Free False God of Rome by Robert Fabbri Page B

the road they found another alley and sprinted up it. Behind them they could hear
the shouts of their pursuers growing closer.
    Almost a hundred pounding heartbeats later the mean houses on either side of the alley abruptly ended and they came out into a date palm forest.
    ‘Straight ahead!’ Vespasian puffed. ‘And keep an eye out for somewhere to hide; we’ll never outrun them with him dragging us down. Let’s pray that they didn’t
see which alley we went up.’
    ‘Why don’t we just leave him?’
    ‘If it comes to a choice between all four of us getting killed or just him, we will.’
    ‘I think we’ve just reached that point, sir,’ Magnus observed as a horde of silhouetted figures flooded out of the alley, just over a hundred paces behind them.
    With a quick glance between them they dropped Corvinus and sprinted away.
    Weaving through the moonlit palms they managed to put on a good turn of speed but their pursuers, more used to the terrain, were gaining on them.
    ‘Split up,’ Vespasian shouted, veering left, ‘we’ll meet up back at that lake soon after dawn.’
    With a grunt of acknowledgement Magnus ran off to the right, taking Ziri with him, leaving Vespasian pelting through the night on his own; his legs were beginning to ache with the exertion. His
chest started to tighten and his heartbeat thumped in his inner ears. The shouts of the pursuers told him that they were following him and catching up.
    He burst out into a clearing, cursed himself for breaking cover and sprinted towards the far side.
    Ten paces before gaining the comparative safety of the palms an ear-splitting cry stopped him in his tracks; he fell to the ground, hands over his ears. The cry then turned into a wailing note,
mid-range and wavering at first, like a beautiful, mourning hymn of the gods; it worked its way ever higher until it reached peaks of such a piercing intensity and clarity that all other senses
retreated as Vespasian listened to the sublime sound. Gradually it started to slow and ease down in pitch, as if the singer, tired by the emotion of the song, had decided to bring the piece to a
close with a series of exquisite notes, ever lowering, ever softening, until, after one final gentle breath, there was silence.
    Vespasian got to his knees, stunned by the aural experience that he had just been subjected to. He looked back; his pursuers were all grovelling on the ground on the far side of the
clearing.
    A sudden, golden flash caused him to shut his eyes tight and lower his head; he felt a warmth on his skin that began to grow gradually. He opened his eyes; the clearing was awash with light,
gaining in intensity as if it were imitating visually the song just sung.
    ‘Bennu! Bennu!’ the grovelling men cried.
    Vespasian looked up and, shielding his eyes, saw that the source of the light was a beacon perched implausibly on top of a tall date palm close to him on the edge of the clearing. Golden sparks
fell from it, turning orange and then red as they floated to the ground to collect in an ever growing pile of glowing embers at the base of the tree.
    Burning with increasing ferocity the flame became pure white at its peak; heat from it scorched Vespasian’s face and hands as it bathed him, kneeling on the ground, in a pool of light.
    Cries of ‘Bennu! Bennu!’ filled the air.
    With a sharp crack, like a Titan crashing two boulders together, the fire was suddenly extinguished as if it had unexpectedly consumed all its fuel, leaving no morsels with which it could die
down gradually.
    The last of the sparks fell to the ground and the light died.
    In the dark the mound of embers glowed softly, like an untended campfire in the cold hours before dawn.
    Vespasian turned to see his pursuers on their feet, still chanting ‘Bennu’, halfway across the clearing, walking towards him.
    As he turned to run a cloud of hot ashes exploded over him from behind; a cry rose to the sky. He swivelled to see the mound of embers