by Marilyn Todd
The Digger knew this euphoria could not last.
That this feeling of contentment was a mirage.
Soon, there would be more blood spilled. Very soon.
The Digger prayed to Hercules for the strength to put off the inevitability for as long as humanly possible.
Thirty-Three
Butico’s two henchmen, Balven and Armenius, lodged in adjoining rooms over a tavern in what could only be described as a rough part of town. Stabbings in this dock-side quarter were routine. For money, for vengeance, for fun, who the hell knows? Bodies regularly rolled into the Tiber, no questions asked.
The tavern itself was long overdue demolition, the air round it rancid with river smells, rotting refuse, stale urine, vomit and smoke. Raddled whores lifted their skirts against the wall for no more than a goblet of cheap wine while, inside, the stench of long-unwashed bodies mingled with the smell of the greasy grey stew that bubbled away in the cauldron, and drunken laughter rattled the beams.
Claudia’s revenge on the scum from the slum had been easy and quick to arrange, requiring just one call on her old friend, Lulu. Sweeter still was the speed with which her plan was able to swing into effect.
‘Hello?’ The door to the rowdy tavern opened tentatively, and a pouting youth wearing rouge on his cheeks and kohl round his eyes popped his head through. ‘Is Armenius here?’ He was not, of course. Claudia had had Butico call his henchman away as part of the deal.
‘No?’ The boy put one long finger to unnaturally red lips. ‘Oh.’ He minced into a room which had fallen silent in shock and pouted some more. ‘Well, look. When he comes back, can you give him a message? Tell him I won’t be able to meet him at Lulu’s tonight after all.’
Lulu was a six-foot-two retired gladiator, famous for his double thrust and parries in the arena, and for running a string of pretty rent boys near the Forum. He also ran an infamous male brothel off Tuscan Street that specialized in sadomasochism.
‘I’ve got to visit my auntie, she’s sick,’ he said, adding brightly, ‘But you can tell him I’ll be there tomorrow, as usual.’
He blew a kiss to his astonished audience and departed, chucking a burly stevedore under the chin as he passed. Another time and they’d have had a field day with the lad. Tonight they couldn’t believe it.
‘Armenius?’
‘It’s a wind-up,’ someone with a scar said. ‘Innit?’
They weren’t sure. Hadn’t Armenius come home nursing a head wound the other day, and refused to say how he got it?
‘Nah.’ After an hour’s discussion, they dismissed it. A wind-up. Someone having a joke.
But the next stranger was neither effeminate nor pretty, and he had to duck to get under the lintel. ‘Where is he, the fat bastard?’ He strode across to the stairs. ‘Oi, Balven! You up there?’
He grabbed the tavern keeper by his tunic and glowered into his face. In a world where might is undeniably right, a lot of drinkers noticed how easily he lifted the tavern keeper off the ground and decided to make themselves scarce. If they wanted trouble, they made it themselves.
Besides, his face looked kind of familiar…
‘Where’s Balven, you little shit?’
‘Out.’
‘Yeah?’ The giant shook the tavern keeper like a doll. ‘Where?’
‘I d-don’t know. He doesn’t t-tell me where he goes.’
The giant dropped his charge.
‘Well, tell him when he comes back, he owes me money.’ He pulled a shining scimitar out of its sheath and held it against the tavern keeper’s throat. ‘And you can remind him what happens when Lulu doesn’t get paid.’
Lulu! The gladiator with the string of pretty rent boys who runs the bawdy house off Tuscan Street!
‘You c-can rely on me,’ the tavern keeper croaked. ‘G-gods’ honour.’
‘Good.’ Lulu sheathed his scimitar. ‘Oh, yeah. One other thing.’
He drew out a floaty female undergarment from inside his jerkin.
‘Remind the scatterbrained berk not to leave his knickers behind next time.’
*
‘Leonides.’
Claudia thought she’d wear out the mosaic in her office from pacing.
‘Leonides, when Orbilio comes back, give him this.’
