and sauces, made and refilled whenever the kitchens were quiet. There was no hint of the oven heat in there and he felt the sweat chill on his heavy body with a pleasurable shiver.
The ice blocks, wrapped in rough cloth, were brought up in minutes and crushed under his direction until the ice was a fine slurry. To this he added the bitter-sweet lemon and stirred it in, just enough to flavour without overpowering. His father had said the ice must not be yellow and Casaverius smiled as he noted the colour and fine texture, using a ladle to scoop the mixture into the glass bowls on a serving tray.
He worked quickly. Even in the cool room the ice was melting and the journey through the kitchens would have to be fast. He hoped that one day Sulla would allow another passage to be cut in the rock under his luxurious home, so that the iced desserts could be brought straight up. Still, with care and speed, the dishes would reach his table almost intact.
After only a few minutes, the two bowls were full of the white ice and Casaverius sucked his fingers, groaning in exaggerated pleasure. How good it was to taste cold in the summer! He wondered briefly how much silver coin the two bowls represented, but it was an unimaginable sum. Drivers and carts transported huge blocks of ice from the mountains, losing half in the journey. They were brought down to the dripping darkness of the ice rooms below him, there to melt slowly, but giving cool drinks and desserts for all the summer months. He reminded himself to check that the supplies were adequate. It was almost time for a new order.
Dalcius entered the room behind him, still carrying his spice tray.
‘May I watch you prepare the ices? My last master never had them.’
Casaverius motioned him in cheerfully.
‘The work is done. They must be rushed through the kitchens before they begin to melt.’ Dalcius leaned over the table and his arm knocked over the jug of sticky syrup in a wide yellow stain. Casaverius’ good humour vanished on the instant.
‘Quick, you idiot, fetch cloths to clean it up. There is no time to waste.’
The big slave looked terrified and he stammered, ‘I … I’m sorry. I have another tray here, master.’
He held out the tray and Casaverius lifted the bowls, cleaning them quickly with his own sweat-soaked rag. No time to be sensitive, he thought. The ice was melting. He placed the bowls on the tray and wiped his fingers irritably.
‘Don’t just stand there, run! And if you trip over your own feet, I’ll have you whipped.’ Dalcius moved quickly out of the room, and Casaverius began to wipe up the spilled mess. Perhaps the man was too clumsy for more difficult tasks.
Outside in the corridor, it was the work of a moment for Tubruk to empty the vial of poison into the bowls, stirring it in with a finger. That done, he raced through to the kitchen and handed the tray to the waiting slave.
The eyes that had seemed so nervous looked steadily at the retreating back as the door to the house above closed behind him. Now he must escape, but there was bloody work to do first. He sighed. Casaverius was not a bad man, but one day in the future, even with the beard cut off and his hair grown back to its normal length, the cook might still be able to recognise him.
Feeling suddenly weary, he turned back towards the cool rooms, touching the bone-handled knife under his tunic as he walked. He would make sure it looked like a murder rather than suicide. That should keep Casaverius’ family safe from revenge.
‘Did you give him the tray?’ Casa snapped as Tubruk re-entered the small cool room.
‘I did. I am sorry, Casaverius.’
The cook looked up as Tubruk stepped quickly towards him. The man’s voice had deepened slightly and the usual manner was missing. He saw the blade and fear and confusion coursed through him.
‘Dalcius! Put that down!’ he said, but Tubruk shoved the dagger neatly into the fleshy chest, bursting the heart. Twice more he stabbed it home to be sure.
Casaverius fought for breath, but it would not come. His face purpled and his hands flailed, knocking the ladles and jugs off the tables with a crash.
Finally, Tubruk stood, feeling sick. In all his years as a gladiator and a legionary, he had never murdered an innocent and he felt stained by it. Casaverius had been a likeable man and Tubruk knew the gods cried out against those that hurt the good. He steadied himself, trying to drag his gaze away from the fat man’s body where it had slid onto the floor. He left quietly, his footsteps loud in the corridor that led back to the kitchen. Now he had to escape and reach Fercus before the alarm was sounded.
Sulla lolled on a couch, his thoughts drifting away from the conversation with his general, Antonidus. It had been a long day and the Senate seemed to be trying to block his nominations for new magistrates. He had been made Dictator with the mandate of restoring order to the Republic and they had been eager enough to grant his every wish for the first few months. Recently, they had taken up hours of debate with long speeches on the powers and limitations of the office and his advisers had said he should not impose on them too harshly for a while. They were small men, he thought. Small in deed and dreams. Marius would scorn them for fools, if he were still alive.
‘… objections will be raised to the lictors, my friend,’ Antonidus was saying.
Sulla snorted disdainfully.
‘Objections or not, I will continue to have twenty-four of them with me. I have many enemies and I want them to be a reminder of my power as I walk between the Capitol and the Curia.’
Antonidus shrugged.
‘In the past, there have been only twelve. Perhaps it is better to let the Senate have their way on this, to gain strength in more serious negotiation.’
‘They are a pack of toothless old men!’ Sulla snapped. ‘Has not order returned to Rome in the last year? Could they have done it? No. Where was the Senate when I was fighting for my life? What help were they to me then? No. I am their master and they should be made to recognise that simple fact. I am tired of walking carefully around their sensibilities and pretending the Republic is still young and strong.’
Antonidus said nothing, knowing that any objection he made would be met with wilder promises and threats. He had been honoured at first to be taken on as military adviser, but the post had been a hollow one, with Sulla using him only as a puppet for his own orders. Even so, part of him agreed with Sulla’s frustration. The Senate struggled to protect their dignity and old authority, while acknowledging the need for a Dictator to keep the peace in the city and Roman lands. It was farcical and Sulla was quickly tiring of the game.
A slave entered with the ices, placing them on a low table before bowing out of the room. Sulla sat up, his irritation forgotten.
‘You will have to taste these. There is nothing like them for relief from the summer heat.’ He took a silver spoon and ladled the white ice into his mouth, shutting his eyes with pleasure. The bowl was soon empty, and he considered calling for another. His whole body seemed cooler after the ice and his mind was calm. He saw Antonidus had not begun and urged him on.
‘It must be eaten quickly, before it melts. Even then, it can be a wonderfully refreshing drink.’ He watched as the general sampled a spoonful and smiled with him.
Antonidus wanted to finish their business and go home to his family, but knew he could not rise until Sulla became tired. He wondered when that might be.
‘Your new magistrates will be confirmed tomorrow at the Curia,’ he said.
Sulla lay back on his couch, his expression resuming its sulky lines.
‘They had better be. I owe those men favours. If there is another delay, the Senate will regret it, I swear before the gods. I will disband them and have the doors nailed shut!’
He winced slightly as he spoke and his hand drifted to his stomach, rubbing gently.
‘If you choose to disband the Senate, there will be civil war again, with the city in flames once more,’ Antonidus said. ‘However, I suspect you