noncommittal shrug.
Turbis peered deep into his goblet and gave it a desultory sniff. “It’s a Connorian red, one of my own. From the estate up north. Damned fine stuff. The vintners tell me there’s good schisty soil and it’s on a west-facing slope or some such nonsense.” He gestured with his stump to a nearby slave. “Wine for the general here, there’s a good girl.” Turbis watched the slim olive-skinned young woman - scratching his stump absentmindedly on his cheek - as she fetched a goblet and wine carafe. “You must forgive me, Martius. I quite forgot my manners.”
Martius accepted the goblet, holding it out whilst the wine was poured. “Not at all, Turbis.” He caught the slave girl’s eye and she dropped her gaze, deftly moving to her original position, still clutching the jug in hand as she adopted the slave’s traditionally blank mien, carefully staring into the middle distance. Martius had the strangest feeling that he knew her face, then realised with a start that she bore a striking resemblance to Turbis’s long-dead wife, Symia. Pushing the thought from his mind, Martius sniffed the wine - it had subtle overtones of blackberry and oak - then took a small sip. “This is a fine wine indeed.” Looking at the slave girl again, he wondered why Turbis would choose to surround himself with reminders of his loss; the man seemed hell bent on torturing himself. “My compliments to your vintners.”
Turbis raised his goblet, taking a large gulp. “Not bad, eh?” He raised the goblet and the slave girl filled it without raising her eyes. “Think I might retire up there. It really is beautiful and the weather is so much warmer.”
“It would be good for you, could help speed your recovery.”
“I do not doubt it, son,” Turbis sighed, glancing briefly in the slave girl’s direction. “I do not doubt it.” He put his goblet down, rubbing his bandaged stump with his good hand. “Damned thing itches like buggery.”
“Leave it alone or it will never heal.”
“Of course, of course.” Turbis sank back down into his pillows with a sigh. “So are you going to tell me how your, ah… plans are getting on then? I’m damned curious, truth be told.”
Martius took a quick sip of wine, savouring the delicious flavour. “I did come here for a private word, old friend, if that is alright?”
Turbis’s eyes were drooping markedly now; he bore a puzzled expression until, finally, his face brightened in realisation. “Everybody out!” he roared. “And remind Unclus I will be dining at seven on the terrace.”
The retinue departed silently. Martius waited until he was sure they were out of earshot. “Turbis, we cannot risk speaking in the open.” His tone was earnest. “You know there are ears everywhere.”
Turbis waved his hand dismissively, “What, them? They’re all loyal.”
“Nevertheless…” Martius fought to control his rising impatience. “… we should minimise any risk. You know as well as I do there is a target on my back now. I have enemies.”
“Ah, nonsense. Who would dare?”
“There are many. The reforms I have brought in over the last twenty years have not been supported by all. The nobles think I will bring the Empire down. You know that.”
“Yes, yes, I know, I’ve heard. You want a republic, or you would make yourself Emperor; you want to make a deal with the high king of the Farisians so he can rule the Empire! Everyone knows it’s utter nonsense, eh?” Turbis drained his goblet in one drought, then appearing to realise that no one remained to fill it, tossed it petulantly into the cushions. “Had enough anyhow!” He brushed absently at the crimson stain on his tunic. “No one takes it seriously, man. Just gossip. Besides, you’re a bloody nobleman.”
The Emperor might not feel the same way, Martius thought. “I came here to discuss matters of importance with you.” His voice was clipped, harsher than intended. “You are the only one I
Turbis peered deep into his goblet and gave it a desultory sniff. “It’s a Connorian red, one of my own. From the estate up north. Damned fine stuff. The vintners tell me there’s good schisty soil and it’s on a west-facing slope or some such nonsense.” He gestured with his stump to a nearby slave. “Wine for the general here, there’s a good girl.” Turbis watched the slim olive-skinned young woman - scratching his stump absentmindedly on his cheek - as she fetched a goblet and wine carafe. “You must forgive me, Martius. I quite forgot my manners.”
Martius accepted the goblet, holding it out whilst the wine was poured. “Not at all, Turbis.” He caught the slave girl’s eye and she dropped her gaze, deftly moving to her original position, still clutching the jug in hand as she adopted the slave’s traditionally blank mien, carefully staring into the middle distance. Martius had the strangest feeling that he knew her face, then realised with a start that she bore a striking resemblance to Turbis’s long-dead wife, Symia. Pushing the thought from his mind, Martius sniffed the wine - it had subtle overtones of blackberry and oak - then took a small sip. “This is a fine wine indeed.” Looking at the slave girl again, he wondered why Turbis would choose to surround himself with reminders of his loss; the man seemed hell bent on torturing himself. “My compliments to your vintners.”
Turbis raised his goblet, taking a large gulp. “Not bad, eh?” He raised the goblet and the slave girl filled it without raising her eyes. “Think I might retire up there. It really is beautiful and the weather is so much warmer.”
“It would be good for you, could help speed your recovery.”
“I do not doubt it, son,” Turbis sighed, glancing briefly in the slave girl’s direction. “I do not doubt it.” He put his goblet down, rubbing his bandaged stump with his good hand. “Damned thing itches like buggery.”
“Leave it alone or it will never heal.”
“Of course, of course.” Turbis sank back down into his pillows with a sigh. “So are you going to tell me how your, ah… plans are getting on then? I’m damned curious, truth be told.”
Martius took a quick sip of wine, savouring the delicious flavour. “I did come here for a private word, old friend, if that is alright?”
Turbis’s eyes were drooping markedly now; he bore a puzzled expression until, finally, his face brightened in realisation. “Everybody out!” he roared. “And remind Unclus I will be dining at seven on the terrace.”
The retinue departed silently. Martius waited until he was sure they were out of earshot. “Turbis, we cannot risk speaking in the open.” His tone was earnest. “You know there are ears everywhere.”
Turbis waved his hand dismissively, “What, them? They’re all loyal.”
“Nevertheless…” Martius fought to control his rising impatience. “… we should minimise any risk. You know as well as I do there is a target on my back now. I have enemies.”
“Ah, nonsense. Who would dare?”
“There are many. The reforms I have brought in over the last twenty years have not been supported by all. The nobles think I will bring the Empire down. You know that.”
“Yes, yes, I know, I’ve heard. You want a republic, or you would make yourself Emperor; you want to make a deal with the high king of the Farisians so he can rule the Empire! Everyone knows it’s utter nonsense, eh?” Turbis drained his goblet in one drought, then appearing to realise that no one remained to fill it, tossed it petulantly into the cushions. “Had enough anyhow!” He brushed absently at the crimson stain on his tunic. “No one takes it seriously, man. Just gossip. Besides, you’re a bloody nobleman.”
The Emperor might not feel the same way, Martius thought. “I came here to discuss matters of importance with you.” His voice was clipped, harsher than intended. “You are the only one I
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