Queen of the Night

to ask a new spate of questions. Murranus realised that to keep this young man quiet he would have to keep him moving. The evening before, he'd asked General Aurelian's permission to take Alexander down to one of the gladiatorial schools in Rome, where they could practise with wooden swords and shields. Murranus hoped the journey would distract his protege, but Alexander, fired with curiosity, had a further litany of questions. At first Murranus found it difficult to reply; at last he decided to take the initiative. He grasped the reins of his horse, trying to close out the sounds of the countryside coming to life, the birds singing in the hedgerows, the wood pigeons cooing so insistently. The morning mist was thinning, the sky turning red-gold, and a cool breeze brought the smell of the farm, manured fields and wet grass. Murranus had decided to leave early so they could avoid the heat and bustle of the city and practise long before noon. Now, to divert his zealous pupil, he launched into his famous lecture about the Thracian gladiator confronting the retairius, the net-man.
    'You see,' Murranus gathered the reins in one hand, holding up the other to demand silence from Alexander, 'the net-man is dangerous not because of the trident but because of the net; people often forget that! The trident is sharp, three-pronged, and the novice watches that, but it's the net which will trap him, it is the net that will kill.'
    Alexander, however, was not so easily quietened and immediately interrupted with a description of his last visit to the games. Murranus grunted absent-mindedly, half listening as he looked out across the fields on either side. The soil was bare of any crops, baked hard under the sun. He wondered what it was like to be a farmer. Perhaps that was what he and Claudia should do: leave the bustle of the city and buy a small farm out in the countryside, grow crops, raise livestock, well away from the intrigues of the court and the constant mischief of the She Asses tavern.
    Murranus looked around; he felt safe and secure. The two servants in front of them were walking briskly, the two behind, holding staffs, were playing some sort of game, trying to rap each other's ankles. Murranus glanced ahead, where the road narrowed between two dense clumps of trees. In the field to his right, a farmer was at his plough, the two oxen straining under the yoke. The farmer probably wanted to use the coolness of the day, finish the back-breaking work before the heat really made itself felt. Murranus smiled wryly. Perhaps he wouldn't be a farmer!
    A flock of birds broke out of the trees and went crying and whirling above him. A prickle of fear cooled the sweat on his neck. The birds wheeled and turned but there seemed nothing wrong. The farmer was leaning over his plough, the oxen still straining. Murranus shouted at the servants walking ahead to be vigilant and, turning in the saddle, scowled at the two young grooms still clicking their sticks together. They entered the dark shade of the clump of trees. Murranus stared through the greenery. Now the farmer was resting on the plough, but he wasn't dressed like a farmer, no homespun tunic; wasn't that a leather kilt and a sword belt he wore?
    Murranus reined in, shouting a warning to the servants ahead, but it was too late. They spun round. One of them immediately took an arrow in the back, the other in the neck; both collapsed, coughing on their own blood. The two young grooms behind, instead of retreating, almost hurried into a hail of arrows as demon-like figures, armed with swords, clubs and axes, swirled out of the trees. Murranus grasped the reins of Alexander's horse. The attackers in their grotesque masks milled about them. Murranus and Alexander drew their swords, lashing out, but it was futile. They were pressed together, the men closing in, clubs and daggers falling. Murranus, threatened by one attacker, heard a gasp and glanced round in alarm. Alexander, staring at him white-faced, eyes black pools of despair, was clutching at terrible wounds in his thigh and stomach. The young man opened his mouth to speak, then lurched to one side and fell off his horse. The red mist of battle fury descended. Murranus lashed out. His attackers pressed in, a thick pole swung at him, and in avoiding that, Murranus ignored the other from behind. A sickening blow to the side of his head sent him swaying in the saddle. The shouted clamour echoed distantly, almost drowned by the roaring