A large hand wrapped around Felix’s throat from behind and tightened.
‘How did you take the helmet?’ the guard demanded.
Felix struggled. Seemed the wrong question to ask. Wouldn’t a more productive one be—
‘Whereis the helmet?’
‘Don’t know what you mean,’ Felix wheezed. The grip constricted. He clawed any skin he could reach, aimed an elbow and missed spectacularly. Useless. White spots, then—
Freedom. Felix slumped, palms pressed to the cobblestones, chest heaving.
‘You’ll come with me,’ the guard said.
He didn’t leave Felix with a choice. He dragged him up by his tunic. Breath hot in Felix’s ear, the guard muttered, ‘Make noise and I’ll gut you. Leave your body to stink in the streets.’
Felix swallowed hard, dread coiling his nerves. The guard pushed and prodded him to a different section of the city. Cobblestones changedcolour, worn grey shifting to modern red. The villas here were newer, gated and walled, a sure sign this was the wealthy part of town. Only society’s richest could afford this degree of privacy, walls clean of graffiti, no vulgar anatomical artwork to be seen. They halted before one of the larger houses, but the guard didn’t usher Felix through the front gate. Instead, he was marched down a side street to the servants’ entrance.
Candlelight illuminated the small chamber Felix was shoved into. An alcove in the wall held a pair of carved ivory statues, a dancer and a jester. They must be the household gods. Lares, symbols of the owner’s values, home protectors and other things Felix didn’t waste his breath or coin on. He didn’t know which minor deities this pair represented. In the dim light, the jester’s grin stretched into a leer, and the dancer’s limbs were pulled too long, like misshapen dough. Felix shivered away.
‘Drop your bag, thief,’ the guard said.
Felix’s lip curled. ‘I didn’t take anything. But if this is how you handle petty theft, I’d hate to see you deal with a real criminal.’
His satchel was ripped off his shoulder and upended. Cherries and coins – so what if he dipped into the stash when he scouted the temple that afternoon? – scattered across tile. Felix’s last bottle of wine rolled out like an accusation.
Felix stifled a wince. ‘All mine. Mine before.’
Brow raised, the guard picked a ring of skeleton keys from the mess.Shit.
‘I apprentice with a locksmith.’
‘Right.’ The keys clanked as the guard tossed them to the side. ‘Now explain the wine.’
‘Plan on interrogating me over everything in my bag? You’re in for a long night.’
‘Not an interrogation,’ a cool voice said. ‘Thank you, Darius. I will take it from here.’
A figure leaned against the wall, his arrival so sudden and silent he might have materialised from shadow. For such an early hour, he was immaculately dressed, tunic pressed, tall boots laced. Leather gloves encased his hands. A badge glinted at his shoulder, a crest of a swooping hawk. Some kind of statesman, a politician or patrician.
‘So this is the thief,’ the statesman said. ‘Have a seat.’
‘Not a thief,’ Felix muttered. But the statesman merely smiled, impassive. Felix’s skin crawled, the hair on his arms standing on end. This was the sort of man who looked as though he’d never held a strong opinion in his life. Those men, in Felix’s experience, were the most dangerous. No commitment to any one cause, they’d change their mind on a whim if the outcome suited them better.
Darius the guard retreated to the door, stance casual but sword still drawn.
Felix sat on the edge of a wicker chair and chanced a glance around. He’d have to brave Darius to slip outside, and diving through the other door would only suck him deeper into a strange house. He wouldn’t get out of this by force, at least not yet.
For the first time, Felix noticed the painting dominating the back wall: a conical mountain with steep slopes and Bacchus, god of wine, blessing the fertile soil. Below writhed a snake. He recognised the mountain as the one north of the city: Vesuvius. But he wondered what – or who – the snake was meant to represent.
The statesman held up the bottle. ‘Expensive taste. This isn’t your everyday drink.’
Felix knew. That was the point.
His back facing Felix, the statesman popped the cork, and Felix glowered as ruby liquid poured into a pair of silver cups. Sealed, that bottle could have bought him new sandals. When the statesman turned, he passed one cup to Felix. On instinct, Felix brought it to his nose. Sugar, mostly. Then – an undercurrent of acrid.
‘You dosed this.’ Felix sniffed again. ‘Poppy sap. Lassius wine is sickly sweet. This stinks of bitter.’
‘Well versed in poison?’
