The cobblestones are slick with rain as I stalk my prey. He weaves a strange path through the city, sticking to alleyways where he can, and practically running along the wide main streets when necessity compels him to cross them. Dawn is beginning to break and many labourers are already plodding down to the docks.
I am not pleased with this turn of events. My master has requested I follow the man wherever he goes, but when I am set such tasks I can usually stick to the shadows or blend in with the afternoon crowds. Now my tailing feels too obvious, and the rain, while light, is slowly soaking my clothes and seeping through my well-worn boots that my master refuses to replace.
The man I follow is called Brun and is a member of the Apertino gang. What my master is hoping for I do not know, and I know better than to request further details.
Brun gives no indication he is aware of being followed, but his faltering pace suggests uncertainty. The two of us move from the cramped low-lying streets with their looming tenements to a wealthy quarter with sizable villas and the most luxurious public baths in the city. I realise we are in the vicinity of my master’s house. I have been told not to approach the man on pain of flogging, so even as he scurries to the back of the villa I linger back, hugging the wall of the neighbouring villa. I wonder if I should shout a warning, or restrain him, but then I wonder if this meeting was planned by my master and my task was only to ensure that Brun did not stop off anywhere else. I dare not incur my master’s wrath.
He opens the back gate and steps into the small courtyard beyond. I edge closer, but to move to the gate means I would be seen.
For a moment the city seems asleep. Even the birds pause their morning twittering. Then - the sound of a door kicked open. Shouting. A cry of pain. I rush forward, but it is too late. My master is slumped across the latrine and bleeding out of his chest. Brun locks eyes with me, then pushes me to the floor as he flees.
One of the kitchen slaves creeps out of another room and the two of us watch as our master feebly clutches his wounds, hoping to staunch the flow. There is a silent understanding between me and the other slave: if we bring him to a doctor and he lives, we may be severely punished for not protecting him. If he dies, it is plausible we couldn’t reach him in time, and, if the gods favour us, he may have freed us in his will.
Our master tries to speak, but nothing but blood escapes his mouth. Another slave arrives to witness his life slipping away, then another, then another. None of us bear the weight of being responsible for his death but all of us unite in this quiet disobedience.