by Marilyn Todd
XXVIII
From the moment he received the news of his Regent’s death, the Emperor Augustus had remained virtually closeted inside his basilica on the Palatine, digesting reports, wading through correspondence, thrashing out the endless possibilities and despairing at the crackpot theories which surfaced with greater frequency and more frantic desperation as time wore on. Sedition, my lord? Round up the troublemakers, that’s what I’d do, make examples of the bastards. No heir? No problem. Let the herald proclaim your wife pregnant, declare public holiday, throw Games in her honour. All feasible. All dismissed. Certainly it was not beyond the realms of possibility that, even after fourteen barren years, her imperial majesty might fall pregnant—but how long before the populace saw that they’d been conned? Quick-fix solutions were no use, Augustus needed to gather the facts, sift them carefully, then see what nuggets were left.
In the end, perhaps, the difference between Marcus Cornelius Orbilio and the Emperor was not so great after all.
Market day had come and gone, scaffolding had been dismantled, monies banked, barges moored up for the night and as the city braced itself for yet another round of whoring and deliveries, roistering and burglary, weary street sweepers pushed spinach stalks and eggshells, donkey dung and pot shards in an ever swelling tidal wave of debris. Orbilio watched it all from the steep escarpment on the Palatine and remained unsure how, now the rioters had settled down and tempers had cooled, a security policeman kicking his heels outside the basilica helped any.
‘Why?’ he asked his boss, and the answer was revealing.
‘It’s not enough we do the work,’ his boss had replied. ‘Above all, we must be seen to be active.’
Active? Watching laurels being clipped in the Palatine Gardens when he could be moving quietly amongst his network of informants, mixing with the merchants, separating loyalists from traitors? What his boss hoped, of course, was that by sucking up to Augustus during the crisis, he’d land the post of Toady Supreme and as Orbilio stamped his feet in an effort to resuscitate his circulation, he could think of no better candidate. Across the way, priests illuminated Luna’s shrine as they did every night, and from the Temple of Apollo, Orbilio caught the last whiff of incense before the censers were locked away for the night. Incredible that, for two whole years, Penelope’s child had been a cog in the temple’s machinery, while he’d never even suspected her existence. At least this year, he thought, when I drop poppies in the Tiber, I can tell Penelope that she can walk the Elysian Fields in peace.
Initially he’d been hard put to see anything deeper than a physical resemblance between Annia and her mother, until he realized that neither woman felt bound by labels. Penelope behaved like no ordinary aristocrat, Annia like no orthodox slave. Marcus shook his head. How many times during his innumerable trips to the palace had he passed the time of day with the young temple warden? Sent a present, too, when the young man married, last July wasn’t it? A silver salver with a dome-shaped lid, if Marcus remembered correctly. And how often had he nodded in acquaintance to his new wife, without noticing Annia at her side? Strange, the quirks of life.
Yet wasn’t it the quirks he thrived on? Unpredictability is the drug of youth, they say, and if that was so, Orbilio was hooked. His drug wore strong Judaean perfume and had a smelting pot of metals in its hair. It possessed a deep and throaty laugh, a dancing step, and kept a man awake throughout the night with an aching in his loins and in his heart.
But the drug did not come home last night…
Bugger this, he thought, bounding down the Palatine ramp. This isn’t serving my country!
At the bottom, a crowd had gathered in the aid of an elderly statesman whose horse had thrown him awkwardly, Jews congregated on the Aurelian steps as they had for centuries and a male prostitute posed against a seated bronze hero and pouted.
Why hadn’t Claudia come home last night? Where had she been? And with whom?
Marcus quickly discounted any possibility of danger—that Gaulish bodyguard would protect her with his life. Unfortunately, though, he could not discard the young Gaul. What was the relationship between them? Junius’ eyes followed her every waking movement, and his step faltered as his mind pictured them, entwined. Or was it Porsenna she found so attractive? Him with his blond hair and vacuous charm—and pots of money stashed away? Orbilio swallowed. Mother of Tarquin, this is madness. The same thing happens every bloody time. The closer I get to Claudia Seferius, the more jealous I become and why? Because with each fraction I move closer, the more frightened I become that I might lose her. And thereby lies the sting.
