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, which spread in a wide yellow stain. Casaverius’s good humor 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, with the beard cut off and his hair grown back to its normal length, the cook might still be able to recognize him.

Feeling suddenly weary, he turned back toward 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’s family safe from revenge.

“Did you give him the tray?” Casa snapped as Tubruk reentered the small cool room.

“I did. I am sorry, Casaverius.”

The cook looked up as Tubruk stepped quickly toward him. The man’s voice had deepened slightly and the usual manner was missing. Casaverius 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.