already jotting shorthand notes on the tablet he held ready. “Cut the orders on that. Lycon is to take orders from you, N’Sumu, and if the beastcatcher objects to being placed under your command, send word to Crispinus here. That Greek’s had time enough to recapture the beast.”
“I don’t think there will be any difficulty, lord and god,” N’Sumu responded smoothly, as the Emperor’s attention returned to his arrow and to the frightened steward still with his arms back against the beech. “I gather that your man Lycon is competent enough in the ordinary way. He simply lacks experience with sauropitheci; but then I am certainly the only hunter on this shore of the Mediterranean who has such experience. Lycon and the support system he has developed will be very useful to me in my operations—so long as he cooperates.”
Domitian shot and reloaded, shot and reloaded again. “As you wish, Egyptian,” he said without concern. The crack of iron arrowheads striking hard wood had been damped somewhat this time, because the most recent pair of arrows had pinned the steward’s wrists to the tree. The man’s mouth opened and closed like that of an ornamental carp sucking air at the surface of a pond. Because of the shock, both physical and mental, the steward was not making a sound. He was pinned as neatly as if he were being crucified; the arrows, like the supporting nails on the crossbar, were driven beneath the wrist joint. The flesh of the victim’s hands would not have enough strength to support the body’s weight.
“Only I want you to remember,” the Emperor went on as he drew the third arrow that the loader had handed him, “that I do expect success. I don’t like it when people fail me. Remember that.”
Domitian loosed. This time the steward screamed. The last arrow had been one of the sickle-headed missiles intended for birds.
“Oops,” said Domitian, daintily covering his lips to hide the amused giggle.
As his giggle became a high-pitched cackle, the onlookers joined in on his jest. “Bravo! Magnificent! Exquisite!”
Chapter Nine
Formion was nodding his way from pleasant reverie and into dream, when Dulicius shook him out of the warmth of the Gallic wench’s body and back to the cold reality of the filthy alleyway in which the two lay in wait. The Greek boxer scowled for a moment into the darkness, wreathed with smoke and mist from the Tiber nearby. Formion did not utter a sound, despite relinquishing his dream. This was a familiar reality into which he returned, and if his partner’s judgment proved sound as usual, there would be more visits to the blonde-haired whore whose favors defined pleasure to the full extent of the Greek’s imaginings.
“Where?” It was more a sigh of breath than speech, as Formion unfolded to full height and alertness.
“There,” Dulicius whispered, pointing toward the river. The full moon gave barely enough light to make out the moving silhouette. Once the figure glided into the shadow of surrounding buildings, it would be invisible.
“I’ve seen her before, I think,” Dulicius confided. From its short stature, he had evidently decided the dimly seen figure was that of a woman—the tail of her mantle pulled over her head.
“Someone dressed like a Gaul with that hood,” Formion advised. “We don’t know who it is.”
“Look again,” sneered his partner. “Only a woman can move like that. I tell you, I’ve seen her here before. I ask you, why is she out at this hour of night?”