The Raven's Wing

by Frances Watts

  But it wasn’t nothing, I knew as he strode away. It was time I admitted to myself what I had been trying to deny for so long: I was in love with Marcus Aquila. I had been since the day we met, just before I fell into the fishpond. (Which would be right about the time he would have realised he could never love me …) It wasn’t just that he was good-looking and that my blood seemed to rush faster through my veins when he was around; it was that the more I knew of him, the more I admired him. He was brilliant and principled and — oh, laughter-loving Aphrodite, I was sounding exactly like Prisca!

  My only consolation was that he had proved with his impulsive attempt to stop my marriage that at least he didn’t want me dead. It wasn’t personal, I realised; he had risked himself for Andalos too. That was the kind of man he was: he risked himself to help others, especially those who weren’t in a position to help themselves.

  When Timon came out to the terrace some time later to tell me the litter was ready, I asked after the young slave.

  ‘Come see for yourself,’ he said, beckoning.

  I followed him back into the house, and he led me to the library.

  A boy — Andalos, I realised with a start — sat next to an older man, who was reading from a scroll in Latin and then speaking in what I presumed was Gaulish.

  ‘He has lessons in the morning,’ Timon explained, ‘and helps in the stables the rest of the time. He’s very good with animals, we’ve discovered.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have known him,’ I said. Though still thin, he was no longer skin and bones, and his face glowed with health.

  ‘I’ll let him know you’re here,’ Timon said, stepping forwards.

  ‘No,’ I said, touching his sleeve to prevent him from disturbing the man and boy. ‘He seems so absorbed in the lesson. I just wanted to know he was well.’

  Timon shrugged. ‘As you wish. I’ll take you to the litter then.’

  The journey back to Rome was made in a matter of hours. As the litter carried me closer and closer to the man who waited to marry me, I thought only of Marcus.

  My father himself came to greet me in the courtyard. ‘Claudia, my dear daughter.’ He helped me to step from the litter then clasped me to him. ‘Marcus was here, he told us what happened. By Hercules! We were fortunate he was there to save you. Are you able to walk?’

  I had to act as if I really had been abducted, I remembered. ‘I … I think so,’ I said hesitantly.

  ‘I am at a loss. How can this have happened? Who?’

  ‘We won’t rest until we find your abductors,’ Lucius swore from behind him. ‘I’ll seek them out myself.’

  That would be interesting, I thought: Marcus trying to find proof that Lucius was a murderer, while Lucius sought the identity of my kidnapper, who happened to be Marcus.

  ‘It was so frightening,’ I said tremulously as we crossed the threshold of the house. My father and fiancé escorted me to the atrium, where I sank onto a couch.

  Lucius pressed my hand and I closed my eyes rather than look into his, not knowing whether to trust the concern there. Though, come to think of it, the concern would be real: it would do him no good to have something happen to me before we were wed.

  And then Prisca was there. ‘I’ll have Theodotus examine her. Gaius, have extra slaves posted at all the doors. Lucius, find Gaius’s secretary. Let the wedding guests know that Claudia’s illness is not serious, but the wedding must be postponed until she has recovered.’ To me she said, ‘When we couldn’t find you this morning, we sent out a message to say that you were ill.’

  ‘I feared you had changed your mind about marrying me,’ Lucius murmured as he raised my hand to his lips. Then he whispered in a voice so low only I could hear: ‘I thought my heart would break.’

  I gave him a faint smile as if I were too weak to respond but meant to reassure him. He seemed satisfied, for after pressing my hand once more he went in search of the secretary.

  When at last we were alone, Prisca pulled a stool close to the couch on which I lay and said, with no hint of her recent coldness, ‘Marcus has told me everything. What a fool he has been! A ridiculous plan.’ She sounded exasperated, but fond too. ‘If only he had come to me with his suspicions. Now listen, we can’t afford to alert Lucius. You must behave as if you still want to marry him. Can you do that?’

  Could I behave warmly towards a man who might have murdered my stepsister? I didn’t know. ‘I’ll try,’ I said.

