A sidearm swing, followed by a slap.
Dracus lurched to the side. His ringlets flopped before his eyes, his ears buzzing. Motioning his jaw side to side, he stared wide-eyed at the floor and felt nothing.
"You do not leave as you please! You do not fritter away my life's work and abandon who you are! You look me in the eyes when I'm talking to you! Do you hear me?" Consort Laelia glared in fury. "Answer me!"
"Yes, Mother."
"Straighten your back and look me in the eye!"
Drilling with his eyes into the woman a head shorter before him, he obliged. "Yes, Mother!"
A shadow loomed before the door fronting the tablinum. A eunuch slunk up to them. Keeping his head bowed, he whispered to the Prophetess.
She frowned, a brow spiking. "Send him in," she ordered, then swiveled back to her son. "Stay and watch. I'm not done with you."
Dracus sucked his cheeks. Without another word of protest, he turned on his heel, his eyes rolling. Behind drapes of gilded paisley over the aisles where he withdrew, he tilted his head, glancing sidelong through the gap between the hangings. Augustus Gaius had scurried in.
"Your grace," he said, making an obeisance.
Laelia flounced around and took her seat; the train of her gown in silver threads fanned out before the throne. "I've been expecting you," she said. "And I suppose you want to discuss the banquet." Rearing her head, she commanded an air of grace, and her tone an equanimity quite contrary to the hostility earlier on. "I hope you have worked up an appetite."
"I've attended many exotic feasts and stomached plenty novelties. But food forged with gold? Clearly, the Praetor means to throw us for a loop." Lowering his head, Augustus glanced up at the throne, his cerulean eyes unrevealing.
"He means to throw you for a loop," Mother corrected him.
A dry chuckle tilted Augustus' mouth. "You and I, my lady, are in the same boat, I'm afraid."
Dracus looked to Mother, brooding over what it could mean.
"Of course, Augustus, my dear old friend." She shrugged. "Let's hear your thoughts. Do you know why you're invited to the banquet?"
The Triumvir nodded. "Had I not been invited, it'd have been as tantamount as to declare my son guilty of Lord Domitian's death, and you must have cautioned the Praetor against doing so lest it corner my house to revolt, I take?"
Laelia laughed, shaking her head. Boring into her subject's eyes, she raised her chin. Her laughing ceased unannounced. "I've never cautioned him against it, my dear Augustus. Despite how he dissipated in daylight, Marcus isn't such a cretin. Or else our little scheme wouldn't have worked. It worked exactly because he can still speculate." Gracefully leaning on an armrest, she coiled her fingers under her roughed cheek. "For now, everyone remains a suspect, and with a feast of Trompe l'oeils, he means to gauge your loyalty – how you can put him before everything else; how you think on his behalf that is. The gold he has lavished on the sculptures of meat and mead, for example, what to do with it after the banquet that will also make him look good before the people?"
Augustus quirked his brows. "I supposed we can mint it again."
"Then what?" Mother smirked. "He went to such lengths just so the gold would be coins again like nothing ever happened? You know how he loathes wasting his own time." She glanced at the aisle. "Dracus, any thought?"
Augustus winced, turning his head to the side with a jolt. He was quick to regain his composure. "Lord Uranus," he said and bowed as Dracus padded out from behind the hangings.
"Lord Gaius," Dracus returned the civility and huffed a long sigh before he continued. "I believe Mother would like you to propose at the banquet that we mint the coins with Domitian's profile and spread them to the people at the Pyrrhic finals. News travels faster at large gatherings. Spread the coins to the crowds like seeds, so the messages would grow that first, the Praetor is munificent. And two, Renania is formidable, abounding with more than enough gold to curb any famine. So three, their faith in the Praetorship shall remain steadfast. Lastly, it honors the Praetor's late son, my brother. This shall prove you to Father that you have his best interest." Seeing a faint smile on his mother's lips, he sulked at the thought that he had fallen within the same range as a jackanape, well-dressed and well-fed only to be flaunted around for coins.
"Lord Uranus," Augustus bowed. "Taller and sharper than the last time, as always."
He snorted, "You've flattered me."
"Flattery indeed," Mother chimed in with a scoff. "While he has a point about proving loyalty to my husband, which I'm sure you'd agree with, the more pressing questions remain: Will he buy it? And is there any other use we can make out of the Pyrrhic finals besides a display of munificence?"
"You mean to win the bet?" Augustus gazed up. "Correct me, my lady, but I distinctly remember your advice against my grooming a candidate for the Favorite."
"I did." Pursing her lips, Mother favored him with a brisk nod. "However, that's before the imbecile Legidus went all in, betting on the Underdog. By sticking strictly to the Pyrrhic rules, Lorenzo means to vow his allegiance to my husband. You need his vow to mean nothing."
Dracus cocked an eye. "But Mother," he said, whirling toward her. "Lord Lorenzo has saved—"
Laelia flipped her arm for him to shut it.
He tried.
"Luckily, Julius has maintained a cordial relationship with mercenaries over the years," Augustus went forth, his eyes perching on Dracus for a moment the length of a pulse. "There shouldn't be any problem having them as our candidates for the Favorite."
"Who's said anything about the mercenaries?" Laelia rose to her feet and proceeded to Augustus, a heady scent of sandalwood tailing her. "Leave alone their questionable allegiance, the Underdog is a trained pugilist this year. This is not a usual Pyrrhic fight, my dear Augustus. In this case, we shouldn't be playing by the same rules. I dare say the Renanians are game for some changes."
Dracus stifled a shudder. All the ploys to lay ruins, imagine what they could have accomplished with all the mind and work! Reflecting wryly, he snuck a glance at Mother. A short sigh puffed his cheeks. He must get out of here.