***
Postumus put his feet up on the couch and leant back, hands behind his head, feeling the muscles creak and pop as the tension left them. He steepled his fingers; the knuckles crackled. He sighed; it had been a hard few days, and now he was through with work, for the moment. Time to drink, and rest, and perhaps later spend some time with one of the Phoenician whores, or even two; he could afford it.
When Tanaquil's scheme worked, he would be well rewarded. She'd have to bring it forwards, of course - this new war on Tarchna complicated matters - but she had enough men well placed in Rome; the treasury was with her, the House of Vesta was with her, and a few hand-picked men in the army would see to it that Servius was left without support just when he needed it. Then it only needed the contingent coming down from the north, if Ramtha had done her work. He smiled happily as the thought crossed his mind that Tanaquil didn't even suspect he knew about that side of the plan; she wasn't always quite as clever as she thought she was.
He did wonder, though, what the young Vestal had to do with it all. Perhaps that was just a price that had to be paid to someone else in the alliance...
He was dozing, happily dreaming just what he might do to that henna-headed Phoenician, when a thin man appeared in the doorway, assessed the room quickly, walked up, and leant over Postumus, pushing a hand over his mouth and a dagger into his soft stomach. Postumus jerked up, half-awake, blinded with pain, and pushed his assailant to one side; the hand holding his mouth let go, but the killer kept a good hold on his dagger, pulling it through Postumus' flesh, and twisting as it went.
The man had rolled to his feet now, looking anxious, as if things had gone wrong; before he started to run Postumus recognised Tarquin, and saw, with sudden startling clarity, his own guts tumbling, iridescent, till the roaring in his ears crushed his thoughts into a purple haze.