***
Egerius had expected things to be more sensible back in the heart of the city; even though the stoa was dripping, the drainage channels had held up well, the agora was largely free of rain. But when he got back to the house, he found Gaius sitting weeping in the atrium; Gaius, the solid, immovable Gaius, that great rock of a man, weeping.
He couldn't at first make out what had happened. "My grandfather," Gaius was saying, and hugging himself, and he thought perhaps Gaius' grandfather had died; but wasn't Gaius too old? Wouldn't his grandfather have died years ago? Then he realised Gaius was hugging something to himself; some pottery shard, it looked like, something broken, anyway.
"All my family. Gone, all gone."
"Your wife? You heard from Rome?"
"No, no, not my wife – my family. All gone. All smashed."
Egerius held Gaius to him, broad shoulders, close-cropped head. He couldn't hope to understand.
"Not your wife? Not your children?"
"Worse." And this, really, Egerius couldn't understand; worse than his wife and children being killed? What could be worse?
Gaius wrenched himself upright. "My ancestors. My household gods. My forefathers, all destroyed, every one."
He shoved the thing he'd been holding at Egerius. A fragment of a wax mask; one eye, the nose, a broad smooth expanse of forehead, nothing more. The eye had lost its iris; only the dark hole of the pupil bored into the wax seeemed to stare fixedly.
"You can remake them, surely? They're only wax."
Gaius flushed darkly. "Look" – he pointed at a piece of smashed wax on the dirty floor. Pieces of the masks had scattered everywhere; some sharp-edged portions of faces that could still be made out, some crumbled, half-melted pieces trodden into the dust. "My great-grandfather, who knew Romulus, who fought against the Sabines. Gone. Gone forever."
As Egerius stepped forwards to take a closer look, he felt the sole of his boot crushing something, and stopped to look down. There was wax smeared where his foot had been, pressed into the cracks between the stones. Gently he bent to pick up the one piece remaining, a half face whose forehead had been stove in by his tread.
"Who did it?"
"Your Persian boy."
"Why?"
Why indeed? Daryush had no reason to smash the masks. Was Gaius lying? But then what reason had Gaius for it?
"He was in my room. In my room, where I keep the masks in a chest; I was going to make them a shrine, when I brought my wife here, when I had my own house, but I never had the time... and now they're broken."
"They'd be broken if you'd made a shrine, too. It's not your fault... But Daryush is often in your room; he cleans the place. It's his job. Among others."
"He was holding them in his arms. Staring at them."
"And then?"
"I tried to stop him. He ran. He took them with him. He threw them..."
Gaius clenched his jaw; his throat jerked a couple of times as he fought down the emotion, like a man trying not to vomit. Egerius had seen him weep once; he wouldn't let that happen again.
"He was stamping on them, smashing them, shouting."
Egerius had Daryush called. The boy looked at him, his face impassive as it always was. Was there defiance behind those dark eyes?
"Daryush. I'm told you smashed the masks in Gaius' room."
The boy stared at him, unmoving.
"Answer me, Daryush. Did you smash them?"
"Yes."
He'd thought the boy would lie, would try to throw the blame on someone else, would refuse to answer. Or that he would snivel, look for pity, admit the crime with tears, fearfully. But he stood there, unflinching, defiant.
"You smashed them."
"Yes."
"Why on earth did you do that? I know Gaius isn't the easiest man to get on with – I know the Romans don't treat slaves as well as they might – but..."
"He worships them. They are his gods."
Gaius was about to interrupt, but Egerius held up his hand. "What has that got to do with it?"
"They are a lie. He is a servant of the Lie. They are only wax – wax that will soften and melt in the fire, the eternal fire."
"They are his gods, none the less. We have respect for each other's gods here."
"They are lies."
"Daryush, they are his gods."
"They are wax and wood and paint."
Egerius sighed. There was nothing more he could say. The boy would have to be whipped. He couldn't bear to do that himself; he'd have to hand over the responsibility to one of the other slaves. Or perhaps to Gaius? No, that wouldn't do; that would be altogether too personal. He clapped his hands to summon the servants.