by Marilyn Todd
The young woman’s nose wrinkled. ‘I don’t want your trinket, you verminous little man.’
Their eyes met momentarily and hers looked away first. When she spoke, her voice was softer. ‘You can take this, if you like.’ She nodded to one of the slaves, a black man, who offered a water flask by its leather strap held at arm’s length.
Melinno’s eyes blinked his understanding. He were a fool to think gentry’d have him, and were grateful beyond words for the water. As he leaned forward to take the canteen, the mules already being chivvied, he heard a cat snarl and a soothing voice saying:
‘It’s all right, poppet, our kittens won’t catch anything nasty from him.’
*
Claudia yawned and massaged her ankle where her left foot had gone to sleep. Junius was riding on the buckboard with the driver, an extra pair of eyes to watch for bandits, leaving Claudia with the other three bodyguards in the back. Safety was not a problem. She yawned again and rubbed her eyes. Dammit, she hadn’t slept a wink all night. Not that she was jealous of Tanaquil bunking up with Orbilio. Good heavens, no. Those images of writhing limbs and sweat-soaked bodies which kept her awake were mere irritants, nothing else. Who cared what they got up to?
All the same, if Fancypants was such a hot-shot lover, how come Tanaquil had been uncharacteristically silent all day? She, who wouldn’t talk for five minutes when half an hour would do, had done nothing but hold her head in her hands since boarding the wagon. Orbilio, of course, true to his word, had set off at daybreak on Tanaquil’s horse, so Claudia got no clues from that quarter.
Her own progress, meanwhile, consisted of one delay after another. First came the legion on the march, clanking six abreast, bronze greaves dazzling in the morning sunshine and there was a slight argument in which the wagon drive put the case for pulling off at the approaching post station and Claudia put the case against, followed by a full-blown argument when Claudia put the case for skinning the wagon driver and he put the case against.
The cavalry, protecting the baggage, led the van followed by the legates and the tribunes and the prefects and the escorts, a myriad of scarlet cloaks swinging in unison. Then came the eagle bearer and the standard bearers wearing their animal skins, wolf and lion and leopard, followed by ten thousand crunching hobnail boots. Finally the doctors, the secretaries, the blacksmiths and the orderlies brought up the rear. Somewhere, too, were the musicians—horn blowers, drummers, trumpeters.
The sound was not dissimilar to a million bronze sieves and saucepans being repeatedly dropped from a great height, yet in years to come, the master of this particular post station would swear, hand on heart, that he had witnessed a miracle. The 8th Legion had filed past in silence, he swore. All anyone could hear was the heated argument between one young noblewoman and her driver.
To Claudia’s disgust, the sun had moved considerably across the heavens before the last orderly had jangled off and Tanaquil still had her face buried in her handkerchief. Well, let’s be accurate here, it wasn’t her handkerchief, was it? It was a patrician handkerchief, and one could only hope he had something infectious to pass on.
Clambering back on board, she thought of that dungbeetle Varius. Attractive as it seemed, it was no use having him turn up in the river with a blade between his ribs, she’d be prime suspect—and anyway, who could she trust? Junius, she knew, would give his life for her. Which was not the same thing as taking one for her.
For some strange reason, instead of staying in Agrigentum to sort the problem out, here she was, trotting back to Sullium and making as much headway as a sleepy slug on an oiled pole. Shortly after the cohorts had marched past, they were delayed by some filthy tramp with a bleeding knee trying to cadge a ride, if you please. On the face of it, she ought to have sent him away with a flea in his ear (although he probably had a whole nestful of them there already), yet there was that momentary flicker when his eyes held hers and she saw, not the drunken beggar, but the young artisan he once was—straight of spine and keen of eye—and in that brief flash of communication, she had wondered what circumstances had reduced him to this pathetic level.
Claudia had encountered many beggars in her time. They clotted round city gates like flies on a sore and sometimes you dropped copper and sometimes you didn’t. But they never expected you to look in their eyes, and thankfully you never were tempted.
That, though, was mid-morning—yet here, two hours on and the far side of Sullium, the wagon was once more at a standstill! Goddamit, was there no justice?
