Free Search the Seven Hills by Barbara Hambly

were long gone.” He paused in his pacing, the folds of his toga settling into graceful lines around his heavy shoulders and massive arms. Marcus, who generally looked as though he’d been rolled in his garments like a piece of fish, regarded the effect with envy.
    “Did you notice anyone—well, hanging about the place earlier in the day? I know you were here when I called at the ninth hour...”
    Quindarvis gave the matter some thought, then shook his head. “Well, aside from the usual sycophants cluttering up the atrium, and beggars in the streets, and those infernal shopkeepers down the road. But then, I was here in the garden, with Aurelia Pollia and my cousin Varus’ steward.”
    There was an awkward silence. Outside, dew still glittered on the banked lilies of the garden, visible through the fluted columns that separated the drawing room from the court. Marcus had called early, on the way back from doing some necessary shopping in the markets by the river: an alternative, in the gray hours before dawn, to lying awake contemplating the familiar lines of the ceiling. There was a telltale puffiness about Quindarvis’ eyes that made him wonder how much sleep the praetor had had. But then, on the night before his games, that was to have been expected.
    “How is Aurelia Pollia?” he asked after a moment.
    Quindarvis shook his head. “She slept all yesterday,” he sighed. “I’ve told Nicanor to look after her—he’s trustworthy enough, for a slave. You know Aurelia as well as I do, boy. She isn’t very strong, and this has been a hideous shock to her. If she drinks more poppy and sleeps today through as well, it would be for the best.” He prowled to the open line of columns that let into the garden. They were red porphyry from Egypt, to go with the red of the painted walls. Against them his toga had the whiteness of marble.
    “I wish I could remain here with her,” continued Quindarvis. “I’m late as it is—You sure you don’t want a ticket to the games? They’ll be having the march-in in an hour.”
    “Thank you, no,” replied Marcus, trying to hide the distaste in his voice.
    “They’re going to be very fine,” continued the senator persuasively. “Since the emperor isn’t in Rome to give his own games, more than usual latitude has been allowed the praetors in charge. Over one hundred fifty—”
    “No, really.” He made himself smile. “I appreciate your offer, but...”
    “I know,” chuckled the big man. “Your philosophic principles.” He slapped Marcus genially on the shoulder. “Well, here. In case your philosophic principles wear a little thin.” He handed him a slip of fired clay, inscribed with a seat number.
    “I’ll look in on Aurelia again this evening,” he continued. “I spent last night here, you know. It isn’t good to leave her alone, with just the slaves. And by the way, I sent a suitable reward to that boy—that Briton boy, whatever his name was, Sixtus Julianus’ slave—for attempting to help.” He frowned to himself. “Perhaps I should pay a call on Julianus one of these mornings myself, to thank him personally.”
    Marcus smiled, trying to picture this highly polished portrait of elegance among the blown leaves of that dusty atrium. But he only remarked, “He’s supposed to be some kind of an eccentric, isn’t he?”
    The praetor winked. “‘Crazy’ I think is the word I’ve heard. But he’s one of the ancient aristocracy. They’ve bred among themselves too long. But the power’s there, and the wealth, from all I’ve heard. This might be the opportunity I’ve been seeking, to get to know him.” He frowned again, giving the matter consideration.
    From the hallway a slave’s voice bellowed, “It is now the beginning of the second hour of the morning! It is now...”
    “Jupiter Capitolinus, I’ll miss the march-in! Baccus!” At his roared summons, Quindarvis’ Greek secretary came hurrying in from the atrium, followed by an