“Well, it’s easy to see what the poor guy was trying to imply,” said Jake. “In the dying days of the Republic, the religion which had turned Rome into a superpower was neglected. Chaos ensued. But under Augustus and the emperors who followed, augury was embraced once again. Rome was reborn.”
“Then came the period known as the High Empire,” Florence interrupted. “The peak of power and achievement.”
Jake weighed the papers in his hands and sighed. “Do you get the feeling that, rather than a clue to the location of the brontoscopic calendar, I am in fact holding the prima facie evidence of one man’s descent into insanity?”
A moment passed. “I guess that’s about the size of it.”
Jake was suddenly aware of her physical proximity, how alone they were in the lobby. She inched towards him again until their upper arms were touching. Then without warning her head flopped onto his shoulder. Jake’s upper body went rigid. There was a tingling in his stomach. Was she upset about Britton? Or making a move?
They sat like that for a full minute as the rain pummelled down. Jake did nothing. He was aware of his own breathing, the rise and fall of his chest, raising and lowering Florence’s lovely head. All you have to do is kiss her. The realization pounded through Jake’s brain, yet he dared not move. Her breathing was getting lighter – he could barely hear it now, his neck was getting stiff.
Florence stirred. “You’re sure you’ve shown me all Roger’s notes? Absolutely everything?”
“Of course. I gave you the lot at the airport.”
Her eyes were wide open. “Really? If you forgot to show me something before, just tell me, Jake. I won’t be annoyed with you. I promise.”
She nuzzled his neck.
“Florence, I wouldn’t hold anything back from you.”
“No, I suppose you wouldn’t.”
She closed her eyes again, but the sleep seemed to have gone out of her. She wasn’t leaning into him as much. Her core was tensing, supporting itself.
“I have to go to bed,” she said.
And with that she was gone.
Jake stormed into his room. The alcohol high had turned sour and full of anger and he leaned on clenched fists, staring into the mirror.
All you had to do was kiss her.
All you had to do was kiss her and she was yours.
Jake retrieved the Laphroaig. He had barely touched it since arriving, but now he poured himself a treble, grimacing as he swallowed it in a gulp.
Why, why, why was he like this? What an affliction it was – the cruellest of all, or so it felt then. It meant more than lack of sex: it spelled lifelong loneliness. Jake poured another treble, necking it again. That was better. At least he could rely on the booze, a true friend in need. He was going to get roaring drunk. Again came the clink of glass, the gurgle of whisky. Jake raised his tumbler for the third time, the liquid shimmering invitingly in the glass. But he didn’t drink. His gaze had fallen on the small corner of white that protruded from his suitcase.
Eusebius.
Jake put down the glass and picked up the book. Florence had only warmed when his passion for history had revealed itself. And oh, how she had cooled earlier when he’d failed to provide her with anything new. He had to make the breakthrough.
Jake sat up straight – for once in his life he wasn’t going to respond to a setback by getting hammered. He poured the dram back inside the bottle and stared at Life of Constantine, willing the text to yield its secrets. This was the only complete book Britton had given them – it had to hold the key.
As Jake read something clicked in his brain.
The human mind amazed him. Where did a thought come from? How could the consciousness produce something tangible from thin air, like energy created from nothing? But the idea was in his head now, it wouldn’t go away. And each new chapter only reinforced his theory. A fierce joy surged through his veins as he put the whisky back in his suitcase and went to wake Florence.