Page 41 of Vesuvius


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And what Loren might persuade Julia to divulge in turn.

‘Do you often befriend troublemakers?’ she asked.

‘He isn’t exactly my friend. I’m afraid I don’t have many of those.’

Fewer and fewer by the day.

‘We have that in common.’ Eyes sparkling, Julia relaxed into a traditional sprawl, legs tucked to the side. She popped a grape in her mouth, nudging the fruit bowl towards Loren. ‘Tiresome, isn’t it, to offer your best to the world, only to be spat back out. Oh, don’t give me that look. I told you, I’ve had my eye on youfor a time.’

Releasing a shaky breath, Loren finally sank onto the couch across from her, leg unable to bear weight any longer. ‘I cannot imagine you’re impressed with what you’ve seen.’

‘The contrary. My associates tell me you lurk in the back of every public forum meeting. You’re the right-hand man of the Priest of Isis, and foreign cult or not, that’s no small feat.’ When she paused to sip, Loren didn’t bother correcting her. ‘Last night, you stood in the rain just to hear Umbrius’s plan for catching a thief. You’re bright, and you care, and that’s more than can be said about half the old councilmen. Tell me what’s holding you back from joining the council properly.’

This conversation was straying too close to the accusations Felix had flung over dinner.

Frankly, Loren was tired of repeating himself.

‘What else besides Pompeii? Its barriers prevent commoners from creating change. Cicero was spineless, but he was right when he said power is under the control of the wealthy, not the masses. My family . . .’ Loren huffed. On reflex, he rubbed the cord he wore, his gold ring skin-warm. ‘I can’t prove I come from wealth or authority. I’m not from the city, my lady. Running for office is a fever dream. And even if I earned funds tobuya position, I’d be laughed out.’

Loren broke off when his eyes stung, years of irony crashing down – irony that the only tool that would help hung heavy around his throat, but in Pompeii, it was the tool he swore he’d never use. He blinked hard and busied himself with the fruit, if only to occupy his trembling fingers. He bit into a pomegranate seed, let the too-tart juice ground him. ‘Sorry, my lady. It’s frustrating.’

Julia’s face stayed blank for a moment, then she barked a laugh. ‘Listen to you. I knew I picked you for a reason.’

‘Picked me?’

‘Last night, you looked surprised to see me with the council. What business does a woman have listening to the affairs of men?Even councilmen’s wives tend not to get involved. But’ – she swirled her wine – ‘I am no one’s wife. What I am is a landowner, and that grants me some sway over decisions affecting the city. Imagine how the council feels listening to a woman’s opinions.’

‘They resent you,’ Loren guessed.

‘My position is tolerated at best. Tenuous at worst. With no male heir to lend me legitimacy, I worry how much longer my influence can last.’ Her expression turned rueful. ‘Last week, a proposal was brought forward to challenge the rights of a woman to inherit property.’

‘That’s unfair,’ said Loren, wary. His patience was wearing thin. Nothing Julia said offered substance about the helmet. If Felix was long gone from Pompeii, Loren had bigger problems to worry about than council meetings and inheritance. ‘But I don’t understand how this involves me.’

‘You and I have more in common than you realise. I need an heir, someone capable. Educated. Ambitious. You need someone to unlock doors for you. Otherwise, your hope of creating change is fruitless.’ The reminder stung, but Julia continued, ‘Loren, you need a family name.’

‘What are you saying?’ Loren asked slowly.

‘I think, my doll,’ Julia said, smile honeyed, ‘we have much to discuss tonight.’

Chapter XI

FELIX

When all else failed, at least Felix could run.

He craved the physicality of it, the stretch and pull of his muscles. Running created the illusion of progress. If he only ran far enough and fast enough, he could outpace any problem.

He hurtled from the tavern towards the brothel, willing his feet faster, until the snarling irritation Loren had provoked faded to background noise. Until his rattled nerves stitched back together and he remembered his purpose: shiny silver wings, proof that one thing – thisonething – could be his.

Felix ran until he burst onto the market street and smacked into a street fair.

The cacophony hit him like a wall. Throngs of people occupied the street, laughing and shouting and singing, drunk, spirits high. Stalls sold spiced wine and honeyed nuts and cheese pastries. Guards escorted wealthy attendees around clusters of those less fortunate, because even at a street party – the least prestigious of affairs – class lines held firm.

Heavy coin purses dangled from belts. Felix’s fingers twitched with temptation to indulge in his favourite form of stress relief. Screw Loren’s moralising.

He slipped into the party and worked the crowdlike clay.

A sleight of hand won him a jewelled hairpin, plucked from the updo of a giggling girl, whose mouth he laughed against before slipping away with a wink. A conveniently timed cup of wine earned him a wooden-handled knife, poached from the pocket of a wobbly-drunk patrician boy who tried to reel Felix closer by his waist. In another town – in another mood – he might have welcomed the distraction. Dealt with the sticky shame later.