She’d toyed with the idea of summarizing on parchment her visits to the three victims who had been able to irrefutably identify the rapist. Precis the main points as to why she’d come to the conclusion she had, and the evidence she had to support it. In the end, she wrote just one word on the wax tablet. The bastard’s name.
‘Immediately,’ she added.
‘I understand, madam.’
Leonides would not let her down. Never had. But to be on the safe side, she’d left another note in Orbilio’s room and sent a messenger to his house. There was nothing more she could do, and she had gnawed her fingernails to her elbows wondering where he could have got to. Suppose he’d arrested another false suspect? It would destroy him. What if Deva, or one of the other victims, had been pushed over the edge by further interrogation? That would destroy him, as well.
Marcus, Marcus, where the devil are you? Why don’t you come home?
Home ?
The word brought a pain to her stomach. This wasn’t his home. Never would be. He might have made himself at home here, but that would be part of the softening process, using the rapist as a pretext for another case, two birds with one criminal stone. Originally, he’d used her as bait to hook Butico, but with his star witness mysteriously missing, a fraud was a fraud was a fraud. Never underestimate the power of results when a man wants a seat in the Senate. Seeing Cupid’s arrows hit all the wrong targets had done nothing to make her feel better.
‘Are you wise to go out this late, madam?’ Leonides asked mildly, even though he knew he was wasting his breath. Wisdom and Claudia were not soulmates. But as he raised his hand to summon his mistress’s bodyguard, Claudia stopped him.
‘They stay where they are,’ she insisted. ‘Inside, guarding the exits.’
The colour drained from her steward’s face. ‘You can’t go out alone.’
‘Silly me, Leonides. I thought I was the one who decided who could and who couldn’t do what in this house. Hand me my wrap.’ She waited. And waited a little bit longer. ‘Leonides,’ she warned.
Besides. She wouldn’t be alone. Unless she missed her guess, a couple of large muscular types would prise themselves away from the walls where they were pretending to blend in with their surroundings and would follow. That was one good thing about the Security Police, she reflected, pulling her furs tight round her chin. You can always rely on one or the other of them to be on your tail.
‘Mind if I walk part of the way with you?’ Erinna asked. ‘Only since we’re performing on Saturnalia Eve, I’d like to soak up at least some of the festive atmosphere.’
Claudia was glad of the company. She had no particular destination in mind. Just felt caged indoors, waiting for footsteps that didn’t come, knowing that merely a few hours stood between now and daybreak, and—if her conclusions were wrong—another young woman’s life ruined. Beside her, Erinna said nothing and Claudia wasn’t surprised. Performances like that were utterly draining.
Sure enough, as they left, two strapping ex-army veterans down the street exchanged glances and casually ambled their way down the hill behind the two women, pausing, as they paused, to watch pantalooned fire-eaters perform on the corner. Stopping, as they stopped, while Persian acrobats tumbled and twisted their way down the thoroughfare, skirting riders on horseback and hoarse-throated beggars with ease.
Claudia noted her followers and relaxed. Good old Marcus.
The closer they drew to the Forum, the more incense wafted from open-air shrines. Young blades in their finery swaggered to catch the eyes of promenading maidens with chaplets woven into their hair, a bear danced to the tune from a lyre, cats wailed from the rooftops. On the steps of the Temple of the Divine Julius, conjurors
produced rabbits out of felt hats to a shower of coins, and outside the basilica a black man juggled terracotta plates as he danced.
‘That was fun,’ Erinna said, as they eventually turned to make their way home. It was approaching midnight, and she had freed her long mane of chestnut hair from its bun to hang down her back, shining like a stallion in the light of the torches which burned from sconces set in the walls.
‘Why don’t you tell Skyles you love him?’ Claudia asked.
Erinna stopped short. ‘Me? Skyles? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard this year,’ she snapped. ‘I’ve not even been alone with him.’
‘Yes,’ Claudia said. ‘That’s what puzzles me.’
Down Pomegranate Lane, the road that led home, a covered dray cart was blocking the street. Shouts of the drivers jammed up behind drowned any chance to talk further and Claudia and Erinna slipped down the parallel lane, Pepper Alley. Neither noticed that, as their protectors turned into the lane behind them, two cudgels landed blows from a doorway.