  She looked at me closely. ‘This must all have come as a terrible shock. You were in love with Lucius, weren’t you? Maybe you still are …’

  I thought carefully before responding. I wanted to be honest, not just for Prisca’s sake but my own. ‘At first it was exciting to have someone admire me. Then, after Lucius and Aurelia were engaged, I felt — I don’t know … like a tragic heroine from a legend.’ I cringed to hear myself now. ‘And Lucius seemed so good and honourable and uncomplicated.’ Not like your son, I thought to myself. There was no question that, unlike Lucius, Marcus really was good and honourable, but uncomplicated? Hardly! He was the most contrary and complicated person I had ever met.

  ‘I found out that you had planned for Marcus to marry me when you brought me to Rome,’ I continued, ‘but then he didn’t want me. I thought by marrying Lucius I would be getting back at him.’ I could feel my face reddening as I concluded, ‘And look how well that turned out.’

  To my surprise, Prisca’s look was one of sympathy, even guilt, not disapproval. ‘If anyone is to blame, it’s me. In my ambition for my son, I seem to have ruined quite a few lives.’ She closed her eyes for a few seconds, as if to gather the strength to go on. ‘I know I will sound just like any other proud mother when I say that I believe my son is special, but it’s true. He has an exceptional mind — though he has not shown any evidence of it today — and he has high ideals. He would use power wisely and for the good of Rome, not himself.’ She sighed. ‘Marcus’s rejection of you was not personal, my dear, however it looked. He was angry at me for meddling.’

  She gave a slight smile, one tinged with self-reproach. ‘I thought I was being so clever, but if Marcus is right, Aurelia’s death is my fault. If I had not schemed for her to marry Lucius …’

  I reached out to clutch her wrist. ‘No, that’s not true,’ I said boldly. ‘The only person to blame for Aurelia’s death is the one who poisoned her. No one else.’

  She touched my hair. ‘That is a very wise thing to say. I know you’re right. And yet … I will always hold myself responsible.’ She rose. ‘I had better fetch Theodotus to have a look at you. Remember, you can’t tell a soul what really happened this morning.’

  Theodotus pronounced me to be physically well but reckoned it likely that I was suffering from shock. He recommended that I keep to my bed for a few days. Aballa tended to me with especial care. I wished I could tell her that I had seen Andalos, but I couldn’t reveal my visit to Marcus’s house, nor would she understand me in any case, though she did now have a few words in Latin. I remembered Andalos and his tutor in Veii; perhaps, when life had returned to normal (though it was hard to imagine what ‘normal’ was going to be), I could teach Aballa myself.

  To pass the time while I was confined to bed, I had her fetch me scrolls from the library. It was impossible to specify which ones I wanted, since she couldn’t read to identify them, so I ended up with a random assortment. And she couldn’t have chosen a more tedious collection if she’d tried, I thought with a sigh. No poems by Horace, none of the exciting books of The Odyssey — just philosophy. I tried to read Aristotle’s Metaphysics but couldn’t make head or tail of it. I next picked up Plato’s Phaedo, which was just boring dialogues, I saw as I skimmed it. Most of it went over my head, but I gathered it was a conversation that took place by the deathbed of the Greek philosopher Socrates. He’d been sentenced to death, I vaguely remembered, skipping ahead to the end. Perhaps his death, at least, would be dramatic. I found the spot where the jailer brought in a cup of poison for Socrates to
drink and began to read about how he had first lost all feelings in his feet and legs, and how gradually his whole body had turned frozen and rigid.

  I let the scroll fall to my lap. I should have realised that reading about a poisoning would only make me think of Aurelia’s last hours — especially when the description of Socrates’s poisoning was so like what had happened to Aurelia. So like …

  Aurelia too had been paralysed, I recalled. How cold and stiff her arm had been when she lay dying. My heart began to beat more quickly. Could she have drunk the same poison as Socrates?

  This was a clue, I realised with rising excitement. Marcus had been occupied with trying to discover who the poisoner was, but what if we approached the mystery from the other side? If we knew what poison had been used to murder Aurelia, we might be able to trace where it had come from. I turned my mind back to Socrates. The Athenians … they had used hemlock, hadn’t they, for executions? Where did one get it from? Sabine knew so much about plants: she was the obvious person to ask. I started to rise from the bed, but almost immediately sank back. Prisca had warned me against confiding in anyone, and if I were to start asking Sabine about poisons it might arouse her suspicions. But my stepsister had said she learned about plants from books recommended by Theodotus, I remembered. Well, I had plenty of time for reading.