She isn’t mine to lose.
Claudia belongs to no man, never will, and that’s what’s so damned alluring. Not that she’s stunningly beautiful, with curls I want to bury my head in and a freckle on her collarbone I want to investigate closer. Not because she’s Miss Firecracker one minute, Ice Maiden the next. It’s her spirit that sets her apart—and any man who tries to tame that spirit might as well try tethering lightning.
Although any man who wants to is a fool.
The house on the Caelian was quiet, as he knew it would be, because the price she demanded for checking out Arbil had been for Orbilio to get rid of the aunts. Which he had, goddammit. Which he had.
The shutters were drawn. Was she in? Janus, Croesus, who was she with? Porsenna? The Gaul? Whose bed would she sleep in tonight?
‘Oi!’
Startled, Orbilio spun round and found himself staring into the doleful eyes of an ass.
‘Shove over, mate,’ its driver yelled amiably. ‘You’re holding up the traffic.’
Marcus spread apologetic hands and stepped aside. The spell was broken. He’d been a fool. A damned possessive fool at that, and he was deeply ashamed of himself.
Nevertheless, he remained beneath her balcony as cart after cart jolted past, their reins rattling, their rawhide whips cracking like logs on the fire as the drivers whooped and hollered. An invisible procession followed with them. The scent of straw which protected the fragile terracotta pots. Soft tangy leather. Acid charcoal. Fruity wines. Threaded through with the smell of sulphur from the torches and the sullen snorts of mules. At one point he thought he heard a whistle, whit-whit-whit, and despised himself still further. And because nothing could be achieved by standing here, Orbilio took off to get pissed.
It was well into the early hours when he sauntered back along the Caelian. There were no longer wagons fetching in comestibles, no whistles now to mock his investigative prowess. Only a hardboiled ginger tomcat, paws tucked in, whose amber eyes followed with the unblinking secrets of a century. A dog barked from the depths of a building as he worked his way round to the slaves’ entrance and unlocked the door. Just a peep into Claudia’s bedroom. That was all.
In the atrium, a faint light flickered. He could hear the trickle of a fountain near the entrance, heard snoring from the slaves’ wing. Silently he worked his way past the marble busts and columns to the stairs which led to Claudia’s bedroom, then stopped. It must be the effects of the sun, he thought, beating on his head all day long. Followed by too much wine, much too quick.
Because sitting on the floor beside the fountain, cross-legged and with her long hair loose, the woman he had come to check on leaned towards a small boy kneeling in his nightshift. They appeared to be competing for a local gurning championship, and it took every ounce of Orbilio’s willpower not to rush over and scoop them both up in his arms.
*
‘Goody, it’s the man in the frock.’ Jovi scrabbled to his feet and dragged Orbilio across to the window, where he twizzled his neck and flattened his cheek against the thick glass. ‘Look! There’s the Divine Julius, that star up there, can you see it?’ His stubby finger pointed directly at the Pole Star.
‘The Divine Julius?’ Orbilio asked mildly.
‘He was turned into that star after he was murdered, Claudie says so.’
Claudie, he noticed, was adjusting her gown with great meticulous
ness. ‘Then it must be true.’ Marcus nodded solemnly. ‘Now then, young man, why aren’t you tucked up?’
‘I couldn’t sleep, so me and Claudie played a game, you can join in, if you like,’ Jovi said eagerly. ‘All you have to do,’ his little face puckered, ‘is lick the tip of you nose,’ pucker, pucker, ‘with the tip of your tongue.’
‘Who won? You?’
‘Claudie.’ Jovi sighed philosophically. ‘Every time.’
‘Ah, well, she has a natural advantage. You see, she sharpens her tongue on a cuttlefish every morning.’ Taking care to avoid the venomous glare which burned into his back, Orbilio picked the lad up, wheeled him round in the air then patted his bottom. ‘Come on, you. Back to bed.’
‘What, already?’ But Jovi had already discovered that the force of grown-ups was too strong to tackle head-on and off he stumped, singing rude words to a popular marching song.
‘I won’t ask where he learned that,’ Orbilio laughed. ‘But oughtn’t he be learning money matters, or something?’
