Conspiracies of Rome by Richard Blake

the theologian had spoken? How could I know he had uttered a word of truth?
        To be sure, he’d lied about the nature of the guards. They weren’t the ‘runaway slaves’ of his description, but were big Englishmen, speaking the dialect of Wessex. And, dark as it was, I could see something in the way they bore themselves that told me they weren’t simple bandits. There was an order in the little camp and a general discipline that chilled me.
        We rode straight among them. They had a little fire going in a hollow, and were getting some game ready to cook. I stayed on horseback, looking down at them with a lordly confidence I didn’t feel. Maximin dismounted and began a silent and exaggeratedly devout prayer in front of the shrine, which appeared so far as I could see to be an old tomb with a cross stuck on top.
        ‘They’ve sent a fucking boy out to deal with us!’ The words were in English, spat out with evident contempt. ‘Can’t these Latins keep their bumboys out of anything?’
        ‘Kill them both.’ Another voice came out of the darkness. ‘I told you this whole fucking business was dodgy. Take delivery of that stuff, sit here for two days, and then do the bidding of some boy and a priest. Something stinks, and it ain’t my cock. Kill them both, I say, and take the gold. We’ve been here long enough.’ He was another big man with a moustache that, in the shadows made by the fire, seemed to stretch down to his waist. ‘Next he’ll be saying One-Eye sent them.’
        ‘Your mission is completed,’ I drawled, a note of slight impatience in my voice. ‘Get the stuff loaded for me and be off back to Pavia.’ Probably feeling my tension, the horse shifted under me and whinnied. I brought it back under control.
        ‘I don’t have all night to sit here with you,’ I added, now evidently impatient.
        ‘I thought—’ the first voice replied.
        ‘You aren’t paid to think,’ I snapped. ‘You were told to wait here for instructions. I’ve brought your instructions. You load up for me and get yourselves off.’
        I tried to work One-Eye into the instructions, but wasn’t sure which way to go with him. So I added: ‘Do I need to get down and count that gold myself?’
        Suddenly shifty, the first voice told me there was no need for that. Did I think they were just ‘fucking bandits’?
        ‘What I think is my business,’ I said slowly. ‘Now, I didn’t come here to trade words. I want everything piled up in front of me and a light to see it by.’
        I’d done the trick. A lump of burning wood was pulled from the fire and a couple of men scurried back and forth in the pool of light with more of the type of leather bag I’d seen that morning. I could hear the subdued music of coin every time one thumped onto the ground.
        ‘I count twenty-eight,’ I said, raising my voice. ‘Where are the rest?’
        ‘You came late with your instructions.’ The voice was nervous, almost whining.
        ‘I said we didn’t need no extra help,’ a new voice muttered in English. ‘Those fuckers will get us our hands chopped off. “Trust you to believe a couple of Kentish cunts”,’ the voice went on, quoting a line from a song I’d heard an age before in a Winchester tavern.
        ‘You’ll hear about the missing gold when I’ve made my report . . .’ I added: ‘Now for the other stuff.’
        Big Moustache came forward with a larger bag. From it he pulled a small casket. Even in the poor light, I could see its elaborate making – all gold set with jewels.
        ‘We ain’t touched nothing,’ he said. ‘We know the Faith.’ He passed it to Maximin.
        ‘Thank you, my son.’ Maximin’s voice was hoarse. He set the casket on the ground and opened it. His hands shook as he drew back a little cloth inside. He looked reverently on the contents for some while, then closed everything up. ‘Our Common Father will take note