Claudia nudged the canvas aside, more for air than the view, yet it was the view which startled her. They were on the western highway, less than a mile from where the road to the Villa Collatinus branched off, giving a fine view of Eugenius’s estate.
Had she really been gone only three days? It had changed out of all recognition!
The blue of the African Sea was as bright as ever and sparkling like glass, and the red tiles and white walls of the villa itself still shone like gemstones on a granite slab. You could even see the tops of the birch grove where Acte had met her fate, and the serpentine trail that was the short-cut she had taken the day she found Sabina. Then it had been the epitome of solitude and rural tranquillity. Today it swarmed with life.
Sheep, hundreds of them, had been brought down from the hills and packed into hastily erected pens. Shepherds who, for most of the year, were tough, self-sufficient, solitary creatures, clustered together with their fellow shepherds and the sea breeze carried the bleating and the pan pipes and the gossip and the laughter, even at this distance. Closer to the building, and more curiously still, half a dozen cows were gathered in a smaller pen, gormless creatures with dewlaps flapping, horns glinting, brushing away flies with a desultory swish of the tail. The occasional low filtered up, a baritone among the bleating sopranos.
Claudia decided the delay had gone on long enough. Small clouds of dust rose from her feet as she walked round the cart. There was a strong smell of wild celery in the air, and rosemary and spurge. She stretched her arms, stiffened after the journey. ‘What’s the problem?’
Junius pointed. ‘The old man,’ he said. ‘Said he was here first, he’s too old to shift, and the driver can’t move over because of the camber.’
Typical, she thought. He gives way to a couple of soldiers and then refuses to help an old man.
‘I’m going uphill, I’ve got right of way.’
‘You’ve got no rights, you stubborn old sod, shove off.’
Seven donkeys, laden with baskets bursting with seaweed the old man had collected to enrich his exhausted patch of soil, stood mournfully in the middle of the road, while pack-man and driver traded insults. They had just reached the stage where their mothers’ sexual proclivities were being aired when Claudia tossed a denarius into the seaweedy air. Instantly the old man’s eyes homed in on the silver and a claw swooped down. Faster than you could say ‘That’ll buy one week’s meat and grain for a month’, the denarius had disappeared and five of the donkeys were already treading grass. Not so difficult, was it?
Claudia had hardly got herself comfortable when she heard the driver shout, ‘Whoa!’ and felt the mules slow down.
‘Now what?’ She jumped from the wagon and marched to the front. She would have a word with Eugenius, really she would, leaving a man like this in charge of a vehicle. He was incompetent. Downright dangerous in fact, and she was in the middle of telling him how she would have him roasted on a spit with artichokes and lovage when Junius butted in.
‘I think he’s trying to tell you the rider has signalled us to stop.’
‘What rider?’
‘You can’t see him from down there,’ the driver replied with no small amount of satisfaction, and magnanimously offered her a hand up.
Tempted to snatch the whip out of his hand and beat him to a pulp with it, Claudia refrained. The buckboard was narrow and uncomfortable, but you sure could see well. A rider was pushing his horse hard up the incline, head bent forwar
d, as the hooves kicked up swirls of umber. She could only surmise, because the driver seemed to understand it, that his frantic arm-waving was some sort of recognized signal to halt. Reining in his horse, as handsome a grey as you got on this island, the rider became visible through the subsiding dust clouds.
‘Good grief, it’s the cavalry.’
Marcus Cornelius Orbilio gave a mock salute and shook the hair out of his eyes. A small, powdery halo formed and was quickly dispersed by the salt air. A second rider was hard on his heels, and Orbilio greeted him with surprise:
‘Linus?’
‘Marcus.’ As an afterthought, Linus turned to acknowledge Claudia. ‘Have you told her yet?’ His eyes, shining, were back on Orbilio.
‘No. Look, I’d be obliged—’
‘But it’s great news,’ Linus said, his face splitting into a grin. ‘We’ve caught him.’
‘Who?’ Claudia asked, aware that Tanaquil had left the wagon and was standing wringing her hands. Was this for Orbilio’s benefit or for Linus?
