***
There was no time for pity that night, when she returned home from the Palatine. It was clear that Ancus Marcius was dying; equally clear that he was losing his connection with the real world, that the ghosts were already sucking his mind out of him, leaving the body hollow as a cut reed. He might die; and then they would have to shift for themselves.
“We'll wait then,” Lauchme said. “As long as it takes.”
“We might not have that long.”
“Gods! You're going to kill him?”
She was shocked. Lauchme had teased her about her political ambitions before now, called her ice-blood, calculatrix, but she'd never realised just how cold-blooded he thought she was. It hurt, and in that moment she flinched away from him, and it seemed she loved the wandering old man more than she'd ever loved Lauchme.
She shook her head. He didn't even deserve an answer.
“Why don't we have the time, then?”
“His mind's going. He saw his father today, Lauchme, saw his father in the air in front of him. You've seen him when he just goes blank; this was worse. Much worse.”
“Gods.”
“I can't be the only one to have noticed. Even if that was the first time he's had hallucinations.”
“Was it?”
“I don't know.” She realised her voice was high with frustration. “I suspect it may have been. No one's said anything. Though some people would keep it quiet.”
“Faustus would keep it quiet. Manius wouldn't.”
“I'm not so sure. But if he starts hallucinating in public...”
“All hell will break loose.”
“Never mind that. What's important is it would give Marcus Robur an excuse for taking over. No one would stop him.”
“Why doesn't he do it now?”
“As long as it's just the occasional fit of absentmindedness, Ancus Marcius might always recover. It can be hoped for.”
“You told me yourself he won't recover.”
“He won't. But remember, I see him every day. I know him. Others don't. As long as there's still hope, Robur has no chance. Once the king's known to be mad, we have what? At best, a day to get away.”
“Gods.”
She wished he'd stop saying that. “I do still keep the bags packed, if that's what you're worried about.”
He looked up. She saw how the skin under his eyes was dark and pouchy. He'd grown older, just as the king had.
“The answer is quite simple, you know.” Her voice sounded brittle and unconvincing, even to herself. Lauchme said nothing, didn't even raise an eyebrow to enquire. He must be tired, not to be interested. But she'd tell him anyway; she couldn't do everything herself. In Tarchna, maybe, where women played the game and politics was a mixed pursuit; not here in Rome.
“You just have to get Marcus Robur away from the city. Send him hunting, send him hawking, send him to war for all I care; just get him away from Rome.”