The next day Thomasus the Syrian arrived. He came in wheezing. "How are you, Martinus? I didn't want to miss all the excitement, so I came up from Rome. Brought my family along."
That meant something, Padway knew, for Thomasus' family consisted not only of his wife and four children, but an aged uncle, a nephew, two nieces, and his black house slave Ajax and his wife and children.
He answered: "I'm fine, thanks. Or I shall be when I catch up on my sleep. How are you?"
"Fine, thanks. Business has been good for a change."
"And how is your friend God?" Padway asked with a straight face.
"He's fine too—why, you blasphemous young scoundrel! That will cost you an extra interest on your next loan. How's the election?"
Padway told him. "It won't be as easy as I thought. Thiudegiskel has developed a lot of support among the conservative Goths, who don't care for self-made men like Wittigis and Urias. The upper crust prefer an Amaling by birth—"
"Upper crust? Oh, I see! Ha, ha, ha! I hope God listens to you. It might put Him in a good humor the next time He considers sending a plague or a quake."
Padway continued: "And Thiudegiskel is not as stupid as one might expect. He'd hardly arrived before he'd sent out friends to tear down my posters and put up some of his own. His weren't much to look at, but I was surprised that he thought of using any. There were fist-fights and one stabbing, not fatal, fortunately. So—you know Dagalaif Nevitta's son?"
"The marshal? By name only."