‘Orbilio, he knows that money matters. We all do.’
‘I meant arith—forget it.’ His mood sobered. ‘The mother’s not come forward, then?’
Claudia’s face twisted as she turned away. ‘Nor likely to,’ she muttered.
Yesterday, Leonides managed to pinpoint the whorehouse where she worked. Mean little dive, he said. Stank of stale wine and cabbage water, with stand-up cubbyholes for sex and fishheads in the doorway. So keen was Jovi’s mother to break the sordid cycle, she upped sticks with the first man to ask her—but not before turning her son loose on the streets. Until Leonides arrived, the other whores had naturally assumed she’d taken the child with her.
‘What have you told Jovi?’
Claudia threw up her hands. ‘What am I supposed to tell him?’
‘The truth?’ he suggested quietly.
‘For gods’ sake,’ she cried. ‘The boy’s still a baby! Do you expect me to sit him on my knee and say, “by the way, your mum’s abandoned you, she had a better offer”?’ From the corner of her eye, she caught a movement. Fleeting, but it was there, nonetheless. The unfolding of two tiny hands from where they’d been gripping the stair rail…
Shit!
Her eyes began to sting and the atrium blurred. A week ago he’d been wandering the Argiletum, lost and lonely, and she’d promised him upon her honour she would take him home next day. If only she’d persevered that same night! She might have caught his mother before she flitted off, changed her mind and persuaded the bitch to take the lad with her. At the very worst, Claudia could have prepared Jovi from the start, instead of raising his hopes day by day…
‘I’ll find him a foster home,’ she gulped. ‘A mum and dad to love him.’
‘You love him,’ Orbilio said softly. ‘Why not let him stay?’
‘No!’ The violence of her protest shook them both, but what could she say? That deep down she was scared of loving anyone, except Drusilla? Because cats love unconditionally, expect nothing in return? Because cats never let you down. Or break your heart? She marched down the atrium and out into the scented night air of the peristyle.
Following, Orbilio stared up at the constellations twinkling above them, inhaled the peach blossoms and the wallflowers, and said nothing.
‘Care to tell me?’ Claudia blew her nose, ‘what you did to get rid of the aunts?’
Whatever it was, it was damned effective. The only trace of their visit was a heap of dirty bedlinen when she got home, and Herkie still locked in the cellar. No doubt Cousin Fortunata would return to collect her little diddums, but something made the old bats leave in a hurry.
His sheepish grin was quickly suppressed. ‘Following on from the chalk and ash routine which made you look so poorly, it was but a step to mix flour with wine dregs and,’ he turned to look at a statue, ‘dab it on your servants’ faces.’
‘Larentia fell for it?’
‘Departed the contagion zone at a run.’
Claudia dabbed at her eyes. Oh, Larentia. You really are a silly cow!
The laughter was good. A release. But when it died, taut silence hung in the air.
The garden was rarely lit at night. That would disturb the ambience, and the songbirds in the aviary. There were only ever enough torches to enhance the whiteness of the artemesias, define the outline of the path, catch the ripples of the breeze upon the water in the fishpond. Suddenly the darkness intensified. Claudia became aware of the man standing beside her, of his sandalwood scent, the smoky look in his eyes. She could hear his breathing, saw the rise and fall of his chest in the moonlight, watched the muscles tense in his neck. Her mouth became dry.
He moved closer. ‘Can you really lick the tip of your nose with your tongue?’ he asked softly.
‘Only when I strop with a cuttlefish,’ she whispered back.
The rasp of cicadas was deafening. She smelled the wine on his breath as he stood over her. His eyes were dark, his lips half parted as his little finger reached out and hooked one of her curls. Claudia’s heart was pounding like a kettledrum, and a pain surged deep in her ribcage when he gently released the curl.
‘Marcus…’
He blinked, as though in pain. ‘Yes?’
She looked away. ‘Marcus, I—’ Say it, for heaven’s sake! Just say it! ‘I—I think someone’s left the gate open.’
Striding down the path, she wondered what was holding up her legs. Not her bones. They’d left home.
