The hairy third to enslave the State
Shall be son, no son, of this hairy last
He shall be mud mixed well with blood
A hairy man that is scant of hair
He shall give Rome victories and defeat
And die to the gain of his son, no son -
A pillow shall be his sword.
09:00 27 May 2002
The Hyperion Hotel, Los Angeles
A woman's voice.
"Angel? Can you hear me?"
It felt like someone had dropped a bus on his head. He tried to open his eyes but the light was too bright and his eyelids too heavy. He gave up.
"I don't think he can hear us."
A warm hand touched his forehead and smoothed the hair from his brow. He could smell clean skin, and the faintest aroma of salsa.
"We should let him sleep it off. He needs his rest."
"I'll get back to researching."
"Wesley?"
"Hmmm?"
"Who's Darla?
Angel made the supreme effort and managed to make a gargling sound, open one eye and move his head an inch from the pillow.
"Angel! Wes, he's awake!"
After a few hours Angel was recovered enough to sit and tell them what had happened. Beyond a doubt, Augustus died of poisoning.
"And after he ate the figs he collapsed and never got up again. I watched him for two nights and he never recovered, just slipped away into oblivion."
Wesley consulted his notes. "Great! Now, the next one is..."
Angel gave him a dark look. "I would hardly describe it as, great, Wes."
"No." Wesley coughed, "That wasn't really what I meant."
Angel rubbed his eyes. "I know, sorry. My head feels like hell. Go on."
Wesley continued. "Tiberius. Not one of the most popular emperors. Died at an advanced age after a life of murder and debauchery. Supposedly suffocated while in his deathbed by Caligula, his adopted son."
"Right," Angel dragged himself upright. "Let's do it."
"Angel, you can't!" Fred protested. "You can barely stand up!" She put a hand on his chest and gave him the gentlest of shoves. He fell back onto the sofa. "See? You should sleep some more."
Angel began to argue, but his friends wouldn't hear him. Slowly, his words of protest faded and his eyes closed. Fred lifted his legs onto the sofa and ushered Wesley into the office. Then she came back to watch him while he slept.
21:00 27 May 2002
The Hyperion Hotel, Los Angeles
The lobby is dark and still, and silent; the only noises are my breathing, and Angel moving his limbs in his sleep. Wesley has taken one of the rooms upstairs and gone to catch a few hours himself.
I'm wide awake. I tell myself it's because I slept for so long a few nights ago, but actually, it has more to do with being here, with him. The man, the vampire, who sleeps on the sofa in front of me.
It's come as quite a shock, to find that I seem to have fallen in love with him. I didn't realise I was doing it and now I'm in the middle and I can't tell where or when I began.
I can't pinpoint the time or the place. I never got the chance to reason myself out of it. Maybe it happened when I was insane. Bad... bad... this is so bad.
I ask myself, aloud, "Why would he ever care about me?"
"Good question."
I spin around and face the intruder. A small woman. Beautiful face. Deep pink lips. Blonde hair. Slim, but at the same time, shapely. Fat legs, I think, spitefully. "Darla?"
"Instant recognition! That's... nice. Who're you?"
I back away towards Angel. "A friend."
She smiles. "It's nice to have friends. Not if they die of course. Then it's upsetting."
She must have come for the ring. The ring is in Angel's duster. The duster is on the sofa behind him. I edge around the sofa, my calves brushing the fabric.
"So, he figured it out. He went back."
"Yes." I reach the duster, and delve in the pocket for the ring. "We know what you're up to. And Angel's going to sort it out."
Darla laughs, "I'm sure of it."
I mutter the incantation under my breath. As I feel the ground give way beneath me, I lunge forward and shake Angel awake. He rises, and the last image I carry with me is Darla smiling at him as he rises from the couch.
Death of Tiberius, AD 37
The Imperial Residence, Rome
Feet, then voluminous robes, followed by dusty faces and raised fists.
Fred surfaced in the middle of a crowd; a heaving, baying mob. It seemed to move as a single entity, and she was being carried along, held up by the press of bodies on either side, her feet never touching the ground.
She was facing the wrong way. And dressed in jeans, and a t-shirt advertising the joys of drinking Coca-Cola. Fitting in was not going to be easy.
Fortunately, no-one was paying her any attention whatsoever. Eventually the people entered a large town square. The crowd thinned out and Fred found her feet and, stooping low, made her way to the back. Glancing over her shoulder, she could see a handsome young man with curly blonde hair, standing on an elevated platform at one end of the square. He was speaking to the crowd in an unintelligible language. All eyes were upon him and his words seemed to have a soothing effect on the mob. No-one seemed to notice her as she moved swiftly to the rear.
On the ground at the back of the crowd, lay a woman, face down in the dirt. Her robe was covered in dusty marks. Fred knelt and turned her over, finding her eyes were open and glassy. She was dead, trampled underfoot by the crowd moments before. Fred looked around sheepishly, and then unwrapped the woman gently from her robe.
"They're gonna cut my hands off for this. Or behead me and throw me down some steps. I can't quite remember which."
But no-one came. She covered herself from head to toe with the robe, and turned to observe the crowd and the speaker again.
He seemed to be relating a story. His hands moved in expressive gestures, and now and again he would walk from point to point, acting out some event for the crowd. They were entirely silent, until the speaker came to the end of his tale and raucous cheering broke out.
The speaker nodded to the crowd and accepted their adoration. Then he spoke again, indicating the building behind him. The crowd applauded again, and finished by saluting him, fists raised, as he turned and entered the building. The people didn't disperse. They merely melted to the side of the square, sank down on marble walls and under trees, and when these positions were filled, simply sat in the dust.
Clearly, whatever the crowd was in a stew about, it wasn't over yet. Fred picked her way around the edge of the square, and studied the building that had swallowed the speaker. An impressive entrance was guarded by imperial soldiers. A high wall enclosed the building and grounds on three sides. It seemed as if the front door was the only way in.
"Of course," Fred reflected, "If Angel were here he'd just climb something. Or move so quick those guys wouldn't stand a chance. Or break into Latin and fake his way in." She sighed. Here was a choice: she could either do something reckless and get killed, or go home and have to tell the guys she'd failed. She started up the steps.
As she approached the guards, a woman came out of the entrance and seized her by the arm.