She was seated on a stool, the only one in the house, as though she’d been given a place of honor. An older man sprawled on a bench, his stick-like legs jutting out before him. He looked much like Laurentius, and I concluded the man was his father.
Around them, on the floor and on the slightly raised stone ledge that would hold sleeping pallets at night, sat at least eight other people. Girls young or on the verge of womanhood, a few small boys, and one middle-aged woman I took to be the older man’s wife. All of them were talking, seemingly at once.
Heads jerked toward me when I appeared in the doorway. I and Laurentius’s family regarded each other in silence for a moment, then the room erupted in noise.
“It is Leonidas the Spartan!”
“Leonidas, welcome!”
“Wine, sir? It is inferior but will quench your thirst.”
The last was from the woman of the house. She held a thin-walled cup to me, which dripped with sour-smelling liquid. I thanked her and drank it graciously, though the wine was terrible. She relaxed when I didn’t it spit out or throw the cup at her.
Cassia had risen as though to offer me her seat, but I motioned her back down.
She sank to the stool and indicated the man and the woman. “This is Duilius, and his wife, Camille.” She then pointed to each of the younger people in turn, rattling off names that I barely caught.
They were one family, though not all sired by Duilius. Some were children of his deceased brother, I understood through the chatter, and adopted.
Actors, every single one of them, even the mite of seven. Women occasionally appeared on stage in Rome, usually in nonspeaking roles, but mostly anyone female worked behind the scenes.
Laurentius, I noted, was absent.
“He is not here,” Cassia said, noticing me scan the room.
“No,” Duilius said. His brow creased. “Laurentius did not come home last night. We do not know where he is, and we are exceedingly anxious about him.”
Chapter 10
The conversation lulled, but only for a brief moment before every person in the room burst into speculation on what might have happened to Laurentius.
Cassia sat calmly among the tumult. She watched with her usual shrewdness, assessing the family and memorizing any notes she’d make about them later.
When the stream of chatter showed no sign of slowing, I bellowed into the noise, “When did you last see him?”
Six voices answered me with varying times and days. I raised my hands for silence. “Duilius. Tell me.”
The older man shook his head. “Not since yesterday morning. Laurentius is a wild thing, like a bird. Does as he pleases. He was very excited about this part in the new play.”
“What exactly is the play about?” I asked.
“We already told her.” Duilius gestured impatiently at Cassia.
Cassia answered me. “A young man enters Rome and wins the hearts of the legions, senators, and even the princeps with his courage and virtus. He doesn’t know his own heritage, but it is revealed by the ring that he is heir to one of the oldest families in Rome, who were pushed into the shadows during the Republic. In the play, the princeps—who is never called by name—confesses that his family usurped those in power and begs the young man to take his rightful place.”
“It’s all nonsense,” Duilius said when I switched my startled gaze to him. “I told him we could not perform something that appeared so much like treason, and he agreed we could change things a bit.”
“You would have to,” I said. If Nero got wind of that plot, he’d arrest and execute all concerned without a second thought.
“I suggested we set it during the Republic. The senators decide they really do need a king, and beg him to become that.”
Not much better but possibly acceptable. Nero might laugh at haughty senators won over by a young ruler. “Who is the playwright?”
I waited for Duilius to tell me a name, but he sat in silence, contemplating his feet in overly large sandals, held on by cracked leather strings.
Duilius’s wife, Camille, answered for him. “The man we dealt with, Secundus, wouldn’t say. The writer has been working on this play a long time, Secundus said, and wants to make his debut in Rome without anyone knowing about his work beforehand.”
Duilius opened his hands. “Some playwrights are like that. They fear others will steal their ideas, so they rehearse in secret. It’s why he hired us and not a company paid for by a senator or the princeps himself.”