Marcus Cornelius screwed up his face and pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. ‘Claudia—’
‘Bloody vagrants,’ she said, willing her limbs on. ‘If they don’t block up your doorway, they doss in your garden.’
Silly bitch! She slammed the gate shut. Did you think he intended to kiss you? Look at him, for gods’ sake. Leaning against the pillar, staring up at the stars, not a bloody care in the world…
‘Off, you.’ She addressed the beggar, slumped against the wall. ‘Come on, shift yourself!’ Suddenly her bodyweight trebled, she could not move a limb. ‘Marcus.’
The quiver in her voice alerted him. ‘What is it?’
He came running, but she held a hand up to stop him. This was no vagrant. Once this had been a female. Now she sat surrounded by a thick, dark smear of liquid. The liquid did not shine. Claudia clapped a hand over her mouth. The woman’s wrists and feet had been bound and her colourless mouth sagged open. She was naked.
Yet it was not the spectacle of death which made her falter. It was the carpet of long, blonde hair which lay across the lap. The way it shone in the moonlight was an obscenity.
His shoulders slumped. His tall, proud body stooped. ‘No,’ he cried, falling to his knees. ‘No-ooooo!’ No animal howling in pain produced such anguish.
Claudia leaned over and closed the wide blue, staring eyes. Even in death, the face was striking in its beauty.
‘Marcus.’
The pale, serrated flesh was still warm.
‘Marcus.’ She looked down into his darkened, haggard eyes. ‘This woman isn’t Annia.’
XXIX
He’d needed a drink. They both had. Perhaps she more than he.
Claudia gulped greedily at the heavy vintage wine. Finding the body had been shock enough, but when she’d watched Marcus sag like a waterlogged sponge, it felt like her insides had been plaited up like rope and then hauled on. Now, long after the blood had been mopped up and the servants’ fears assuaged, long after the rich, red wine had hit him, Orbilio’s hands and voice were still shaking.
‘I’ve screwed up, Claudia.’ He spiked his fingers through his hair as he paced the tiny office. ‘But for me, that girl would still be alive.’
Claudia drew her wrap tight around her shoulders. In their haste to load up the body, the undertakers had trampled half the planting, obliterating the gagging stench of blood. Mint and oregano wafted into her office on a cool night breeze.
‘That’s ridiculous,’ she protested. ‘
We don’t even know who she is.’
‘Her name is Severina,’ he said wearily. ‘She was murdered, because the killer must have seen her with Zygia and mistaken her for Annia. They look very similar.’ He paused in his pacing and looked straight at Claudia. ‘And, dammit, Claudia, I could have saved her.’
Go ahead, whip yourself. ‘How?’
‘A couple of hours ago. Maybe three. I was…passing.’ He covered his face with his hands. ‘I heard the whistle, and I ignored it.’
Claudia’s head jerked up. ‘Three short notes?’
‘You heard them, too?’
She shook her head. ‘I was at the theatre. The late show.’ So many spectaculars, they don’t all fit into daylight hours. ‘I know you questioned the household,’ she added. ‘Any luck?’
Dawn was starting to break, a faint opalescence over the Esquiline.
‘Some heard scuffling, others whistling, but their overriding feeling—’ Orbilio shot her a knowing look ‘—is that unusual happenings in this house are not exactly rare.’ She studied him. The bruises from the beating outside Weasel’s had turned to shades of green and yellow and with his pallor deathly white, he fair resembled a cadaver himself. Any other man would listen when told a hundred people whistle along that damned road every night, it’s a busy street she lived on, and brawls break out twice a week. But Orbilio was not Any Other Man. Claudia drew up her knees in a high-backed wooden chair and hugged them. Marcus would carry Severina on his conscience to his grave.
He had resumed pacing. ‘The choice of killing ground was quite deliberate,’ he said slowly. ‘Can you imagine the risk? Until today, this house was a warren of activity, yet you saw yourself the quiet spot he picked in the Argiletum.
No chance of disturbance. ‘These girls,’ he added quietly, ‘take a long, long time to die.’
Claudia heard pebbles rattling in a bucket and realized it was the chattering of her teeth. ‘So what are you saying? The killer has made the connection between Annia and my visit to Arbil?’