Page 137 of Vesuvius

He put the knife away. ‘If I ask you a question, will you answer honestly?’

Familiar words from that first night at the brothel.

Loren’s mouth pinched. ‘Go on.’

‘I never understood fully – why me? Your visions, that is. Why us?’

‘I don’t know. Surely there’s no simple answer, but . . . I have a theory.’

‘Of course you do.’ Felix hovered a hand over the cane until Loren nodded permission for him to move it aside. Then he lay back, rumpling the parchment, and pillowed his head on Loren’s thigh. ‘Tell me.’

Hesitant fingers began to comb through his hair. Felix’s eyes drifted shut.

‘In Greece, they say we’re born with our soul split,’ Loren began, uncertain. ‘With half placed in someone else. Life’s point, then, is to make oneself whole again. I don’t know that I agree. Each time I try to make sense of something through myth, I only worsen it. Besides, I think we’re born complete on our own. But hearts are built to resonate, and it’s a matter of finding one who beats in tune with yours. By coincidence, the ghost found my mind open.’

‘Since when do you believe in coincidence?’

‘Since you started believing in anything. We’re proof people change.’ Whatever wry smile had built on his face faded. ‘You have godly blood, Felix. You were always meant to be a hero, and whatever curse or blessing granted me my visions tied a string between us. I was to guide you. But no one could have predicted what Mercury’s priest did, nor the lengths your father would go to. The version of you in my nightmares was angry. Hurt and alone. And I misunderstood what he needed.’

The hand buried in Felix’s curls stilled. Cool distance washed over Loren again.

‘I don’t blame you,’ Felix said. ‘You didn’t know what the dreams meant. You thought you were protecting me. What could you have done?’

‘I could have listened.’

‘You do. You make your touch a question. And if my answer was no, I trust you would hear me.’

Loren paused, a stillness that dragged until Felix cracked his lids open again. Above him, cast against a sky of pale blue, Loren pinned him with his softest look yet. Despite the sweetness of pomegranate lingering on his tongue, Felix’s mouth dried. He caught Loren’s fingers and pressed his lips to his palm.

‘Read to me.’ Felix tilted his head, kissed the pad of his thumb. ‘My turn to listen. I like the way you speak.’

For another long moment, he wondered if he’d finally broken Loren, the way he fell so silent. At last, Loren cleared his throat. ‘Latin or Greek?’

‘What?’

Pink washed over Loren’s cheeks as he fumbled for his tube of scrolls. ‘The Iliad. I brought pages of each. The translation by Italicus is far inferior to the original, even if the language is easier to digest, but my Greek is rusty, so—’

‘Loren? Just read.’

‘Right.’ Parchment shuffled. Loren cleared his throat a second time. His fingers returned to Felix’s hair. Quietly, he began, ‘Rage, muse, sing the rage of Achilles . . .’

Felix leaned into it, the touch and sound and smell of this boy. Clouds drifted overhead, and dappled shadows played in the breeze – warm, but with the promise of cooler days to come. Apricots and pomegranates hung swollen ripe. Somewhere, a honeybee made its rounds.

And Felix sat with Loren. And that was all.

‘Your arrogance baffles me,’ Lucius Lassius said before dawn the next morning, the household still hushed. He’d intercepted Felix in the courtyard as he crossed to Loren’s wing of the estate. ‘To masqueradeas a dead man’s son is obscene, particularly where Julius Fortunatus was my dear friend.’

‘Some friend,’ said Felix coolly. ‘You were surprised to hear of his passing.’

‘Felix Fortunatus. “Lucky Fortune.” That alone should have warned me, but I extended you the benefit of the doubt and let you stay while I waited to have records delivered. Tell me, Felix, how you respected my generosity. Or shall I tell you? By creeping into my son’s bedroom night after night?’

‘He’s teaching me to read.’

Lassius jabbed a finger in Felix’s face, but no spike of fear accompanied it. ‘Don’t take me for a fool, boy. Lorenus might be simple enough to take advantage of, but I’m not so easily swayed. Do you think yourself worth even a scrap of his attention?’

‘I didn’t realise you thought so highly of him.’

‘He’s a Lassius. It matters not how I regard him, but how the world sees him. There is nothing you can offer him.’ Lassius’s mouth curled. ‘Because you have nothing. You are nothing.’

---