The driver of the dray cart geed up his mules. It turned out of Pomegranate Lane and stopped again at the end of Pepper Alley.
Claudia glanced over her shoulder. Strangely, this passageway was completely deserted, and it was oddly reassuring for once that Orbilio’s two Security Policemen were behind.
‘Erinna,’ she began.
Two hulking figures stepped out of the shadows.
‘Quick,’ she said, spinning Erinna round. ‘It’s a trap. Run!’ Together, they hurtled down the alleyway. Behind them, the two men also broke into a run. ‘Help,’ she called out to Orbilio’s men. ‘Help!’ But the men had stopped, blocking the alley, and now she drew closer, she saw that they were shorter, and uglier, and not the same pair. Two mounds on the cobbles told the story. She turned again, but the first two were closing in fast.
Before either girl had a chance to scream, sacks were flung over their heads.
The driver of the dray cart flipped up the oilskin covering the wagon. Four men and two squirming bundles were hustled inside, the cover quickly flipped closed. The cart moved off at a cracking pace, and the Saturnalia revellers interpreted the shrieks inside as the squeals of lovers having fun, because this was the season of peace and goodwill, and no one’s minds were on evil.
*
Orbilio opened his eyes, and found himself in a room that was both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. He closed them again, conscious of a throbbing in his head and a terrible ache in his side. Where was he? He remembered walking down his own street when Angelina confronted him. Recalled only too well the knife in her hand. After that, though, he must have passed out. He forced his eyelids apart, and realized that what he was seeing were his own walls and ceiling, but from a totally different angle. He was lying in the guest room where he’d left Deva, and it was at the back of his mind that it was a good place to recover. She’d want for nothing in this house and also, he decided, his taste in decor was better than he’d given himself credit for.
But there was something he had to do, wasn’t there? Something urgent? Struggling to sit up, a burning pain splintered his body, tore it in pieces and scattered them to the four winds. He fell back, panting. Sweat poured from his forehead.
‘I could have given you something to dull it,’ the herbalist said, applying a soothing lavender compress to his temples, ‘but it would have knocked you out cold. Under the circumstances, I couldn’t allow that.’
Overriding the lavender was a smell that Orbilio recognized from his days in the army. A mixture of mouldy bread, opobalsam, turpentine and vinegar. The unmistakable smell of dressed wounds. Gingerly he prodded the wadding around his waist. It brought him out in a fresh sweat.
‘You were lucky,’ the herbalist said, replacing the compress. ‘If your pixie had stabbed you on your right side, she’d have punctured your liver.’
Lucky, Orbilio thought, was a relative term.
‘What circumstances?’ he asked.
‘Hm.’ The herbalist dried his hands on a towel. Propped a pillow under Marcus’s head. ‘You know I told you that by burning the house down, your pixie was destroying the fantasy? Well, it occurred to me after you left—’
‘Yes, I know. The fantasy was me.’
‘Precisely. Which is why I came running after you, and just as well that I did.’ The herbalist replaced the stopper on a small onyx bottle. ‘Just as I was prising the knife out of her hand, a legionary happened to pass by. She’s in jail.’
‘And you told me you weren’t a hero.’
‘I must admit I surprised myself,’ the herbalist said. ‘But when it comes to saving the world, I think I’ll stick to my potions.’
‘And Deva?’
‘Still alternating between shakes and shivers, but I moved her to your steward’s room, because you needed this bed more.’
‘Bring her back,’ Marcus rasped, swinging his legs off the couch. ‘I’m getting up anyway. There’s something urgent I have to do.’
‘Yes.’ The herbalist smoothed his receding red hair. ‘I’m afraid there is.’
‘We’re back to those circumstances again,’ Marcus said, as another explosion of pain ripped him to shreds. ‘The reason you couldn’t—’ (not didn’t) ‘—give me a sedative.’