‘My sister’s murderer,’ Linus said, attempting to cover his baldness with his gingery hair. ‘We’ve got him, it’s all over.’ He manoeuvred his horse into a victory circle. ‘Isn’t that great?’
She glanced at Orbilio. He clearly didn’t think great was the word, and she could see what had happened. Collatinus was holding Utti prisoner and proud of it, a scapegoat to hold up to the world, and until he brought down higher authority, Eugenius was milking it to the full. He would know, as Orbilio would know (and indeed had probably told him till he turned purple), that it would never get to trial without evidence, and this wouldn’t bother Collatinus. He’d be getting enough publicity to last his great-grandchildren’s lifetimes. The Security Police had got nowhere, the local magistrates not even as far as that. He would be a hero, and when the real killer was caught, he could hold his hands up and cry, well, he was an old man, what do you expect, and Utti would…
Aha! Yes, Utti would also be a hero. Claudia began to see Tanaquil’s angle. Cunning little bitch, she’d been planning this all along. Those powers of hers, off-key and infrequent as they were, had served her well here, because when Utti walked free, everyone on the island would want to watch him wrestle. Coins would change hands, his fame would spread, they would move to Rome, where greater denominations would change hands. Claudia took her hat off to the redhead. She did know how to make a packet out of the Collatinuses—and without them coughing up one single copper quadran of their own. She looked at Tanaquil out of the corner of her eye, face hidden behind a white, linen blob. A white, patrician, linen blob.
She had taken so long in answering Linus that he was guiding his horse on a vociferous celebratory canter round the wagon, much to the driver’s annoyance. It was getting his mules’ rag up and, as we all know, when it comes to mules, rags don’t have very far to travel.
‘You’re talking about Utti, I presume?’
Linus seemed to have lost interest in Claudia and was asking Marcus whether he fancied coming to the pothouse tonight. Orbilio, she noticed, was trying to speak with his eyes to Claudia while answering with his mouth to Linus. Neither communication seemed to be getting through.
‘Giddy-up,’ she told the driver, squeezing herself between him and Junius, ‘let’s get these nags some hay.’ Linus was whistling, at least she presumed that’s what it was meant to be, as he wheeled his horse round. ‘Race you back, Marcus.’
Orbilio hadn’t moved. His gaze was directed straight at her now. Claudia felt a blast of cold, intuitive air. It wasn’t Utti at all. Holy Mars, they’d collared Diomedes! You bastard, she thought. You cold-blooded, calculating bastard. False imprisonment for a physician would ruin his career, he’d be begging on the streets within a year. Eugenius would turn him out, innocent or not, because mud sticks, even when you spread it yourself. And Supersnoop had let him do it. Correction, Supersnoop had actively encouraged it.
His gaze didn’t waver, neither did hers. An innocent man arrested for murder, because you see the doors of the Senate House opening in front of you. An innocent man ruined, because you can’t see beyond your own filthy ambitions.
As Linus galloped off, Claudia’s eyes ground into Orbilio’s. Well, if you can’t do your damned job, then I’ll bloody well do it for you. I’ll catch this pervert, Marcus Cornelius, and I’ll do it the only way I know how. I’ll set myself up as bait. I’ll have you looking so small, they’ll have to pick you up with tweezers. He inched his horse forward. ‘I’m sorry—’ he began.
By rights, ice should have formed on his eyelashes, snow should have fallen on his brow. Claudia’s glacial expression didn’t waver. This man didn’t know what sorry was. Yet!
His face was lined and drawn, his mouth pursed. The twinkle in his eye was reduced to a glint of pain. A stone mallet thudded into Claudia’s stomach. Oh no. Oh no, please, no…
‘What have you done to Diomedes?’ she asked stiffly.
His expression flickered. ‘Who?’
‘What?’ She was puzzled, too. ‘I’m asking what’s happened to Diomedes.’
Orbilio’s expression changed several times then hardened. He squared his shoulders before speaking. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, in a voice generally reserved for superior officers and inferior lowlife. ‘I thought you were interested in Utti.’
‘Utti?’ Tanaquil darted over and placed a hand on his knee. There was, Claudia noticed, no tunic covering that particular area of knee. ‘What about him?’
Orbilio covered her hand with his own, and Claudia felt a pang of something she couldn’t identify.
