Pyp, Olympia, and Koisis sat on straw pallets and Potita’s blankets.
Olympia chewed the olives, tangy white cheese and fresh bread with great relish. “It will have to be simple. Simple and quick. And easy.”
“Might as well add ‘impossible,’ ” grumbled Koisis.
“I have been thinking and it may not be as impossible as you think,” Olympia said, optimism buoying her spirits. It made her look younger despite the silver streaks that wove through her night-black hair, the creases in her face from months of imprisonment. “It will be hard though, so perhaps ‘easy’ should be removed as a qualification for a plan.”
The light of a half-lit moon filtered languorously through the slim vents in the cellar. Realizing that the illumination would be meager, Potita had grudgingly supplied oil and lamps, which cast nearly as many shadows on the packed earth floor as they dispelled.
Looking at the shadows, Pyp’s back prickled and he snuggled closer to his mother. Her very real warmth won out over lurking imaginary threats. Sleepily, he nodded in accordance with each person’s point. His long tunic covered him snugly and Pyp was not long for the world of the awake.
“What do you propose, Domina?” asked Koisis, handing Olympia a cup of water.
Drinking deeply, she considered the sheer impossibility of what they would soon attempt.
“Caesar.”
Pyp and Koisis looked at her blankly.
“Julius Caesar,” she clarified. “He ruled the Empire. Created the seed which made Rome an Empire. He was the most powerful man in the world. He was not killed by a large army of an invading foreign power. He was not killed in battle. He was killed by a small group of men in his palace. By assassination.” Her arm curled protectively around Pyp’s drowsing form. It was also the same manner in which Lucretius had died, a dagger through the ribs in the middle of battle, but she did not say that. “He will not be expecting retaliation. He will expect us to flee. It is that which is our advantage.
Surprised approval crossed Koisis’ face—the look many a man’s face adopts when a woman speaks with what they view as good sense. “Domina, that just may work. It will be difficult for me but I am certain I can do it. Who has more experience with knives in Portus Tarrus than me?” he added with a grim chuckle.
Shaking her head, Olympia corrected Koisis with the softness, the silkiness of a knife cutting through tender meat. “I am afraid you are mistaken friend. Avaritus is mine.”