‘I’m sorry to put you through this, Marcus, but a note came while you were unconscious.’ Exhausted hands picked up a scroll of parchment from the table. ‘Since your steward said it was connected with the rapist, I took the liberty of opening it. It’s from a young woman called Claudia, and on it is written the name of the beast who tried to destroy my Deva.’
‘Just the name?’
‘Just the name,’ the herbalist nodded.
‘She always was one for economizing,’ Orbilio said, but his smile turned into a grimace as a fireball tore through his stomach. ‘I’ll have to borrow your cloak,’ he told the physician. The porter’s was covered with blood.
‘Shall I come with you?’ the herbalist asked.
‘No.’ This was for him and him alone.
‘But, Marcus,’ he called after him, waving the parchment. ‘Don’t you want to know who it is?’
‘I already do,’ Orbilio said thickly.
It was Dymas.
*
Squirming in the arms of her attackers under the cover of the dray cart, Claudia experienced the unmistakable stirrings of panic. These were professionals, but who? Butico? No, he wouldn’t risk that. Slave traders, then? Wrong time of year. Slave ships operate when the seas are fully open, they need as many escape routes as they can. And in any case they don’t snatch women from Rome when there are coasts all round with unprotected villages to raid. Anyway, this was a sophisticated operation which had been planned in advance. They’d followed Claudia from the house. Deliberately blocked Pomegranate Lane, knowing that she would be forced to cut down the adjacent Pepper Alley, which in turn had been turned into a trap. Men had been stationed in readiness to take care of her bodyguard. Pedestrians had been kept out of the alley by some ruse which, being Saturnalia, wouldn’t faze them.
The flutterings of panic grew stronger. Her limbs started to quake. She was snatching air in great quivering gulps.
It had to be ransom. Maybe another ploy by the Wine Merchants’ Guild to force her hand? Say to the authorities, look: women need men to look after them and protect them, because how can you trust a woman with business, when you can’t trust her to look after herself? But the Guild already believed they’d driven her out by ensnaring her in Butico’s felonious hands— As the wheels clacked over the cobbles, Claudia heard a faint animal whimper. It took her a moment to realize that the sound came from her. Out, out, she had to get out. With one furious kick, she brought her heel back on the shin of the bear who was holding her. Yelping, he loosened his grip. She pulled the sack from her head with one hand, pushed at the oilskin with the other, saw people, lots of people, laughing and drinking and having fun in the streets.
‘Help,’ she call
ed, but they didn’t hear her. ‘Hel—’
She never got time to finish the word. A cudgel caught her square on the side of her head. Somewhere in the distance, as though down a long tunnel, she heard the herald call the first hour. What a way to start Saturnalia Eve.
Thirty-Four
It was all so obvious with hindsight, Orbilio thought.
With his strength ebbing, he had been forced to take a litter and now he cursed the stupidity that caused its perilously slow progress as the bearers forged their way through the jaunty throng. Dammit, he should have predicted Angelina’s violent outburst. Just as he should have understood that Dymas was the Halcyon Rapist. Tomorrow was the biggest day of most people’s year. It would start with the Great Sacrifice, followed by the public feast and concluding with Games, dancing and wine flowing out of the fountains, and people were happy. For a few treasured days, they could put their problems aside and Orbilio had never felt more alone, more isolated, from the community.
Around him, a sea of jovial faces exchanged pleasantries in a score of incomprehensible tongues, the chill in the air nothing to them, as they wished goodwill and happiness to all men. On his cushions, the bonhomie grated. Perhaps it was the wound in his side straining the herbalist’s stitches, but somehow the festive atmosphere highlighted his own shortcomings. Drew attention to his failure as an instrument of the law. His head pounded and his eyes could barely focus. An innocent man had been executed. Girls had been dragged off the streets and brutalized. And all because of him.
His mind ranged back over the case. Firstly, how information through street contacts had led to Dymas reporting that he had a suspect. But why should he have questioned the honour of his own people? If you can’t trust the Security Police, hell, who can you trust? Realistically, how could he have predicted that, when Dymas shouted out that he’d found the mask beneath the suspect’s bed, it had been planted by the investigator himself?