“She is a Cloelius,” her brother snapped. He lowered his arm, landing both his fists on the desk. “You are nobody. Aelia does as she pleases.”
“Then I will ask her what she wishes to do,” Vibius returned. “She has vowed to never stay another night under your roof.”
Vibius stormed to the folding doors, but I put myself in front of him as he reached them.
“Reconsider.” I made my voice hard. “Do not put your wife in danger to spite him. Is it worth it if she dies?”
Vibius’s eyes widened. A flush raced up his throat and spread to his cheeks, but his anger did not fade.
“Get out of my way, Leonidas.”
I folded my arms and refused to budge.
Behind him, Cloelius burst into laughter. “Oh, this is entertaining.” He clapped his hands, as though applauding a drama. “Do try to fight him off Vibius—I would love to see it.”
I stood my ground. Vibius was higher in rank than me, and I’d strike him at my peril, but at the moment, I needed him to see reason. Vibius’s flush deepened, he angry that I’d thwarted his chance to gloat over Cloelius.
Finally, he let out a long breath and stepped back.
“On reflection, it is more sensible to remain here,” Vibius said, every word grating from him.
Cloelius clapped again, but this time it was a command. The majordomo instantly opened the folding door at my back.
“Euphemios, prepare cubicula for my guests. It appears I will have a gladiator under my roof tonight. None of you will leave until the morning.”
Chapter 11
While I had no wish to remain in Cloelius’s domus, I hadn’t exaggerated when I’d told Vibius that it would be safer this late. I did not want to endanger Cassia any more than Vibius wished to endanger his wife, and besides, staying would give me an opportunity to corner Vibius about the ring.
Without acknowledging Cloelius’s command, I told the majordomo I had a slave to see to. Stone-faced, that man stepped aside to let me pass, and I sought the inner recesses of the house.
Rain had begun outside. I knew this only because when I entered the atrium, water was pattering into the impluvium through the square hole in the roof.
The pool would not overflow because it drained into a cistern below the house, providing the domus with fresh water. Many homes on this hill had connections to aqueducts, which helped water their vast gardens, but it was costly to request aqueduct waters to be shunted to a private home. Rain falling from above was free.
No servant stopped me walking deeper into the house, where flickering lamps cast shadows over the black and white mosaics on the floor. The tiles were chipped in places, I saw. Likewise, the silk drapery I pushed aside to enter the rear chambers was frayed and rubbed thin.
A walkway took me past the peristyle garden, its shrubs bending in the rain. The plants looked well-tended, from what I could see, but that only meant Cloelius had a slave who was skilled at gardening.
Beyond the peristyle were storerooms and a tiny kitchen, along with a cramped chamber where some of the slaves would sleep—those who did not bed down in the rooms they tended.
I found Cassia in the kitchen, assisting the man I took to be the chef. When I’d first met Cassia, she’d told me with emphasis that she did not cook. She was not so much cooking now as tearing greens for a salad and handing the chef whatever tool he required. The chef hovered over a pan set on a tripod on top of the stove, stirring something that sizzled and smoked.
The stove was little more than a high stone bench with a hollow interior where wood smoldered all day long. The top of such a stove could grow hot enough to sear meat in a pan as the cook was doing now.
The chef and Cassia carried on a conversation in Greek, so I could not say whether they discussed Cloelius, or the food, or the chef’s youthful days in Athens or Smyrna.
Both abruptly broke off the discussion when I appeared. Slanting me an impatient look, the chef scooped whatever was in the pan into a bowl and thrust the bowl at me.
Braised meat of some kind took up a large part of the dish, with bits of blackened vegetables surrounding it. I didn’t much like to eat meat, but under the large cook’s glare, I scooped up a bit with a hunk of bread sitting near the stove and shoveled the lot into my mouth.
I chewed a savory combination of foods, the whole thing lightly seasoned with pepper and finished with a fruity bite of olive oil. I’d been fed spectacularly lavish meals in villas where I’d gone to be the entertainment, but this man could make simple fare delicious. I ate more, scraping up morsels with the bread.
Both the chef and Cassia watched my every mouthful until I’d cleaned the bowl and swallowed the last crust.
“Thank you,” I said.
The chef’s eyes narrowed. “You liked it?”
