by Marilyn Todd
To celebrate the passing of the month, a year-old sow was to be led through the streets to the goddess Luna’s shrine up on the Palatine where, to the sound of flutes, she would lay down her life, and may Luna’s powers be great from her sacrifice. Claudia checked the level on her water clock. Two more hours before the festivities kicked off. Sailing over the windowsill, Drusilla left daisies of mud on the tessellated stag-hunt before pushing her chiselled features into Claudia’s breakfast. She did not take kindly to the feast being interrupted by Leonides, flattening her ears and hissing pointedly before returning the way she came in.
‘You clash,’ Claudia told her steward, indicating the purple shadows circling red-rimmed eyes. ‘Is anything wrong?’
He checked Drusilla’s departure was permanent before venturing further into the room. ‘Perhaps a little lack of sleep, that is all.’
Oh-oh! She’d forgotten she’d left him waiting in the peristyle. Time, methinks, to change the subject.
‘I presume you’ve reunited Jovi with the bosom of his family?’ Claudia toyed with a pancake, gave up and pushed back the plate.
‘N-n-not exactly.’ Leonides scrunched up one side of his face. ‘Junius carried out your instructions. He posted a Message…’
She had to prompt him. ‘Yes?’
‘No word came back.’
Claudia practically rolled off the dining couch. She’d expected at least a dozen mothers queueing at her door, frantic to claim their misplaced rug-rat. ‘What about the military? Has Junius enquired?’
‘He has, and they have not received a visit, either.’
‘I see.’ Claudia tapped the side of her mouth with her forefinger. ‘What about Jovi?’ Dammit, she’d given him her oath. ‘Have you questioned him?’
‘The little chap has latched on to Cypassis and although she has tried repeatedly to coax clues out of him, I regret we are no closer to identifying even so much as his district, madam, let alone the address.’ He relayed the gist of Cypassis’ probing.
Which hill is closest to your home, Jovi? Dunno.
Are you near the river? Dunno.
What about a temple? Dunno.
Are there tall buildings round where you live? Nod. (To him, all buildings would be tall, they could be tenements, storehouses, just about anything). So what’s the strongest thing you smell from your room? Wine.
(Aha! Could it be that wine warehouse down by the Aventine?) Tell me, Jovi, do you see lots of men coming and going? Yeah. They visit me ma.
Claudia groaned. Warehouses. Whorehouses. What’s an ‘h’ and an ‘o’ between friends? ‘Sooner or later,’ she said, ‘some silly bitch is going to twig on that she’s a child short at dinner.’ But until then, guess who’s lumbered? She ran her hands through her hair. ‘Just keep him out the way when that pack of hyenas arrives.’
She had no intention of explaining to the aunts what she’d been doing, tattered and torn, on the Argiletum—in the dark—without her bodyguard. The old hags had already got wind of her flutter on the horses, any further misdemeanour would be more than sufficient for them to whisk her into court and have her discredited as unfit to manage Gaius’ business empire. However, provided she maintained a low profile for the next couple of days, that would not be a scenario she need worry about.
‘Tell me, Leonides, is my mother-in-law still coming? No heart attack, perchance, no nasty fall to immobilize the boot-faced old barnacle?’
The Macedonian was too slow for his smile. ‘Mistress Larentia is as fit as ever, madam.’
Shit. Jackals at a carcass, thought Claudia, the whole damned bunch. All winter long the jungle drums had been beating and now spring was here, the pack was on the move. Aunts, cousins, sisters, related by blood or marriage, what did it matter so long as they swelled the numbers. Led in the van by that septic old fossil, Larentia.
‘With regard to your correspondence—’
Claudia felt a chill wind blow through the dining room. ‘Those…’ She cleared her throat. ‘Those letters sealed with the cobra.’ The ones she made him intercept. ‘Do they still average two a day?’
In the bowels of the house, a pot crashed into smithereens unheard by either of them. The universe had shrunk to the walls of this room. The only sound was their breathing.
The steward stared intently at Drusilla’s daisychain of mud. ‘The frequency has increased a little lately.’
