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Chapter VII

FELIX

W hen Felix started up the brothel stairs, he almost wished the underworld were real, if only so he could curse Elias’s name to it.

Somehow, Elias had timed Felix’s return for the helmet perfectly with the arrival of the last person he wanted to run into.

Which meant Elias had outwitted him twice now.

Felix couldn’t let that stand. But Loren didn’t seem interested in any score Felix kept.

He glared from the landing, drenched, splotchy and bursting with self-righteousness.

‘For someone whose head is inching towards the block,’ Loren bit, ‘one would think you’d be more careful.’

Felix cast Loren a cool look, slipping past to pause at the door of his room. ‘You shouldn’t leave this unlocked. Who knows who might invite himself in.’

He pushed inside.

‘You’re a . . . an . . . ’ Loren said in a shaky gust when the door shut behind them.

‘Ass?’ Felix supplied. ‘You’re allowed to curse.’

Loren’s face flushed all the way to his freckles. ‘You were missing. I thought you ran. Or that the council had come while I was away.’

‘Right, and brand you as my co-conspirator, gods forbid. Sink your political career before it begins.’ Felix rolled his eyes. ‘I’m not a fool, and I wasn’t escaping. Elias and I went to play dice. Is that so unforgiveable?’

‘Gambling is illegal.’

‘I don’t bend over the table to get fucked by laws.’

Rain dripped from Loren’s frazzled braid. ‘You’re vile.’

Felix stared. ‘You live in a brothel. Surely you’ve heard worse.’

Loren’s nostrils flared. Felix tensed, waiting for him to swing a fist, but he only crossed to the washbasin and tossed over a rag.

‘Wash. Food’s in that basket.’ He made a shapeless gesture. ‘Fruit, bread. Sleep in the bed if you want, I don’t care.’

‘The floor is fine.’

‘Fine. And don’t . . . don’t speak to me.’ Loren rubbed his eyes, then propped open the shutters. He climbed onto the windowsill, legs dangling, stared at the street, and went silent.

Felix stripped and scrubbed dried blood and grime.

He didn’t have other clothes to change into, so he donned his filthy tunic again.

It’d have to do until he was far enough from Pompeii that he could risk pausing to wash it.

Then he scarfed half a loaf of olive-studded bread.

Almost had the other half, too, until he remembered Loren probably hadn’t eaten.

Felix traced Loren’s silhouette at the window.

Defeat radiated from his slumped shoulders.

Evidently, whatever answer he hoped to glean while prostrating himself at Isis’s feet hadn’t materialised.

This should have heartened Felix. He didn’t want Loren poking around in his business.

Most days, Felix didn’t poke around in his own business, since that only led to dead-ends of disappointment.

But to his surprise, he liked sullen Loren far less than chatty Loren.

Besides, if Felix was leaving tonight, they might as well part on decent terms .

Awkwardness stretched as Felix settled on the sill backwards, feet firmly planted in the room, and held out the bread. Loren furrowed his brow, but slowly accepted the offering.

‘Thank you,’ Loren said, picking at the crust.

‘Your food, not mine.’

‘Still.’ Rain picked up again, a half-there pitter-patter. ‘I hate this weather. Either commit to the storm properly or don’t bother.’

‘Are you giving the sky an ultimatum?’

Loren’s nose twitched. ‘Truthfully, I’d prefer the weather clear all the time. Like this, you can’t see the stars. You can’t see the moon.’

Twisting around, Felix squinted. ‘It was a sliver last night. You’d barely see it anyway.’

‘I suppose that’s why I like it. You always get to watch the moon come back.’

Loren lapsed into silence as he finished off the bread. They sat shoulder to shoulder, not quite touching, while the night grew clammy and chill. A sea breeze whistled in from the coast, teasing a change in the weather, a break from the unseasonal autumn heat.

‘Felix,’ Loren broached, brushing crumbs off his lap. ‘If I ask a question, will you be honest?’

‘Depends.’

‘I should have anticipated that answer.’ The corner of his mouth pinched. ‘But I’ll ask anyway. You turned down the statesman’s offer because you thought he’d kill you once you fulfilled your end of the deal. But you’re wrong, I think.’

‘That isn’t a question.’

‘The helmet hasn’t been moved in three hundred years. Until now. What I’m asking,’ said Loren, ‘is why would he kill the only person who can handle it?’

