Emperor: The Death of Kings E#2 by Conn Iggulden

love it now if it were run by the sort of men who ruled when I was a boy. They are all gone now, and when Rome calls, the little ones who are left can only run crying to me.” He belched suddenly, wincing, and as he did so Antonidus felt a worm of pain begin in his own gut. A sudden fear brought him to his feet, his glance falling to the bowls, one empty, one barely touched.
    “What is it?” Sulla demanded, pulling himself upright, his face twisting in the knowledge even as he spoke. The burning in his belly was spreading and he pressed his hand into himself as if to crush it.
    “I feel it too,” Antonidus said in panic. “It could be poison. Put your fingers down your throat, quickly!”
    Sulla staggered slightly, going down onto one knee. He seemed about to pass out and Antonidus reached toward him, ignoring his own smaller pain even as it swelled.
    He pushed a finger into the Dictator’s limp mouth, grimacing as a flood of slippery pulp vomited out of him. Sulla moaned, his eyes rolling back in his head.
    “Come on, come on, again,” Antonidus insisted, pressing his fingertips into the soft flesh of the inner throat. The spasms came, ejecting dark bile and saliva from the lips until the Dictator heaved dryly. Then the wrenching chest sagged and the lungs ceased to draw, emptying in one last wheezing breath. Antonidus shouted for help and emptied his own stomach, hoping through his fear that he had not taken enough to kill him.
    The guards were quick, but they found Sulla already pale and still and Antonidus semiconscious, spattered with a stinking broth of all they had eaten. He had barely enough strength to rise, but they were frozen, unsure without orders.
    “Fetch doctors!” he croaked, his throat feeling raw and swollen. The pain in his stomach began to level off, and he took his hand away, trying to gather himself.
    “Seal the house. The Dictator has been poisoned!” he shouted. “Send men to the kitchens. I want to know who brought this slop up here and the name of everyone who touched it. Move!” His strength seemed to leave him in that moment, and he let himself sag back onto the couch where he had been so peacefully discussing the Senate only minutes before. He knew he had to act quickly or Rome would erupt in chaos as soon as the news hit the streets. Once more he vomited, and when he was done he felt weak, but his mind began to clear.
    When the doctors rushed in, they ignored the general to tend to Sulla. They touched him at the wrist and neck and looked at each other in horror.
    “He is gone,” one of them said, his face white.
    “His killers will be found and torn apart. I swear it on my house and my gods,” Antonidus whispered, his voice as bitter as the taste in his mouth.
    *      *      *
    Tubruk reached the small door that led out to the street just as shouts erupted in the main buildings of Sulla’s city home. There was only one guard there, but the man was alert and ready, his face forbidding.
    “Get back on your way, slave,” he said firmly, his hand on his gladius. Tubruk growled at him and leapt forward, punching him off his feet with a sudden blow. The soldier fell awkwardly, knocked senseless. Tubruk paused, knowing he could step quickly over him, through the little trade entrance, and be gone. The man would recognize him and be able to give a description, though he could well be executed for failing to hold the gate. Tubruk took a grip on the despair that had filled him since killing Casaverius. His duty was to Cornelia and Julius—and to the memory of Julius’s father, who had trusted him.
    Grimly, he drew his small knife and cut the soldier’s throat, standing clear so as to avoid getting blood on his clothes. The man gurgled with the cut, his eyes clearing for a moment before death took him. Tubruk dropped the knife and opened the gate, stepping out onto the city streets and into the thin crowd of people and food stalls, walking their peaceful journeys