Gaius sat in the Blue Eagle taverna and called out to the proprietor to bring him a new flagon of sour Gaulish wine. He had been drinking for most of the past three days, moving from one wine shop to another as he outwore his welcome. The tavern keepers knew who he was, and his father. Eventually, they would be paid.
At times Gaius wondered if he had been missed, but he supposed Macellius must think he had gone home to the villa, and Julia would think he was still with his father in the town. Mostly, he wondered how much wine he would have to drink before the pain went away.
He had stayed in Deva at first because of the political situation, and then because he did not want to confront Licinius and inform him that he was about to abandon Julia and the useless daughters she had borne him. In tardy fairness, he supposed that Licinius, doting father though he was, might be willing to remonstrate with Julia. Sonless himself, he would not want Julia divorced for the same reason. But if Licinius had persuaded his daughter to honor her conjugal obligations, Gaius would not be able to marry Senara, and the thought of her had been a warmth that could keep his fears about the future at bay.
Not that it mattered any more, he thought, feeling the cool fire of the wine going down. Senara didn’t love him. Julia didn’t love him. And Eilan—especially Eilan—didn’t love him at all. He shuddered, remembering the face of the Fury once more when she had ordered him away.
The door to the taverna was flung open and another bunch of legionaries crashed in. The Commander must be wondering by now if he had miscalculated, thought Gaius sourly. The feast he had offered had done no more than weaken military discipline. If this had been Rome, the Emperor would have been emptying the treasury to give the men circuses, but a little bear-baiting was all his godforsaken province could provide. It wasn’t nearly enough to distract them, and the soldiers seemed to be getting wilder with every day.
But nobody paid any attention to the lone man getting quietly drunk in the corner, and that was all that mattered to Gaius right now. He sighed, and reached for the flagon again.
A hand closed around his wrist. He looked up blearily, and blinked to see Valerius standing there. “By Mercury, man, you’ve led me a chase!” Valerius stood back to look at him and made a face. “Thank the gods your father can’t see you now!”
“Does he know—？” Gaius began.
“Are you crazy? I care about his feelings, even if you do not. One of the men told me he’d seen you. What possessed you to get drunk now? Never mind that,” he said as Gaius started to protest. “First, my lad, we’ve got to get you out of here!”
Gaius was still protesting when Valerius hauled him into the street and across the town to the bathhouse. But it was not until he had been shoved into the cold pool that Gaius began to sober up enough to understand what was said to him.
“Tell me,” Valerius said as he came up, sputtering, “is my niece Valeria still in the Forest House?”
Gaius nodded. “I went there, but she…changed her mind, wouldn’t come with me.” Events were coming back to him. He had given Valerius an expurgated version of the situation and gained his permission to marry Senara—that gave the man some rights—but why was he so upset about it now?
“Listen,” said Valerius quickly. “You’re not the only one who’s been drinking. Last night I was with some of the legionaries attached to the Quaestor’s office—their names don’t matter—who were speculating about the priestesses at Vernemeton. And one of them said, ‘It’s not as if the women there were anything like real Vestals; they’re just barbarian women like any others.’ I protested, but it finally came to a wager that they could carry off one of the sacred virgins there, and it wouldn’t be sacrilege.”
Gaius picked up a towel and began to rub himself furiously, trying to understand.
“Come into the hot room,” said Valerius, offering his arm. “You’ll sweat the poisons out faster.” When they were settled, gasping as the hot steam hit them, the secretary continued. “I thought it was the sort of silly bet that drunken men make—no more than words born of wine, and nothing to worry about—till this morning, when three of the men turned up missing at muster. One of my drinking companions of the night before told me that they had left Deva this morning to try and win the bet.”