  ‘Aballa!’ I called.

  Within seconds, she appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Aballa, I need you to find Theodotus for me,’ I told her. ‘Theodotus.’

  ‘Theodotus? Yes, Miss Claudia. Theodotus.’ And with a quick nod of the head, she hurried off.

  Within a few minutes Theodotus was at my bedside, his dark brows drawn together in concern. ‘What is it, Miss Claudia? Are you ill?’

  ‘No, it’s not that. I’m sorry if I alarmed you. I only wanted to ask about some books. I was thinking of planting a garden of my own, and Sabine said you’d recommended some books that described plants and their properties.’

  If he thought it strange that I should summon him from his duties for a discussion of horticulture, he gave no sign. ‘She must have been talking of the writings of Theophrastus. He was a student of Aristotle. Some of his books are in the library.’

  ‘Could you have Aballa bring them to me?’ I asked.

  ‘Certainly.’ Beckoning for the slave to follow, he left the room.

  Not long after, she returned, struggling to clasp the box of scrolls that made up Theophrastus’s Enquiry into Plants. I settled down to read.

  While much of it was long, boring descriptions of ears of grain and how to grow chickpeas, to my surprise there were also some fascinating tidbits, like which plants caused sleep and which caused madness, the wonders of the wild cucumber and how to sow mandrake safely: One should draw three circles round mandrake with a sword, and cut it with one’s face towards the west; and at the cutting of the second piece one should dance round the plant and say as many things as possible about the mysteries of love. (What? I definitely wouldn’t be planting mandrake in my fictitious garden if that’s what it took to sow it! I was relieved to note that Theophrastus thought this advice was absurd.) It was in book nine that I came across poisons. I scanned the sections on wolf’s bane and hellebore and then my eyes landed on a passage about the characteristics of hemlock. It was very convenient, I read with a shiver, since it could be concentrated so that only small doses were needed, it could be kept for a long time without losing potency and — here my shiver became a chill — there was absolutely no cure, Theophrastus had written.

  I flicked through the rest of the book, but there wasn’t much more about hemlock. What did it look like? Where was it found? It was so frustrating being stuck here in bed! I took up the box containing Enquiry into Plants — except the ninth book, which I kept — and went into the library.

  I found some books on herbs and medicines, mostly Greek, and learned that the leaves of hemlock were deep green and feathery, and could be mistaken for parsley. It could be recognised by the red blotches on the stem, resembling blood. I shivered. It had an unpleasant odour and a bitter taste. In small doses it could even be medicinal. Like parsley, it was good for cramps and joint pains.

  Suddenly I was reminded of how I had suspected Aballa of slipping poison into Aurelia’s tea … parsley tea. My pulse quickened: what if Sabine had mistakenly planted hemlock in the place of parsley? And if, in her efforts to cure her sister with parsley tea, she had in fact been poisoning her? My skin came up in gooseflesh at the thought. It would be the worst tragedy possible, if that was the case — worse than discovering that Lucius was the murderer. How would Sabine ever recover? Perhaps it would be best not to tell her … not to tell anyone. I could destroy the plant to make sure such a terrible thing never happened again, and I would never reveal the secret to anyone. But Marcus was intent on proving that Lucius had done it, I recalled. So I would have to tell Marcus the truth … Oh goddess Minerva, give me wisdom: what should I do? I was getting ahead of myself, though. First I needed to see if the parsley in Sabine’s garden was indeed hemlock.

  Jupiter was sunning himself on the edge of the fountain, but as I walked past he jumped lightly to the ground and followed me.

  There was no sign of Sabine. She was hardly ever in the garden these days and slaves now cared for the plants she had once tended so lovingly. Approaching the herb garden, my heart began to beat hard in anticipation, so that I almost felt light-headed as I bent to peer at the stalks of the parsley. It was green, no blood on the stem, and the wave of relief made me sink to my knees. Oh, thank the immortal gods. I should never have let my imagination run away with me like that.

