The Dreams of Morpheus(18)

A damp cloth, warm and fragrant, dabbing his brow brought him back. For a while he did not open his eyes, content to enjoy the sensation of being cleansed.

‘What did you think?’ Terentius whispered.

What did he think? He cast his mind back: the images, the colours, the acts, the abandon, the release, the pleasure; all as he had never experienced before. ‘Well, it weren’t natural and yet it seemed to come so easy, if you take my meaning?’

‘I do, Magnus; and now do you see how so much money could be made out of this?’

‘Fortunes.’ Magnus opened his eyes; Terentius was dressed and his hair pulled back into a ponytail. ‘But I doubt that you’d be able to afford even one tablet.’

‘How much are they each?’

‘I don’t know exactly, but more than gold. I’m going to—’ He sat up and looked around; early light crept in through the window. ‘What time is it?’

‘Halfway through the first hour of the day.’

‘Shit! Where are my clothes? And get me one of the tablets. Are Marius and Sextus still here?’

Terentius handed Magnus his tunic, belt and loincloth. ‘Yes, I’ve had them woken and they’ve been served breakfast.’

‘Served breakfast? They don’t have time for that.’

Within moments Magnus had dressed, strapped on his sandals and, with a tablet wrapped in sackcloth under his arm and Terentius following behind, was walking at a rapid pace through the garden. ‘Come to the tavern at dusk and I’ll have a reasonable idea as to how much the tablets are worth; meanwhile you work out how much you think you can make from each one; then we’ll know whether it’s viable.’

‘I’ll be there,’ Terentius confirmed as they passed through into the atrium.

‘No time for that, lads,’ Magnus said, grabbing a hunk of bread from the table at which Marius and Sextus were breaking their fast in delightful company. ‘We’re almost late.’ He hurried on through the room and into the vestibule. Postumus opened the door and Magnus stepped out into the street with his brothers following. As he headed at a brisk walk towards the Caelian Hill and the meeting at the House of the Moon in the stonemasons’ street, he addressed Marius and Sextus without looking at them. ‘I think it would be best all round if we didn’t mention where or how we spent last night.’

Finding the House of the Moon had been easy, with a carving above the door of Luna, the divine embodiment of the moon, cloak billowing behind her in the shape of a crescent moon as she rode in her oxen-drawn chariot. What had not been easy was concentrating on business and Magnus found his mind wandering as he sat opposite a brown-skinned man in his thirties with a thin face and lips, a sharp nose and tight curly black hair; Egyptian, Magnus had assumed when the man introduced himself as Menes.

Menes sniffed the tablet and looked across the table at Magnus, his dark eyes glinting with barely restrained greed. ‘How many these you say your patron had, my friend?’

Magnus hauled his attention away from some vivid images of the night before and focused on one of the two thickset bodyguards standing behind the Egyptian. ‘I didn’t.’

Menes grinned in a manner that totally failed to convey any charm or warmth. ‘So, my friend, how much you want for this?’

Magnus took a moment to register the question. ‘Offer me a price.’

‘How can I make an offer when I don’t know how much is for sale? If I take a lot you make me special price.’

‘There is no special price, my friend; whoever makes the highest offer gets to purchase as much as they want at that price. No discounts, understand?’

Menes’ grin widened into an obnoxious leer, which, by his manner, he evidently deemed to be a winning smile. ‘My friend, I make you good offer: three thousand denarii a tablet.’

Magnus almost choked with shock at such a high figure, but managed to transform it into a growl of indignation and, grabbing the tablet from Menes, pushed back his chair. ‘If you start so low, then I’ve wasted my patron’s time in coming here.’

Menes was on his feet quickly, his hands in the air, palms towards Magnus, laughing, cold and forced. ‘My friend, my friend, I see you are serious man of business; sit, please, sit, we have wine?’

‘No wine, Menes,’ Magnus said, pulling his chair back to the table, ‘and no jokes, just the right price.’

‘Yes, yes, right price.’ Menes sat down again and made a show of thinking for a few moments. ‘Three thousand, five hundred denarii.’

‘That’s enough of this nonsense.’ Magnus got to his feet, toppling his chair.