Prax too had been spared by the pirates. Without his armor, he seemed much more ordinary. Even his belt had been taken in case the heavy buckle could be used as a weapon, and he constantly hitched up his bracae. Of all of them, he had taken the change in fortunes with the least obvious anger, his natural patience helping to keep them all steady.

“The lad’s right though, Captain. There’s a good chance they’ll just drop us all overboard when they get the silver from Rome. Or, the Senate could stop our families making the payment, preferring to forget us.”

Gaditicus bristled. “You forget yourself, Prax. The senators are Romans as well, for all your poor opinions of them. They won’t let us be forgotten.”

Prax shrugged. “Still, we should make plans. If this trireme meets another Roman galley, we’ll be sent over the side if they look like boarding us. A bit of chain around our feet would do the job nicely.”

Gaditicus met the eyes of his optio for a few moments. “All right. We’ll work out a few things, but if the chance comes, I’m not leaving anyone behind. Caesar has a broken arm as well as the head injury. It will be weeks before he can stand, even.”

“If he survives,” Suetonius put in.

Cabera looked at the young officer, his gaze sharp. “He is strong, this one, and he has an expert healer tending him.”

Suetonius looked away from the old man’s intense stare, suddenly embarrassed.

Gaditicus broke the silence. “Well, we have the time to consider all outcomes, gentlemen. We have plenty of that.”

CHAPTER 6

Casaverius allowed himself a smile of self-congratulation as he surveyed the long kitchen hall. Everywhere, the bustle of the evening was coming to an end, with the last of the orders served hours before.

“Perfection is in the detail,” he murmured to himself, as he had done every evening for the ten years he had been employed by Cornelius Sulla. Good years, though his once trim figure had swollen alarmingly in the time. Casaverius leaned back against the smooth plaster wall and continued grinding with his pestle and mortar, preparing a mustard seed paste that Sulla loved. He dipped a finger into the dark mixture and added a little oil and vinegar from the row of narrow-necked pots that hung along the walls. How could a good cook resist tasting his own meals? It was part of the process. His father had been even larger, and Casaverius took pride in his heaviness, knowing that only a fool would employ a thin cook.

The brick ovens had been closed to the air for long enough and should have cooled. Casa motioned to the slaves that they could be raked clean, ready for new charcoal in the morning. The air in the kitchen was still thickly sluggish with heat, and he pulled a rag from his belt to wipe his brow. With the weight, he seemed to sweat more, he admitted to himself, pressing the already damp cloth against his face.