Loren had a point. But the idea of the statesman taking Felix alive made him shiver. He had a sense that whatever the statesman would use him for would cost more than bleeding out in an alley. Collaborators , he had said. Cassius and Brutus of a new age.

Felix couldn’t. He couldn’t dwell on the statesman’s grip on his face, or he would lose himself completely.

‘The kind of power a relic like that holds is . . .’ Loren trailed off with a shaky, reverent breath. ‘That you can touch it must mean something. Have you had divine experiences before? Ritual training? A priest’s blessing?’

Felix tensed. ‘I don’t remember.’

‘Don’t you?’ Loren urged.

The thing was – it was both true and not.

The memories were there, Felix knew, because they dogged his footsteps, invisible and unnamed.

He knew because he felt the lack. But no matter how hard he tried, what questions he asked, they were gated and bricked, his mind refusing to recall.

Most days, he didn’t know where to direct his grief, or who to channel his anger at, or where that anger stemmed from.

Impressions of a life lived, but not remembering it by half.

Crinkly hazel eyes. A kiss pressed to his forehead. His father’s footsteps against the road, and curly copper hair retreating from sight. Half-light from an open cella door, glinting off a marble face long after nightfall. Sweet wine saturated bitter. Sleepy.

But if he did remember in full, if he found the missing piece, how quickly would the absence become an abscess? How would swapping one wound for another help? Maybe some memories were best forgotten. Maybe Felix was right to be afraid. Maybe he was lucky.

He ran unsettled fingers through his curls, swallowing against his dry throat. In the corner, the trunk with Mercury’s helmet stashed inside cast a darker shadow than before. A prickle crept up Felix’s spine, phantom fingers pressing in.

A siren’s song: Use me. Use me, and I’ll explain everything.

Horseshit .

‘No, I don’t,’ Felix snapped, wrenching back to Loren, pulse racing and lungs tight. The rain was a lukewarm spray against his back. Grounding. ‘Whatever your fascination is with the helmet, I can’t tell you more. Talk about something else.’

Loren recoiled. Gently, he said, ‘Sorry. I won’t ask again.’

But the one-sided pinch of his mouth suggested otherwise. He plotted, and that plot would spell disaster. But Felix had work to do. Treasures to sell. He couldn’t afford to be lured down fruitless memory paths by clueless temple boys or provoked by lucky guesses from some statesman.

‘Another question, then?’ Loren said, fiddling with the cord he wore. ‘Not about the helmet, I swear.’

‘Go on.’ Gods, Loren talked a lot. Better to listen to his rambling than dwell in memory-land, though. Besides, filling the silence wasn’t such a bad change of pace.

‘If you were about to do something awful, would you want to be warned? So you could change your path.’

‘That supposes anyone could predict the future.’

‘Can’t they?’

Felix snorted. ‘Priests, augurs, oracles, it’s made up. They’ll say anything to get paid. The only way to change your path – control your path – is to keep running.’

‘The gods would take exception to that.’

‘The gods would take exception to most of what I say.’

Loren looked at Felix straight on. ‘You know what I think? You’re more truthful than you let on.’

‘Being blunt and being honest aren’t the same,’ Felix said. ‘I lie to survive.’

Loren had nice eyes. Kind eyes. Warm as cinnamon to match the spray of freckles across his nose.

When he stared, he studied, and Felix couldn’t shake the feeling that his skin, his muscles, his ribs had gone transparent.

That Loren could see right through him, see every twinge and scar of Felix’s heart.

No. Silly. Loren knew no part of him. If Felix stuck to his rules, they’d separate as strangers.

Felix shook his head to clear it, the day finally catching up.

This time last night, he’d been eyeing the Forum guard in the tavern, wondering how best to pull off his theft.

The guard had been the one to pay for it.

Guilt swarmed in Felix’s chest, but he forced it down.

Regret, remorse, recompense – those feelings brought a quick end to any thieving career. Another lesson from his father.

‘It’s late,’ Loren said, reading the sweep of Felix’s exhaustion. ‘You should sleep.’

Felix stood, arms and legs and skull aching. He made to walk from the window, but he paused. Lingered. ‘See you tomorrow.’

He could survive a few more hours here. He could endure Loren’s scrutiny until he drifted off to sleep.

He could outsmart the streets and make it to the gate.

Then Felix would peel off, run far and free, leave Pompeii and politics in the dust, onward to a future with the helmet as his prize – where no one knew a damn thing about him.

Felix wouldn’t look back.