Free A Gladiator Dies Only Once by Steven Saylor Page B

sure his troops would catch him mumbling to a little image he stole from the oracle at Delphi; the deity invariably promised him victory. And Marius, too—he kept a Syrian wisewoman in his entourage, who could always be counted on to foresee disaster for his enemies. Too bad she failed him in the end.
    “Even Alexander pulled such tricks. Do you know the story? Once when things looked bleak before a battle, his priests called for a blood sacrifice. While the sheep was being prepared at the altar, Alexander painted the letters N I backwards on the palms of one hand, and K E on the other. The priest cut open the sheep, pulled out the steaming liver and placed it in Alexander’s hands. Alexander turned it over to show his men, and sure enough, there it was, written on the liver in letters no one could mistake—the Greek word for victory!”
    “And your device was the white fawn?”
    Sertorius stopped his pacing and looked me in the eye. “Here in Spain, the local tribes, especially the Celts, have a special belief in the mystical power of white animals. A good general makes note of such beliefs. When the hunters brought Dianara to me that day—”
    “Dianara?”
    Did he look slightly embarrassed? “I call the white fawn Dianara, after the goddess. Why not? When they brought her to me, I saw at once what could be done with her. I made her my divine counselor! And the strategy has paid off handsomely. But now—”
    Sertorius began to pace again. “My scouts tell me that Metellus has joined Pompey on the other side of the Sucro. If my Spaniards find out that the fawn is missing, and I’m forced into another battle—the result could be an utter disaster. What man will fight for a general whom the gods have deserted? My only chance now is to withdraw west into the highlands, as quickly as I can. But in the meantime, the fawn must be found!” He gave me a look that was at once desperate and demanding.
    “I’m a Finder, Quintus Sertorius, not a hunter.”
    “This is a kidnapping, Gordianus, not a chase. I’ll pay you well. Bring Dianara back to me, and I shall reward you handsomely.”
    I considered. My commission from Gaius Claudius was completed. I had verified young Mamercus’s whereabouts, delivered the letter, and given him every chance to accompany me back to Rome. I was a free agent again, in a foreign land, and a powerful man was seeking my help.
    On the other hand, to aid a renegade general in the field would surely, in the view of the Roman Senate, constitute an act of treason . . .
    I liked Sertorius, because he was honest and brave, and in the long run, the underdog. I liked him even better when he named an actual figure as a reward.
    I agreed. If I could not return an errant young man to his grandfather, perhaps I could return a missing fawn to her master.

    Sertorius allowed me to question the two guards who had been drugged. I could only agree with his own assessment, that the men were truly remorseful for what had happened and that they had nothing useful to tell. Neither did any of the other watchmen; no one had seen or heard a thing. It was as if the moon herself had reached down to fetch the white fawn home.
    By the time Eco and I arrived back in Sucro that afternoon, the tavern was full of locals, all thirsty for wine and hungry for any news they could get of the missing white fawn. The secret was out, and rumors were flying wild. I listened attentively; one never knows when a bit of gossip may be helpful. Some said that the fawn had actually deserted Sertorius long ago (this was patently false, since I had seen the creature myself). Others claimed that the fawn had died, and that Sertorius had buried it and was only pretending that it had disappeared. A few said that the fawn had been stolen, but no one reported the death of the virgin. Perhaps the wildest rumor (and the most ominous) asserted that the fawn had showed up in Pompey’s camp, and was now his confidant.
    None of this was very