‘How many of these filthy letters does he send me now?’
‘Oh.’ Leonides scratched his ear. ‘Perhaps three.’
A knot tied itself round Claudia’s throat. ‘You’re holding out on me, I can tell.’ She was not sure the words came out as flippant as she’d hoped.
The Macedonian would not meet her eyes. ‘It’s the tone that bothers me. Each of these revolting notes gets more…’ He searched for the right word then replaced it with, ‘Aggressive.’
There was a loud drumming, which Claudia identified as her own blood pounding past her eardrums. These were dirty, dangerous letters at the best of times. And now the creep who wrote them was turning even nastier. ‘You burn them, though?’ It was the only way to eliminate the feeling of contamination they left behind.
‘Every one.’ The intensity receded. The icy breeze slithered away, the universe grew and familiar sounds intruded into the room. Whistling. A deliveryman’s banter. Amphorae being rolled over stone floors. Plus a clanking, which was not quite so familiar. ‘As to the rest of the correspondence—’
He stopped, because a man wearing a quantity of bruises and a long patrician tunic burst into the room. He was flanked by a soldier in uniform, hence the jangling. Claudia buried her head in her hands. One million people live in this city. Five hundred thousand, therefore, are male.
Why this one?
Why me?
She closed her eyes, counted to five then beckoned her steward. ‘Throw them out,’ she said. ‘Lock the door, bar it if necessary, but never, ever, on pain of your life, let this man,’ she pointed to Marcus, ‘into this house again.’
‘Sorry.’ Orbilio grinned like a cat with a quail. ‘Official business.’
‘Is it?’ Claudia addressed the legionary, who smiled wanly and thereby managed to avoid committing himself.
Leonides peered at the taller of the two visitors. ‘Are you all right, sir? Those cuts? Can I bring you—’
‘Leonides, you couldn’t even bring him to his senses, he’s so thick. You could, however, fetch Junius, if you will, plus a couple of other big, strong, muscular types. Our guests have stayed long enough.’
The soldier did his utmost to look invisible, which is not easy when you’ve bright red feathers in your helmet, so he settled for shuffling his feet and fixing his gaze at a set point on the mosaic. Claudia thought that, personally, the front end of that stag would be a more attractive bet. But then she wasn’t a soldier.
Orbilio advanced towards Claudia. ‘I shall need more time to consider your proposal of marriage—’
‘My what!’ She did not actually recall springing to her feet, but miraculously she was upright.
‘Last night,’ he continued cheerfully, ‘you said—in fact, you were adamant—you didn’t want me flitting in and out, so naturally I assumed—’ He broke off to pat Claudia on the back and help her through the coughing fit.
‘You’re insane,’ she said hoarsely, gulping down a whole glass of wine in one go. The legionary, she noticed, had perked up considerably.
‘Because I didn’t accept straight away? Quite possibly, but in the meantime, I have something of a problem on my hands. It’s just a little thing—’
‘Size is not important, Marcus. Don’t feel bad about it.’
This time it was the soldier’s turn to choke.
Orbilio had covered his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Is—’ It took him a good ten seconds to compose himself. ‘Is Jovi still here?’
Claudia’s head was spinning so fast, she thought it was in danger of flying right off. She hadn’t realize
d for a moment that Leonides had answered.
‘He is indeed, sir.’ Claudia glowered at him to keep his stupid mouth shut, but the signal missed its mark. ‘I’ll take you to him.’
‘Not so fast.’ She held up a restraining hand. ‘What’s so important about the ragamuffin that it brings the Security Police clodhopping round here during breakfast?’
The legionary’s eyes were darting from Orbilio to Claudia and back again, his mouth had all but fallen open.
‘You,’ she barked. ‘Out.’
The soldier glanced at his superior officer, who nodded assent and instructed him to wait outside the door. Claudia thought the feathers in his helmet drooped a little as he left.
‘A woman’s body has been discovered on the Argiletum,’ explained Marcus. ‘I’d like Jovi to take a look and see whether he can identify her.’
