Caveat emptor

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This close, even Firmus could see that she was the sort of woman his mother had warned him about. Six feet tall, red hair in a mass of rats’ tails, and a pregnant belly that bulged at him like an accusation. The only thing that separated them was a folding desk, and even that wobbled when he placed both hands on it. He sensed a movement behind him. Pyramus’s breath was warm on his ear.

“Shall I call the guards, master?”

Firmus opened his mouth to say yes, then realized what a fool he would look if she proved to be harmless. He gestured the slave back to his place. Perhaps, beyond the boundaries of Londinium, this was what all the Britons looked like. He squinted at the sweat-stained folds of her tunic and hoped the guards had at least checked her for weapons.

“Are you the procurator?” she repeated.

Of course not, he wanted to say. Do you really think Rome would send a shortsighted seventeen year old to look after all the money in Britannia? Instead, he straightened his back, pushed aside the wax tablet on which he had been compiling a list of Things To Ask Uncle, and said, “I’m his assistant.”

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