Read Online The Centurion's Empire by Sean McMullen - Free Book Online

harlots for the Immortals' amusement.
    Lars slowly twisted, pressing his back against the warm bricks. His survey of the roof was done, he knew where he could escape once he had burgled the venendarium, and where he would retreat if seen and challenged. The shapes remained near the door as he began to unpack the bag
    strapped under his white cloak. His little bow consisted of two short lengths of ashwood which he fitted into a brass sleeve. It had a light draw, but its arrows were poison tipped. The first shot missed, and the wolves started awake at the clink of metal on stone. Lars drew back his bow again, but this time the target was standing and more distinct. There was a snarl as it hit The wolf was already staggering when its companion was struck, and the second wolf dropped at once. A lucky shot had found its heart, Lars surmised while he waited for the first wolf to stop twitching. He slung the bow over his shoulder and dropped softly to the courtyard. Both wolves were dead, and he dragged them back to where they had been sleeping beside the door. There had been little noise or blood, but he smoothed out the snow anyway. Now he had no reason to hurry. Lars doubted that the wolves would be checked until morning, and who would want to begin work in the middle of the night? The door had a latch, but was not locked. The wolves had been trusted to keep it secure. Once inside Lars took out a tiny phial of wormglow compound to light his way, then unstrapped a cylinder of butt-leather. A tiny dog licked his fingers, a dog worth at least its weight in gold coin. It was trained to be silent, and it had a sharp sense of smell.
    Lars glanced around as he fumbled for his phial of oil. Having negligible experience in the methods of physicians was a hindrance. He knew little of how the mortars and pestles, jars, glassware, tubs of dead insects, oils, and masses of parchments might relate to what he wanted. The slave who called himself Lacerna had never seen a jar of the oil put away, so Lars had no clues to begin with. The dog would not be overawed by the trappings of arcane knowledge, however: he let it sniff at the oil in the phial, then set it free.
    They make the Venenum Immortale here but store it in some unknown place, his informant had said. Perhaps a load had just been sent out, he wondered as he watched the dog wandering about and sniffing. He quickly dismissed the thought, it was too much to bear. The little dog began to scratch at a floorboard. Lars walked over and held his glow- ing phial near the wood. A trapdoor. He scooped up his tiny dog and returned it to the butt leather roll. The well was beneath a hinged cover, with a tiny lever at one edge that would, when the cover was lifted, press on a rod that protruded through a hole in the wall. Lars examined the lever, and found that it was on a hinge and held in place with a pin. With the lever safely unpinned, he lifted the trapdoor.
    Snow and ice were packed around three amphorae. The oil slowly grew too toxic to use if not stored cold; his employer, Fortunatus, had told him that when he had accepted the contract. How slow was slowly? Thirty or forty years, Fortunatus had replied. It could easily last a few months at body temperature.
    One amphora was empty, another sealed and full, and the third was near full and not sealed. He sniffed the stopper, then smeared a little of the contents on one finger and tasted it. Bitter! Sharp, oily and bitter, just like what was in the phial. This had to be it. He unpacked a dozen goatskin pouches and began to pour the viscous philter out into them. If carrying the same amount in a jar he would have barely been able to walk, let alone climb. As each pouch filled he strapped it to his body, arranging them to look as if he had a more corpulent build. The twelve pouches were filled before the amphora's level had dropped by even a third.
    Lars checked the door and the courtyard beyond. All was as he had left it. Now he hastily scanned the