Emperor: The Death of Kings E#2 by Conn Iggulden Page A

unknowing as the old wolf moved through them.
    He had to reach Fercus to be safe, but there was more than a mile to go, and though he moved quickly he could not run for fear of someone spotting and chasing him. Behind, he could hear the familiar clatter of soldiers’ sandals as they took up position and began halting the crowds, searching for weapons, looking for a guilty face.
    More legionaries ran past him, their gazes sweeping the crowd as they tried to get ahead and close the road. Tubruk took a side street and then another, trying not to panic. They would not know yet whom they were looking for, but he had to shave the beard as soon as he was safe. Whatever happened, he knew they must not take him alive. At least then, with luck, they might never link him to the estate and Julius’s family.
    As the soldiers began to close the road, a man in the crowd suddenly ran, throwing aside a basket of vegetables he had been carrying. Tubruk thanked the gods for the man’s guilty conscience and tried not to look back as the soldiers brought him down, squealing as they cracked his head onto the stone street. Tubruk walked through turning after turning with hurried steps, and the shouting was left behind at last. He slowed his pace in the darkening shadows as he reached the alley that Fercus had told him to make for. At first he thought it was deserted, but then he saw his friend step out from an unlit doorway and beckon to him. He went inside quickly, his nerves close to breaking, finally collapsing in the dirty little room that meant safety, at least for a while.
    “Did you do it?” Fercus asked as he tried to get his breath back and his racing pulse to slow.
    “I think so. We will know tomorrow. They have closed off the streets, but I made it clear. Gods, it was close!”
    Fercus handed him a razor and motioned to a bowl of cold water.
    “You still have to get clear of the city, my friend. And that will not be easy if Sulla is dead. If he is alive, it will be next to impossible.”
    “Are you ready to do what you have to?” Tubruk said quietly, rubbing the water into the bushy growth that covered his face.
    “I am, though it hurts me to do it.”
    “Not as much as it will hurt me. Do it quickly once I have shaved.”
    He noticed his hand trembled as he used the narrow blade and cursed to himself as he cut the skin.
    “Let me do it,” Fercus said, taking the razor from him. For a few minutes there was silence between them, though their thoughts ran wildly.
    “Did you get out without being seen?” Fercus asked as he worked at the stubborn bristle. Tubruk didn’t answer for a long time.
    “No. I had to kill two innocent men.”
    “The Republic can stand a little blood on its hem if Sulla’s death restores equality to Rome. I cannot regret what you have done, Tubruk.”
    Tubruk remained silent as the blade cut away the last of his beard. He rubbed his face, his eyes sad.
    “Do it now, while I feel numb.”
    Fercus took a deep breath, walking around to face the old gladiator. There was nothing left of the shambling Dalcius in his strong face.
    “Perhaps . . .” Fercus began hesitantly.
    “It is the only way. We discussed this. Do it!” Tubruk gripped the arms of the chair as Fercus raised a fist and began to beat his face into an unrecognizable mess. He felt his nose break along old lines and spat onto the floor. Fercus breathed heavily and Tubruk coughed, wincing.
    “Don’t stop . . . yet,” he whispered through the pain, wanting it to be over.
    When they were finished, Fercus would return with him to his own home, leaving the rented room behind without a trace of them. Tubruk would be chained into a coffle of slaves leaving the city, his face swollen. His last act before the slave market had been to sign a chit of sale under his own name. Fercus would deliver one more anonymous slave to the estate outside the city, ready for a backbreaking life of work in the fields.
    At last, Tubruk raised a hand and Fercus