Roman Holiday Read Online Free PDF

taking names. Everyone present would be minutely examined. And not in a pleasant way. We’d given false names and an address that wouldn’t stand up to any sort of close examination, let alone the stringent enquiries about to be made. The chances of us being allowed to depart were non-existent. We were in some very serious trouble. We would be arrested and taken away and once they split us up, there would be no hope of rescue. We’d be tortured and if we survived that, we’d be executed. Or crucified. Or sent to the arena. We had to get out of here.
    It had happened in one of two ways. She’d either spotted us as impostors and recognised an opportunity to implement her plan and place the blame on legitimate targets; or – and I felt badly about this – I’d insulted her and this was her revenge. She genuinely thought we’d come to visit her – that someone was actually paying her some attention – and then I’d looked away as Cleopatra entered the room. Just as everyone else had done. And the insult had been just one too many.
    And suppose she’d succeeded. Suppose Cleopatra died before Caesar. What then? No Mark Anthony. No Battle of Actium … No suicide by – ironically – asp bite.
    And if Cleopatra had died today, what of Caesar? Suppose her death put him on his guard to such an extent that the assassination on the Ides of March either failed or never took place at all. Suppose Caesar was declared king of Rome. With his son Caesarion to succeed him. How much would that have changed History? The implications were breathtaking.
    Were we meant to be here? To prevent a murder?
    Possibly. And now it was a very good idea not to be here. But how we were to get out was anyone’s guess. I didn’t think we were under suspicion – yet. The little misunderstanding was being ironed out. Peterson was talking, his face calm and untroubled, and Markham was being pulled to his feet. But everyone in this room would be investigated and we needed to depart.
    I caught Van Owen’s eye. She nodded.
    I gave a sudden, hoarse cry and clutched my chest.
    ‘Quickly,’ called Van Owen. ‘Quickly. My aunt. Her heart. Please help her.’
    They did.
    I was supported to a chair. Wine was pressed upon me. On the grounds that I deserved it, I drank the lot. Believe me, there are huge advantages to living in a society that believes women are delicate and fragile creatures, unable to withstand even the smallest shock. I rolled my eyes, groaned, panted, clutched my chest and everything else I could think of. It was a powerful performance, if I do say so myself.
    By now, Caesar had assumed control of the situation. He murmured briefly to Cleopatra who gracefully but swiftly left the atrium, surrounded by her retinue. He issued a series of crisp instructions and the excited gabble subsided. Finally, he approached Peterson and I could see the two of them discussing what best to do. If they offered me a room here then we were sunk.
    Never once did he glance at his wife or express any concern for her wellbeing. As far I as I was concerned, the bastard deserved everything he got.
    Peterson, however, was adamant I would be more comfortable in my own home.
    ‘Everyone knows where we live,’ he was declaring, confidently. ‘The Street of Six Vines behind the smaller Temple of Juno. Just ask for my house. Anyone can point it out.’
    Never buy a used car from an historian.
    He became confidential.
    ‘She often has these turns. They are getting worse. One day …’ he paused, significantly. ‘She’s not getting any younger.’
    And he wasn’t going to be getting any older. Directly we were safe, he was going to die. Slowly and painfully.
    Caesar, however, appeared to have bought it. We were the people who’d foiled the plot, after all.
    Someone was sent to organise our chair. Since no more wine appeared to be forthcoming, I allowed myself to be helped to my feet.
    Our old-fashioned conveyance awaited, exuding enough respectability to