ROME SPY OF THE EMPEROR'S

Shadows Over Rome

The spy came ashore the evening before Emperor Nero's chariot races. Math had been given one simple order: find the man, follow him, and don't be seen.The old Roman had promised him a whole sestertius for it. More than Math made in a month working for Ajax.

So he waited, huddled at the edge of the crowded harbour at Coriallum. He pretended to be nothing more than a skinny dock boy, hoping for coin.

The sea wind tore at his clothes, and the smell of fish, seaweed, and sweat hung in the air. Dozens of people crowded the dock, waiting for their ships to unload. Overhead, gulls screamed as they fought over scraps.

Math barely noticed. His eyes were fixed on the ship approaching the dock.

The Blue Mackerel.She was a small merchant sloop, her sails already pulled down as three pairs of oars pushed her towards the harbour. At first, there was nothing unusual about her. Then Math saw the purple pennant.

The Emperor's colours that meant Nero was in Coriallum. The Emperor had come north for the chariot races, and the entire town seemed determined to make the most of it. Math rubbed his hands together. The spy had to be aboard. He just had to find him.The first men down the gangplank were Roman clerks. Math almost laughed they looked green with seasickness, their expensive-looking clothes ruined by salt and sweat, their fingers stained with ink.

They carried the endless lists that seemed to follow Roman officials everywhere: grain, horses, weapons, hides, slaves, and taxes.One of them glanced at Math. Math immediately scratched himself, a trick Ajax had taught him. The clerk walked away.Good. Ajax had taught him that trick. Some men would rob you, some would pay you, and some would do both. But a man who thought you carried the pox wouldn't come within arm's reach.

The clerks disappeared into the crowd. Then came the merchants. They shouted at the dockworkers while their crates were unloaded.Math watched them for a moment before turning his attention back to the ship.

Where was his man? Suddenly, a crate of tin slipped.

Crash! It smashed against the dock. The merchant screamed, and the stevedores burst into laughter as pieces of almost-silver metal scattered across the wooden boards.

Then someone stepped off the ship. A thin man, barefoot, wearing a rough, undyed tunic and looking like an ordinary deckhand.But Math knew immediately that he was not. The man moved differently. His right shoulder hung lower than his left, and he favoured one leg.

He looked half-starved, probably wounded. Yet when the broken crate bounced towards him, the man moved with astonishing speed. One moment, he was still. The next, he sprang sideways, catching himself against a bollard.

Smooth. Controlled. Like an animal.Math's smile disappeared. That was him. Pantera.The old Roman had described him carefully: dark brown hair, sharp features, a wounded right side, a lean body, and eyes that could make a man forget how to breathe.

Watching him take his leave of the merchant, Math felt the nervous itch in his armpits grow hotter flustered, he rose, slipped his fishing line over his shoulder, and took one last look in the direction Pantera was heading. That was a mistake. His eyes, should you ever see them, are green-brown, like the shimmer of sunlight on river water.

At first glance, he looks through you, unless he wishes to kill you. Then he looks straight at you.For the barest fraction of a heartbeat, those river-water eyes looked straight at Math.He looked away and was left shaking as if he had ague.When he dared to look again, Pantera had disappeared into the crowd, threading his way through Coriallum with unthinking ease.

If he had a purse, it did not show. He brushed shoulders with no one.

Math did not run in pursuit or even watch closely.

The harbour was wide open, stretching from the end of the pier to the first row of merchants' booths, taverns, and brothels a hundred paces inland.

There weren't many places to go, and Math knew the quickest routes to all of them.First, it mattered that no one on the pier should know whom he followed or why.

Hoisting his fishing line, Math turned and looked thoughtfully at the sliver of sunlight left on the sea, a long, narrow stretch of gold across the water.

He wrapped his arms around his thin tunic against the rising wind. It was already creaming the wave tops. He shivered and made a show of staring at the incoming clouds. He shrugged to himself, spat into the seaweed below the harbour, and picked at the hooks on his fishing line, casting the last few mussels to the gulls.

The birds made a commotion behind him, allowing him to walk quickly without his footsteps being heard. Keeping a careful distance behind Pantera, he followed him towards the row of merchants' booths.

When he reached the end of the pier, Math dropped the borrowed fishing line beside a box full of fish and stooped to rub his bare feet with a hank of dried seaweed, clearing them of filth. A short while later, he rose and watched Pantera turn right, up the hill. Then Math set off to follow him.