  Jupiter wound around the plants and nibbled delicately at the leaves of one.

  ‘You be careful,’ I told him, recalling how he had destroyed two of Sabine’s garden beds while we were in Oplontis. At once a shaft of cold steel entered my chest. Could one of the ruined plants have been hemlock? My suspicions came flooding back.

  ‘You idiot cat,’ I told him shakily. ‘If you had chewed on that, you could have been poisoned.’

  A sound behind me made me jump.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ It was Sabine, her voice unfriendly. As far as she knew, her mother and brother still considered me something akin to an enemy.

  ‘I was looking for you,’ I said hastily. ‘I’ve been having trouble sleeping and was hoping you might make me some tea tonight.’

  What was I saying? The last thing I wanted was a tea made with herbs from this garden!

  But at least Sabine believed my excuse, and I’d aroused her sympathy. ‘Oh, poor Claudia. You’ve had a dreadful time, haven’t you? I know just the remedy.’

  That evening she brought the tea to my bedroom herself.

  ‘I hope it works for you better than for Aurelia,’ she said with a sad smile as she handed it to me.

  My blood ran cold at the words but I thanked her and held the warm cup between my hands.

  ‘Good night,’ she said over her shoulder as she walked to the door. ‘I hope you have sweet dreams.’

  ‘I’m sure I will,’ I said. As soon as she was gone, I put the cup carefully on the dresser.

  I had a niggling doubt, a suspicion I was trying to resist, but it was battering incessantly at my brain. Sabine had read Theophrastus. She had read all the books on plants I had read and many more besides. Was it really possible that someone so knowledgeable could mistake hemlock for parsley? Oh, what was I thinking?! There was no hemlock in the garden now and most likely there had never been any.

  Even so, I couldn’t bring myself to drink the tea. And my dreams that night were far from sweet.

  The next morning, I waited until Prisca and Sabine had left for the baths then rose from my bed and went into Sabine’s room. I didn’t know what I was looking for, really. A scroll detailing how to make poison?

  I idly picked up pots of scent. Violets. (‘Suitable for young ladies,’ I said to myself.) Jasmine. I knew Sabine never wore it, so I presumed she had ta
ken it from her sister’s room as a keepsake. And then it hit me how ridiculous my suspicions were: what possible reason could Sabine have for poisoning Aurelia? She had adored her older sister!

  One smoky glass bottle had a sweet scent that was familiar, though I couldn’t quite place it. I sniffed again. Camomile? The liquid inside was viscous, thicker than oil — more like honey. That was it; that was the smell. There was a rank smell underlying it, as if the contents of the bottle had rotted. But why would Sabine have honey in a perfume bottle on her dressing table? If it were Aurelia, with her sweet tooth, I’d understand, but Sabine?

  I’ve put even more honey in it this time — you won’t taste the parsley.

  Feeling faint, I clutched at the edge of the dresser as I recalled Sabine’s words to Aurelia, how when her sister was ill Sabine had fussed over her, taking her honeyed dates and tea sweetened with honey.

  Honey could be used to conceal a bitter taste. A bitter taste like parsley … or like hemlock — which also had an unpleasant smell.

  I looked at the bottle I still clutched in my hand. Was it only honey, or did this bottle contain the juice of hemlock too?

  My legs were now feeling as weak as if I had drunk poison myself. But surely she would have disposed of it. Unless she thought she might have cause to use it again …

  If the honey was poisonous, I had to remove it so it couldn’t be used; I remembered Theophrastus’s observation: hemlock could be kept any length of time without losing its potency.

  I went back to my room, my head swirling with questions. Should I tell someone of my suspicions? Prisca? Or Marcus? What would Marcus think if I told him? He would hate me again, I realised heavily. If he even believed me. He would think I was trying to protect Lucius, that in spite of everything I still loved him. Now I regretted removing the bottle from Sabine’s room. It meant she could deny knowledge of it. And meanwhile, I would be the one in possession of a bottle of poison. But of course it wasn’t poison, I told myself — because it was impossible that Sabine would have knowingly killed her sister. Really, I should just put the bottle back on her dresser. But somehow I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Instead, I hid the perfume bottle beneath the old clothes at the bottom of my trunk.