Page 71 of Brother at Arms

Agapios mastered himself. “He was near the entrance, and people crowded around him, like they always did. Everyone wanted to be next to Xerxes.”

So I recalled. Xerxes knew how to play to the crowd, drawing cheers, even when he was on the streets. He acknowledged individuals, especially children, talking to them, drawing them out, truly interested in them.

“A woman came forward and tried to hand him something. I couldn’t see what, but it was wrapped in a cloth. She said it was from her mistress.”

I focused on Agapios with sudden intensity. “Was it food? Like a pastry?”

“Could have been. But Xerxes didn’t take it. I heard him tell the woman he never ate anything before a bout.”

“Ah.” I deflated. I thought I’d found the answer, but it seemed not.

“Xerxes did something odd, though,” Agapios continued. “When the woman started to turn away, he flinched and slapped his arm, as though he’d been stung.” Agapios clapped his hand over his upper left arm in demonstration. “I wondered at the time.”

My heartbeat quickened. “Did the woman stick him with a pin, or a knife?”

“Not that I saw. She was carrying the gift away carefully, as if it were fragile. But a man had brushed past him. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but then Xerxes died, and I overheard you asking Regulus just now if Xerxes ate or drank anything that day. You think someone dosed Xerxes before he fought his bout? That’s why he let Perseus kill him?”

“Do you remember the man who passed him?” I demanded. I was at my fiercest, but Agapios was too sad in remembrance to be worried. “What he looked like?”

“No, I’m sorry to say. He was a Roman, dark-haired, the same build as any other Roman. He slid through the crowd, who all then hurried inside to watch the match.”

“He went to the match as well?”

“I think so. But I had my duties to attend to, so I wasn’t paying attention. Then when Xerxes was killed, everything else went out of my head.”

As it had from mine.

“Thank you for telling me, Agapios.” I fished a coin from my pouch, but he waved it away.

“It’s nice to talk about him,” Agapios said. “Aemil never wants him mentioned.”

Aemil had spoken the truth when he’d said Xerxes’s death had devastated him.

“Would you remember the woman?” I asked. “The one who brought him the gift? She might have seen what happened.”

Agapios brightened. “Oh, I know her. She’s a maid for Horatia Lucanus Varinius, whose husband has a villa on the Esquiline. Xerxes had been Horatia’s favorite, and she was always trying to entice him into her house.”

I gripped Agapios by the shoulders. “May the gods favor you, Agapios. Thank you.”

“Will you tell me what you discover?” Agapios asked when I spun from him. “I want to know.”

“I will. I’ll catch whoever did it and thrash him until he can’t stand.”

“Good,” Agapios said. “Give him a blow or two from me.”

I made my way immediately to the Esquiline, seeking the home of Horatia Lucanus Varinius, wife of a prominent senator. I wondered whether the senator had known of Horatia’s infatuation with Xerxes, but many patrician men pursued their own business and paid little attention to what their wives did. As long as the wife didn’t publicly disgrace them, all was well. Likely why Horatia had sent her maid to give Xerxes her gift instead of seeking him herself.

The sun was at its hottest by the time I reached the house. I wasn’t certain how to approach. If a gladiator knocked on the front door, Horatia might have me arrested, pretending outrage in order to keep her reputation safe.

I wished only to speak to her maid, in any case, though I didn’t know the maid’s name or if she still worked for Horatia. I ought to have consulted Cassia first—she probably knew a few servants of this house or could easily ingratiate herself with them. But I’d been in too much of a hurry to make my way straight to the Esquiline.

The sun beat on my bare head, making it throb. The cool interior of a shop across the road beckoned, and I stepped into it.

They sold pastries here, delectable dough cases holding cream or apricots or bright strawberries, the first of the season. The proprietor came forward as I gazed at the platters piled with confections and sent me a knowing look.

“If you are thinking to take one to Horatia Lucanus Varinius, she doesn’t like sweets.” The man, as shaved-headed as I was, but older, wrinkled, and small in stature, gave me a wise nod. “I saw you eyeing the house. Other guests have foundered trying to soften her up with a pastry or two.”

“I wasn’t thinking of speaking to her,” I said.