‘They’ve arrested him, haven’t they?’ Tanaquil made to run off, but Orbilio leaned down from his horse and held her back.
‘It’s worse than that,’ he said gently. ‘I am so sorry, Tanaquil.’ His face was twisted with pain. ‘Collatinus has impaled him.’
XXVI
Claudia did not know where to direct her anger.
From a hundred miles away she heard Tanaquil ask, ‘When?’ and Orbilio reply, ‘Yesterday, at dusk,’ then the sickening reality set in.
Utti. Impaled on a stake. A big man, a tough man, a fighter. Utti, who for those very reasons would have taken hours and hours to die. She imagined the scene, scores of slaves crowding round. Is he dead yet? Is he dead yet? Utti, the wrestler, with his great ham fists and his flattened nose and his cauliflower ears. Utti, the children’s favourite. Utti, impaled on a stake, roaring like a wounded bear, crying like the baby he really was. Alone. Frightened. Unable to comprehend.
Orbilio had dismounted and was doing his best to comfort Tanaquil, who stood as stiff and motionless as a statue. Junius, Kleon, the driver—everyone was open-mouthed and silent.
Claudia leaned against the great wheel of the wagon and was quietly, tidily, efficiently sick. Then, when the shaking subsided, the anger began to grow, intensifying, magnifying, getting hotter and hotter with each passing second until the volcano could contain it no longer.
She wanted to slap Tanaquil, tell her this was her fault, her stupid scams, her stupid brother, couldn’t she see where it would lead?
She wanted to pound her fists into Orbilio, tell him this was his fault, if he’d done his job properly, Utti would be alive and well and so what if it meant living in poverty, at least he’d be alive.
She wanted to shake Eugenius until his eyes rattled, tell him this was his fault, he should have consulted the magistrates, followed proper legal procedures instead of jumping to half-baked conclusions.
She wanted to scream at Aulus, Fabius, Linus, Portius, tell them this was their fault, why didn’t they challenge the old man for once, stuff the law which demands a father’s orders be obeyed, even at the expense of an innocent man.
But most of all, Claudia wanted to claw her fingernails down her arms and draw blood, to watch it drip into the dusty soil and turn brown and harden. This was not her fault, yet she could not rid herself of the guilt.
Before she even realized it, she was slith
ering down the slope towards the villa. Somewhere in the area—maybe in Fintium, maybe in Sullium—lived a man. A man who killed defenceless women, raping them while they lay paralysed, their lungs unable to supply the air they needed to breathe. A slow, agonizing death. The same man who now thought he had got away with it.
Well, he hadn’t. Not by a long chalk.
There was only the porter at the front gate, and Cerberus who came loping up, wagging his tail, straining on his chain to greet her. Claudia paused to rub his ears and pat his neck. It was sufficient time for Junius to catch up.
‘I didn’t realize you’d gone, madam.’ The words came out stilted because he was out of breath. Sweat poured down his forehead.
Claudia couldn’t speak, even if she wanted to. She wondered whether her face was as pale and pinched as his.
‘May I make a suggestion?’ Junius? Making a suggestion? Well, why not? ‘That you wait a bit before tackling Master Eugenius?’
She gave him a look that told him it was none of his business, but the young Gaul stared so earnestly that it clicked her brain back into action. And Claudia Seferius knew better than most that to succeed in this life, you follow the head, not the heart. And that sometimes it was hard.
She laid her hand on his arm and squeezed gently and didn’t speak. He was right. She had to separate grief from outrage and, to be in any way effective, to channel her anger in the right direction. Towards the man responsible for murdering Acte and Sabina.
It did not occur to her to ask the boy how he knew she intended to confront Collatinus.
*
You’d think nothing out of the ordinary had taken place. Slaves with buckets scrubbed the floors, polished the statues, dusted the tables, chairs and couches. A smell of sprats and cabbage and poached plums filtered through from the kitchen, and someone was singing a song to which Claudia sang different words. Marius and Paulus lay flat on their stomachs, prodding a wooden boat back and forth across the pool. Vilbia sat, tongue between her teeth in concentration, playing with her favourite knitted doll.