Page 38 of Brother at Arms

The dream tried to take over once more, and I clenched the railing in an effort to shut it out.

“In a daze,” Cassia repeated.

The dream, Xerxes’s vacant eyes, and the blood receded, and I blinked.

“That is what Regulus remembers. I wondered if someone could have shot him from the stands or thrown something at him.”

“Possibly.” Cassia tapped her lower lip as she did when her interest was caught. “Something as obvious as an arrow would have been found, but some people can be excellent shots with a sling. Either with a small rock to make him lose his footing or turn the wrong way, or …”

“But the referees would have noticed the interference,” I said. “They’d have stopped the match and had the person in the stands arrested.”

“Unless the referees were paid to not notice,” Cassia countered. “But that would be complicated and bring too many people into the plot. I am thinking of something much simpler.”

“What?” I asked.

“A way that, unfortunately, doesn’t immediately narrow down the who.” Cassia brushed dust from her tunic where it had touched the marble and swung toward the house. “We must speak to Marcianus.”

Chapter 12

The streets on the Oppian Hill were quiet as we departed Livius’s home. Livius had retreated to his office to begin his work for the day, Menekrates told us as he led us to the door, tight-lipped. He was clearly glad to see us go.

The domii we passed on the road had few clients at their doors, as this was a holiday, but some of those who petitioned the wealthy and powerful had taken the chance that their patrons would receive them.

Crowds thickened as we descended the hill, those in the lower city having to go about their business of living, holiday or no. Women carried baskets of bread home, men toted amphorae in small hand carts, and beggar children, who doubled as cutpurses, darted through the throng.

We left the Oppian and made our way around the southeastern base of the Palatine, past the end of the Circus Maximus and the old reservoir opposite it and into the streets of the Aventine.

When we arrived at Marcianus’s open door, for once, he had no patients waiting. At my knock, Marcianus sang out for us to enter.

He and Marcia were breakfasting at a small table in the front room, eating bowls of cooked dark fava beans. My sandals slid on the raw beans scattered across the floor, which attested that Marcianus had performed the spirit-appeasing ritual that morning.

“There’s no more food,” Marcia informed us bluntly when Cassia and I entered.

“Hospitality, Marcia,” Marcianus admonished her gently. “But she is right. We’ve eaten everything in the house.” He slid the last bite of beans into his mouth and chewed, making his point.

“We’ve already breakfasted,” Cassia assured them. “Nonus Marcianus, I have come for your expertise. Whenever you are ready, of course.”

I could tell that Cassia was nearly dancing with impatience, but she would never dream of tearing a man of Equestrian rank, and a friend, away from his meal.

Marcianus’s eyes lit with curiosity. “I am ready now. As I said, we have eaten everything and must wait for the shops to open to acquire more. Not that I ever need much sustenance.”

Marcia shook her head as Marcianus leapt from his stool and ushered Cassia into his consulting room.

“He doesn’t eat enough to keep a bird alive,” Marcia informed me as she gathered up bowls and spoons. “Always tending to someone else’s injuries or poring over his books. At least you haven’t brought him another dead body to gaze at.”

“Not this time.” I’d been guilty of this several times in the past.

Marcia clattered the breakfast things to a shelf in the back of the room and covered them with a cloth. “I’m off to the shops, which are already open. He never knows what time of day it is if I don’t tell him.”

Her exasperation held a note of fondness, Marcia not as disparaging as she pretended. Marcianus had always been absent-minded, caring so much for others he forgot to tend to himself. At least now he had Marcia to look after him.

Marcia took up a basket and swiftly departed, and I continued into the small room in the back of the house, where Marcianus tended the sick and injured. Cassia was already seated on the bench the patients used, Marcianus pulling out a box of scrolls.

“Now,” he said, struggling to lift the crate. I caught it from him and set it on the table. “Thank you, Leonidas. What sort of poison did you have in mind, Cassia?”

“Poison?” I asked abruptly.

Cassia opened a tablet she’d slid from her bag. “I am considering that Xerxes might have died because he’d been given poison, either before his match or during it.”