‘Very good, sir.’
The dwarf withdrew, leaving the nephew toying with the mirror. Praise be to Mars, he didn’t have the bloody plague, that’s all he was grateful for. No livid rash breaking out on his stomach. Nevertheless, he peered down his tunic, double-checking with the mirror. Told you. You’ve got the squits because of all that fruit. You’re throwing up because you’re weak from diarrhoea and from being stuck inside this hot, dry, dusty room. That, coupled with the strain of waiting.
He sighed. He was this close to changing the course of the Empire, this close, and when he got his papers back, then he’d see a difference in his health. A very rapid upturn.
‘You must drink, master,’ the dwarf cajoled, setting down another bucket. ‘Drink to keep your strength up.’
The nephew felt a glass of pressed bilberries against his lips and he tried to swallow, to wash away the sour taste of bile, but half the liquid dribbled down his chin. That’s all he was bringing up, of course. Bile. Black and stinking, it made his head pound like bloody thunder and he could barely stand of late, but that would pass. Like those ridiculous hallucinations his manservant assured him were simply the product of a stomach empty for too long. Hell, he was even getting used to seeing multi-coloured haloes round the lights and double, sometimes treble, vision when people moved about, like the dwarf just now, helping him out of his stained shirt, and sometimes it seemed normal, viewing things as though he was peering down a rabbit hole. But the dwarf was right. He really ought to start keeping something down, because a couple of times of late he’d been haunted by strange, disturbing visions. The faces of demons springing out of the walls, with teeth like a rabid jackal’s, snarling, foaming…
Delusions come with fever. Fever comes with vomiting. Vomiting comes from diarrhoea-a side effect of fruit juice which is the only thing I can take because of nerves.
Which will settle when I get that fucking paper back!
He slumped forward and closed his eyes, imagining how his fortunes would change. He had just nine more days before the Senate reopened after its unofficial recess, before Augustus made his pronouncement about the future of the Empire. Nine days.
‘Janus!’
Slavering wolves began rising out of the desk, snapping at him with their sharp incisors, baying for his blood.
‘Go away,’ he screeched. ‘Get away from me!’
Diving off his chair, he flung himself under the desk, coiling into a ball, his eyes screwed shut, and after a while, a very long while, the howling died off and the desk was a desk once again.
‘Master, what’s wrong?’
‘What?’ For an instant he feared the delusions were back, but no. It was the face of his servant, made uglier with the pucker of concern. ‘Oh. I… dropped my pen-’ Sweat poured down his face, soaking his tunic as the dwarf helped him back to his chair. Fucking hallucinations. The quicker he got this sorted out, the better.
Nine days, didn’t he say? Retching another stream of black bile into the bucket, he considered the timescale was ample, providing he recovered what that Seferius bitch had stolen.
‘No delivery from the fat man?’ he rasped.
‘N-no,’ the dwarf replied, and the nephew wondered, was that also a figment of his imagination, that hesitation? He thought he heard, a few moments ago, an interchange between his servant and the man who smelled of cardamom. And through the fuzzy lamplight, he also thought he saw a piece of parchment, lying on a silver plate on the table in the hall. His mistake, surely. The dwarf was a model of efficiency and no doubt the fat assassin was already back in Atlantis, taking care of unfinished business. It was more than either of their lives were worth, to double-cross him.
‘Master. Please. You must replenish lost fluids.’
‘I can’t,’ he gasped, ‘keep anything down.’
‘Try, master. This is good chicken broth.’
‘It tastes bitter.’
The dwarf tutted and pressed the bowl to his lips. ‘Your tastebuds are out of sorts, sir. Come now,’ there was a distinct edge to his voice, ‘drink up.’
Swallowing the filthy brew, the nephew wondered what drove a woman, teetering on the brink of bankruptcy, to steal his letter then just sit on it. What the hell game was this tart playing? Was she holding out for him to divorce his wife and marry her, to share in the power and the glory of the next phase of the Empire?
Think again, he told her a few minutes later as he spewed noisily into the leather bucket. If you could see me now, you’d see I’m wearing black, in mourning for my dearest Uncle Tullus. What path I take, after wreaking my cataclysmic change, is up to me, and so is who I walk with on that path, but one thing is quite certain.
There will be no witnesses left behind to testify to this fiasco. Ask Uncle Tullus, if you don’t believe me.
Behind him, the dwarf smiled.
XXIX
‘All rise for the Emperor!’
Claudia squinted open half an eye, grunted, then rolled over. The man was insane. It was still morning. Also…
‘What the hell are you doing in my bedroom?’
‘Opening the shutters.’ Orbilio seemed oblivious that the brightness might cause permanent damage to her retina. ‘It smells like a winery in here.’ She heard a brisk rubbing of hands… ‘Right, then. Five minutes, and I’ll meet you at the jetty.’
‘Bog off.’
…followed by an ominous chuckle. ‘How much did you knock back last night?’
Claudia burrowed deeper under the sheet. ‘One.’ Which happened to be followed by another after another after another…
‘So why am I counting two, correction three empty wine jugs?’
You’ve missed one, try under the bed. ‘I’m a vintner, remember? We take a sip of wine, swill it round our mouths, then,’ she pulled the pillow over her head, ‘we spit it out.’
‘And I’m Mars, god of war. Never mind, for a hangover on this scale, I’m prepared to extend the time limit to six minutes,’ he said. ‘The countdown starts now.’
‘You’re unnatural.’
‘You’re out of bed.’
And with that, Claudia found herself in an ignominious heap on the floor and by the time she’d disentangled herself from the sheet, it was against a closed door that the missing wine jug smashed into a hundred smithereens. Damn. Bleary eyes consulted the reflection in the mirror and instantly regretted it. Was that a dead vole protruding from her mouth? Or just her tongue?
‘I need to talk to someone,’ she yelled down to Orbilio, striding out along the path below her window.
‘Later,’ he called back, indicating the jetty. ‘This is urgent.’
What is? Claudia withdrew her head and stuck it in a washbasin full of cool, clear water, watching the bubbles bloop to the surface. What could be so important that Supersnoop had to prise her out of a perfectly good sleep… holy shit! Claudia surfaced and shook her head like a dog. Tarraco must have left the hare behind, its slashed underbelly pointing loud and clear that a key had been smuggled into jail… how else could he have escaped?
Cyrus would go absolutely rabid.
Like a cat with mustard on its tail, Claudia hauled on a fresh tunic and raced to the jetty. What was the penalty for jailbreak? She had a sneaking suspicion it made exile from robbing Sabbio Tullus’ strongroom look tame…
With her heart thumping like a kettledrum, Claudia shot a glance back down the path which ran around the promontory. No clunk of soldiers’ boots, no snickering horse bearing a tribune’s weight. Not yet. She practically jumped in the boat. Thank heavens for Marcus Cornelius, having a boat at the ready, how could she ever thank him for saving her bacon?
He had stripped off his tunic and began to take the boat across the lake, and it may only have taken half an hour, but for Claudia it seemed half a lifetime. Every slurp of the oars made her jump, every grunt of exertion from Marcus made her swivel over her shoulder to check Cyrus wasn’t rowing behind. Getting closer…