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you all right?”
“Just a touch of the heat and dust, nothing to bother about,” Sergios said, and coughed again a bit more energetically.
“You are quite roseate,” said Flautens with a suggestion of a laugh. “Shall I have my slave fetch you some cheesed-cream? We keep it quite cool.”
Sergios shook his head even as he whooped out more strained coughs, his face growing livid. He tried to speak, but managed only a wheeze, then doubled over and vomited suddenly, his face and neck empurpling.
“Are you ill?” Flautens asked.
For an answer, Sergios jerked off the couch onto the floor, where he thrashed and convulsed, his body voiding spasmodically; the room began to reek. His eyes grew huge and seemed to start out of his head. For an instant he went rigid, then Sergios gave a short, ragged howl and lay still.
Flautens rose from his couch and clapped for his slave. “See this is disposed of without notice. No one is to know he’s dead. Say only that after the afternoon nap, he wanted the tepidarium so he could be relieved from the heat.” He was wiping his hands on the linen cloth the slave handed him. “Take his freeman’s ring from his finger, so I have something to show to Gnaccus Tortulla’s messenger. He will want proof that Sergios is dead.”
“That I will,” said the slave, who was the custodian of the house. He bent to work the ring off the first finger of his right hand.
“And tell the household slaves, when they clean this room, that Sergios suffered a violent attack of indigestion and has gone to lie down.”
“They might not believe it,” the slave warned as he gave the ring to Flautens. “Slaves sometimes gossip.”
“No matter; they will not learn of his misfortune,” said Flautens, moving away from the body. “And get rid of the honied fruit. Make sure none of the livestock or poultry can get to it. There’s enough poison in that bowl to bring down a horse.” He handed a small dish to the slave. “And wash this yourself, so that no one will suspect that I didn’t share everything he ate. Use one of the troughs.”
“I’ll seal the remaining fruit in a jar and put it in the back of the wood-room behind the bath.”
“A very good notion. All it can poison there is rats.” Flautens sighed. “You’ll have to hide him for now.”
“I know. I can’t dispose of him permanently until after dark,” said the slave. “But he has to be hidden until nightfall.”
“Where can we conceal him?” Flautens asked furtively.
“In the rear of the creamery, in the drainage ditch,” the slave reminded him. “But he’ll have to be moved soon—the heat will add to the stink, and even if I wrapped him in a hide, he could be discovered.”
Flautens nodded. “True enough. And his escort will want to know what has become of him, come evening.”
The slave went and closed the door leading into the atrium, putting the brace into position so that it could not be opened. “Yes, I will say he has been feeling unwell. By morning he will have vanished.”
“Is there any way to put him into the midden?” Flautens asked suddenly, the idea only now occurring to him. “No one will notice the smell, not with the two dead pigs in it. And they won’t want to poke into it.”
“It might be more difficult than the original plan, at least until nightfall. The barnyard is active all day.”
“If you can arrange it, that would be a good solution,” said Flautens. “Better than the potters’ kiln, which I had thought of before.” 
“The potters are keeping near the kiln, and they might notice the odor of burning flesh,” the slave reminded him. “But the midden will be unattended after the convivium. I will double him over in the ditch so that when he stiffens, he will fit into the midden when I move him into it.” He went to the far corner of the room and pulled a rolled blanket from under the serving-ware chest, and brought it back to Sergios’ corpse, where he laid it down clear of the