was sounded.
Sulla lolled on a couch, his thoughts drifting away from the conversation with his general, Antonidus. It had been a long day and the Senate seemed to be trying to block his nominations for new magistrates. He had been made Dictator with the mandate of restoring order to the Republic and they had been eager enough to grant his every wish for the first few months. Recently, they had taken up hours of debate with long speeches on the powers and limitations of the office and his advisers had said he should not impose on them too harshly for a while. They were small men, he thought. Small in deed and dreams. Marius would scorn them for fools, if he were still alive.
‘… objections will be raised to the lictors, my friend,’ Antonidus was saying.
Sulla snorted disdainfully.
‘Objections or not, I will continue to have twenty-four of them with me. I have many enemies and I want them to be a reminder of my power as I walk between the Capitol and the Curia.’
Antonidus shrugged.
‘In the past, there have been only twelve. Perhaps it is better to let the Senate have their way on this, to gain strength in more serious negotiation.’
‘They are a pack of toothless old men!’ Sulla snapped. ‘Has not order returned to Rome in the last year? Could they have done it? No. Where was the Senate when I was fighting for my life? What help were they to me then? No. I am their master and they should be made to recognise that simple fact. I am tired of walking carefully around their sensibilities and pretending the Republic is still young and strong.’
Antonidus said nothing, knowing that any objection he made would be met with wilder promises and threats. He had been honoured at first to be taken on as military adviser, but the post had been a hollow one, with Sulla using him only as a puppet for his own orders. Even so, part of him agreed with Sulla’s frustration. The Senate struggled to protect their dignity and old authority, while acknowledging the need for a Dictator to keep the peace in the city and Roman lands. It was farcical and Sulla was quickly tiring of the game.
A slave entered with the ices, placing them on a low table before bowing out of the room. Sulla sat up, his irritation forgotten.
‘You will have to taste these. There is nothing like them for relief from the summer heat.’ He took a silver spoon and ladled the white ice into his mouth, shutting his eyes with pleasure. The bowl was soon empty, and he considered calling for another. His whole body seemed cooler after the ice and his mind was calm. He saw Antonidus had not begun and urged him on.
‘It must be eaten quickly, before it melts. Even then, it can be a wonderfully refreshing drink.’ He watched as the general sampled a spoonful and smiled with him.
Antonidus wanted to finish their business and go home to his family, but knew he could not rise until Sulla became tired. He wondered when that might be.
‘Your new magistrates will be confirmed tomorrow at the Curia,’ he said.
Sulla lay back on his couch, his expression resuming its sulky lines.
‘They had better be. I owe those men favours. If there is another delay, the Senate will regret it, I swear before the gods. I will disband them and have the doors nailed shut!’
He winced slightly as he spoke and his hand drifted to his stomach, rubbing gently.
‘If you choose to disband the Senate, there will be civil war again, with the city in flames once more,’ Antonidus said. ‘However, I suspect you would emerge triumphant at the end. You know you have unwavering support in the legions.’
‘That is the path of kings,’ Sulla replied. ‘It draws and repels me at the same time. I loved the Republic, would still love it now if it was run by the sort of men who ruled when I was a boy. They are all gone now and when Rome calls, the little ones who are left can only run crying to me.’ He belched suddenly, wincing, and as he did so Antonidus felt a worm of pain begin in his own gut. Fear brought him to his feet, his glance falling to the bowls, one empty, one barely touched.
‘What is it?’ Sulla demanded, pulling himself upright, his face twisting in the knowledge even as he spoke. The burning in his belly was spreading and he pressed his hand into himself as if to crush it.
‘I feel it too,’ Antonidus said in panic. ‘It could be poison. Put your fingers down your throat, quickly!’
Sulla staggered slightly, going down onto one knee. He seemed about to pass out and Antonidus reached towards him, ignoring his own smaller pain even as it swelled.
He pushed a finger into the Dictator’s limp mouth, grimacing as a flood of slippery pulp vomited out of him. Sulla moaned, his eyes rolling back in his head.
‘Come on, come on, again,’ Antonidus insisted, pressing his fingertips into the soft flesh of the inner throat. The spasms came, ejecting dark bile and saliva from the lips until the Dictator heaved drily. Then the wrenching chest sagged and the lungs ceased to draw, failing with one last wheezing breath. Antonidus shouted for help and emptied his own stomach, hoping through his fear that he had not taken enough to kill him.
The guards were quick, but they found Sulla already pale and still and Antonidus semi-conscious, spattered with a stinking broth of all they had eaten. He had barely enough strength to rise, but they were frozen, unsure without orders.
‘Fetch doctors!’ he croaked, his throat feeling raw and swollen. The pain in his stomach began to level off and he took his hand away, trying to gather himself.
‘Seal the house. The Dictator has been poisoned!’ he shouted. ‘Send men to the kitchens. I want to know who brought this slop up here and the name of everyone who touched it. Move!’ His strength seemed to leave him in that moment and he let himself sag back onto the couch where he had been so peacefully discussing the Senate only minutes before. He knew he had to act quickly or Rome would erupt in chaos as soon as the news hit the streets. Once more he vomited, and when he was done he felt weak, but his mind began to clear.
When the doctors rushed in they ignored the general to tend to Sulla. They touched him at the wrist and neck and looked at each other in horror.
‘He is gone,’ one of them said, his face white.
‘His killers will be found and torn apart. I swear it on my house and my gods,’ Antonidus whispered, his voice as bitter as the taste in his mouth.
Tubruk reached the small door that led out to the street just as shouts erupted in the main buildings of Sulla’s city home. There was only one guard there, but the man was alert and ready, his face forbidding.
‘Get back on your way, slave,’ he said firmly, his hand on his gladius. Tubruk growled at him and leapt forward, punching him off his feet with a sudden blow. The soldier fell awkwardly, knocked senseless. Tubruk paused, knowing he could step quickly over him, through the little trade entrance and be gone. The man would recognise him and be able to give a description, though he could well be executed for failing to hold the gate. Tubruk took a grip on the despair that had filled him since killing Casaverius. His duty was to Cornelia and Julius – and to the memory of Julius’ father, who had trusted him.
Grimly, he drew his small knife and cut the soldier’s throat, standing clear so as to avoid getting blood on his clothes. The man gurgled with the cut, his eyes clearing for a moment before death took him. Tubruk dropped the knife and opened the gate, stepping out onto the city streets and into the thin crowd of people,