‘Orbilio, you insensitive clod, you can’t just show him a corpse and say “tell us, old chap, is that your mummy?”
‘Too subtle, you think?’ Orbilio’s expression grew serious. ‘Claudia, the Market Day Murderer has struck again. I presume you know about the previous two?’
Who didn’t? It was the talk of all Rome. At first, the gruesome find was believed to be a revenge killing, because the girl in question, a slave, had been in with a bad crowd. Mess with gangsters like that, and you’re left as a lesson to others. When, eight days later, another girl was found slashed to pieces, people began to ask: was it the same man, or a copycat killing? Little doubt now. Three successive market days. Three successive victims.
‘As I say, she was found on the Argiletum—and if you recall, Jovi told us he’d seen a woman “sleeping” there yesterday evening.’
And he’d have said if it was his mother.
‘Of course,’ breezed Marcus, slicing off a hunk of cheese, ‘I’ll need you to come along as well, to show me exactly where you found the lad. After all, it’s a long road and this could be coincidence.’
Leonides coughed quietly. ‘The time, madam. The ladies—’
‘Ladies?’ Orbilio spoke through the cheese.
Claudia’s mouth twisted down at the corners. ‘Gaius’ relatives, female branch. Like salmon gathering at the river to spawn, they’re on the move and heading this way.’
‘Very shortly,’ stressed the beanpole.
‘For the Festival of Fortune,’ she explained. ‘Which, as you well know, is tomorrow. So I’ll describe exactly where I found our Jovi, and you can be about your business.’
Two male voices competed for air time.
‘Madam, you don’t understand. Fortune’s tomorrow, but the ladies are due—’
‘For gods’ sake, Claudia, this is murder—’
Claudia scooped up a handful of raisins and popped them in her mouth. ‘Are you still here?’ she asked Marcus, fluttering her eyelashes.
He threw up his hands in despair. ‘Goddammit, woman, this is an official enquiry!’
‘I doubt that,’ she replied, reaching for the shrimps. ‘You’re the Security Police and the Empire is in crisis. Unless someone rich and powerful got topped—which of course she isn’t, or you wouldn’t need young Jovi to identify the victim—this looks like another of those cases you have taken to investigate in your own time. Am I right?’
He shrugged. ‘The law is inadequate, you know that.’
Technically, the death of a slave is the responsibility of their owner. The rules change when there’s a serial killer at work, but even then it comes way behind treason.
‘Please, Claudia. I need all the help I can get.’
Claudia considered the aunts. Then a vision of the murder victim flashed through her mind, the girl’s mutilated corpse lying stiff and unclaimed in some filthy back alley…
‘No.’ I cannot, I dare not, get involved.
The twitching of his cheek was the sole sign of irritation, but Orbilio was by no means defeated. ‘There’s a butcher on the loose—’
‘No.’ Too much is at risk. My house, my security, for gods’ sake, my whole future!
‘He’s killing them slowly, Claudia.’
‘Excuse me, madam.’ Claudia’s big-boned maidservant popped her head round the door. ‘There’s a dozen ladies in the atrium. Should I show them in here?’
The steward’s bony shoulders slumped. ‘That’s what I was trying to tell you,’ he said. ‘They were due here today.’ Claudia heard teeth grinding and had a horrid feeling they were hers. ‘Cypassis, whatever else you do, keep them in the hall. Take their cloaks, wipe their feet, offer them refreshment, just keep fussing till I get there.’
Goddammit, that stupid policeman actually seemed to find this amusing. Well I can’t have him around, for a start. If they recognize Orbilio from my previous run-ins with the law, I am doomed—especially when the investigator in question is black and blue from fighting. Quickly she ushered him through the far door and, with a finger to her lips, cautioned Leonides to silence. Now for the checklist.
Gaius’ marble bust? Out of the attic and dusted.
Business accounts? Doctored.
Jovi? Out of sight and out of earshot.
Moneylender? Knocking at some other mug’s door.
Snooping detectives? Banished to gardens.
Murder? None of my business.
That’s right. None of my damned business.
