The Centurion's Empire by Sean McMullen Page B

fell upon Vespus with a hissing yowl. Lars drew his pugio and scrabbled toward the struggling flurry of snow and limbs, but even as he drew near Vespus pushed the big cat's face away with bloodied fingers and stabbed repeatedly at its ribcage. Lars seized it by the scruff of the neck, jerked it back and slashed the dagger across its throat.
    For a moment they lay silent, but no alarm had been raised. They had rolled into deep snow between roofs, and this had muffled the sounds of the struggle.
    "Are you hurt?" Lars whispered as he rolled the cat's body to one side.
    "Mauled my hand," Vespus gasped. "Clawed me here and there ... but nothing bad."
    "Your hand is badly mauled, no more climbing for you tonight. I'll bind it and you can stay on the roof while I go below and force a few doors."
    "Strange, it doesn't hurt much. Did it get you?"
    "A scratch on the arm. Nothing more . . . but what's the matter?"
    "Resting, just a moment."
    "Are you sure you're all right?"
    "Tired, just tired."
    Vespus began to curl up in the snow as Lars wrapped a strip of cloth around his hand. The cat lay beside him, a mound of blood-streaked white about the size of a common dog.
    "Not a real killer, it's probably trained to pounce and cause a commotion, raising the alarm," said Lars. "Lucky you didn't cry out. It's as white as snow, I've never seen one like it."
    He lifted a paw with the blade of his pugio.
    "There's something buckled to its paws—Vespus?"
    Vespus was no longer breathing. Shivering, alert for more cats, Lars again lifted the animal's paw on his blade. The sharp metal spikes were coated in something dark and sticky. They too would tear skin when the cat used its claws. The coating of poison had killed Vespus in moments.
    Lars sank to the snow, clutching his arm, fighting down despair and panic. Minutes passed, his heart pounded—yet he did not become drowsy. The scratch was ugly, but had been from one of the cat's natural claws. He flexed his limbs. Vespus lay curled up in the snow as if asleep. He patted the dead man's shoulder, pausing for a moment to find words to speak. He had seen death many
    times and was not used to feeling sorrow in its presence. He spat on the body of the white cat.
    "They will regret making the roofs so dangerous," he told the corpse of Vespus as he turned to go. Lars moved slowly across the roofs with his gladius in his hand. It was a weapon that might keep another cat at a distance
    . . . perhaps. Nothing else stirred on the snow-shrouded tiles. Across a courtyard Lars could see the chimneys that Vespus had described to him: strange, squat, pentagonal towers of brick.
    He was ready to drop to the ground and enter one of the inner buildings when he had noticed a movement in the shadows. A very large dog, perhaps a wolf. So, there were many guards beyond the inner wall after all, but none of them were human. The slave had not known of them, but he had only been there during the day. The wolves and cats were probably let loose at night, and they were undoubtedly trained to distinguish between their masters and mortal intruders. It all made sense. Animals could not be bribed to turn traitor and betray secrets. Lars's skin was smeared with astringent and he had kept some of his clothing in a bag of pigeon feathers while they hid in the tower. Thus his scent was masked, even if he did not look like a pigeon. So far the wolves had taken no notice of him ... or perhaps he was being stalked and did not realize it.
    Fight fear, fear stinks, Lars told himself as he shivered and wedged himself into a corner beside a smoking chimney. He sat massaging his limbs and looking for further movement. The warmth from the chimney revived his spirits as much as the scent of roast that was on the air. So the Immortals did eat, just like everyone else. The voices from below were muffled by the tiles and snow, but were distinguishable as both male and female. The slave had said nothing about women, but perhaps these were mere