Etruscan Blood by AM Kirkby

  ***

  The end of the party was a protracted, shambolic affair. A few of the guests were still dancing in an unsteady line between the tables; every so often one of them would knock a cup or a dish to the ground and the smash would be greeted by cheers or groans, and once by a yelp as one reveller stood barefooted on a piece of broken crockery. One or two lay snoring on couches, while a couple of the younger men were leaning together for mutual support, looking ill as if they'd gone straight from drinking into hangover with nothing in between. A clutch of women were arguing vociferously in one corner; they sounded serious, but you couldn't hear what they were talking about - it could have been anything, from democracy (that wild new Greek idea) to the himation (another wild new Greek idea) and how to wear it.

  The general held a hand out. “If the master would deign to assist the general,” he said. Almost everyone else had tired of that joke now, but the general never did, and somehow, Master loved him for it. He was helping the general up when he heard a ragged shout behind him; one of the dancers had managed to turn a table over, and everyone else had fallen over it, or each other.

  “Time to go,” he said, and the general gave a sort of snort agreeing with him, or perhaps it was just a belch only half suppressed.

  He realised, as the general's weight pulled on his shoulder, that the toasts had got him thoroughly soaked. They said the general could hold his drink, but not tonight, he couldn't. He bent to boost the general up, hooking the older man's arm round his shoulders, matching his slower pace.

  “Did she talk about... tactics again?” The general's breath came heavily, as if he'd been running hard.

  “No. Politics.”

  “Tell me tomorrow.”

  He got the general to his bed, and sat beside him for a moment, supporting his sagging body. His breath smelt of stale wine. The general raised a hand, felt uncertainly for the boy's arm, grasped his wrist.

  “You know who she is, of course...”

  He dribbled a little on to the pillow.

  “Dear boy. You were...”

  The general's grasp relaxed, and his hand fell back on the bed. He was asleep.