Satisfied there was not the slightest whiff of scandal for the battleaxes to pick up, Claudia patted her curls, smoothed her gown, adjusted her ear studs and glued a very large grin into place.
Serenely she opened the door to the atrium. And walked straight into the smirking legionary whom she’d stationed there.
VI
The Argiletum, Claudia discovered, turning into it from the Forum, was doing its customary roaring trade. As though pushed into some kind of civilian uniform, rich merchants drew their togas over their heads to protect themselves from the rain, but the majority of men—the slaves and street porters—had no such umbrella. Ankles splattered with mud and slurry, they clutched the necks of their tunics to minimize the drips which would trickle inside and more than one bemoaned the cheap fabrics which shrank, cold, to their flesh. Beneath an awning carried by slaves, a thickset widow considered how best to spend her inheritance, and this did not include cloaks for her staff. Claudia pulled her own wrap lower over her brow and became as anonymous as everyone else tramping about in the drizzle.
Over on the Palatine Hill, where the aunts sheltered in the dry of a marble colonnade, the Priest of Luna would be double-checking the placement of his sacred paraphernalia, for if even the slightest thing was adrift, the ceremony would at best start all over, at worse be abandoned.
Let no one forget that the taking of a life was of supreme sanctity.
Let no one trivialize the event.
Swamped by the smell of wet wool on this street of bookshops and cobblers, Claudia smiled to herself. Confronted by a dozen hostile women and a soldier in her house, she did what any girl would have done.
‘Cypassis,’ she chided. ‘If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times, the instant our dear relatives arrive, we are off to the Palatine!’
Most of the old trouts looked suitably confused, but it was the ringleader you needed to watch. ‘Luna?’ Larentia queried. ‘You’ve got us seats for the Festival?’
Provided Junius rode like the clappers, there should be ample time to persuade a dozen decent citizens to give up their place, and idly Claudia wondered how many would require silver assistance. ‘We’ll need to leave now, though,’ she said. ‘It’s quite a long walk.’ Which, with luck, would do for the old bitch.
‘Walk?’ quailed at least nine of the women. ‘Walk?’
‘Best form of exercise,’ she insisted, flapping her hands behind her back as a signal for Cypassis to dismiss her litter.
Larentia jabbed a bony finger at the legionary. ‘What’s he doing here?’
‘Him? Ah. The soldier is…an official escort.’ She turned a full set o
f teeth upon the leering legionary and spoke through them. ‘You squire us, I visit murder scene,’ she hissed. ‘Tell Orbilio.’
Less than a minute later, a baritone laugh rang out from the peristyle (which Claudia took to be confirmation that the deal was on) and then the only obstacle was to absent herself from the ceremony. No problem. As the women were grouping themselves in front of the white marble shrine, Junius ran up to inform his mistress that her best friend was suffering a miscarriage, please come quickly, it was an emergency and so utterly convincing was he in his role that Claudia very nearly called for a doctor herself.
A chair turned into the Argiletum, bouncing so badly as the bearers dodged the glistening puddles it was a wonder its occupant wasn’t seasick. And suddenly Claudia remembered why she was here. She stepped aside for a woman with a pot of forced lilies under one arm and a bawling infant under the other, who was collecting her husband’s boots from the menders, then listened as a Sarmatian bartered in bad Latin with a Parthian whose vocabulary was worse. She lingered at a stall specializing in foreign books, helping the wizened shopkeeper secrete his treasured scrolls beneath a yellow cloth to keep the damp at bay, she passed the time of day with an inkseller extolling the virtues of soot and pitch and octopus juice and she allowed the slipper-maker to ramble on about the guild he belonged to, but my, my, where were his manners, would the lady feel the softness of his leather?
Then finally…no more shops. No more diversions.
No more excuses.
Claudia positioned herself at the back of the small crowd which had gathered, anonymous under her cloak. She could still turn away. Cypassis sat on a three-legged stool outside the vellum maker’s, she had Jovi on her knee and was recounting how the raven had been turned from silver into black for telling tales. Jovi, unaware, chuckled merrily.
