by Marilyn Todd
The trill of a blackbird interrupted her musing. Just one or two notes and faint at that—she could barely make them out between the howls and the growls—but others would follow and the evidence was conclusive.
Juno be praised, the long night was over.
The road accident instantly forgotten, she flung the counterpane round her shoulders and fumbled her way to the window. It was going to be another dank start, she thought, easing open one narrow shutter, but at least the fog lifts quickly as she knew from experience. She unhooked the second leaf. Oh. Her tattered tunic hung limp on the ledge, but of Drusilla there was no sign. And the mist in front of her suddenly seemed denser.
‘You don’t fool me, you wretched feline.’ Claudia’s breath was white in the pre-dawn air. ‘I know you’re out there.’
Just because the bones of your ancestors lie in the tombs of the Pharaohs, don’t think you can put on airs and graces with me.
‘Sulk all you like, but we both know that one sniff of a sardine and you’ll be over this sill like a shot.’ Whose was that silly, reedy voice? ‘And remember, it’s not my fault you used up four of your lives in one go.’
What was that? It sounded like a soft scuffle. There it was again. Claudia’s breath came out in a rush. ‘Drusilla?’
Tossing the bedspread aside, she picked up her skirts and raced across the room. Although the grey light of dawn was growing paler by the minute, it was nowhere near sufficient and Claudia cursed the upended brazier as bronze collided with shinbone. It was only because she was swearing and hobbling and bleeding and hurting all at the same time that she didn’t realize, until she reached the door, that whatever talents these clever Egyptian moggies might possess, rattling handles isn’t one of them.
‘What?’ She unlocked the door and flung it open.
The man in the doorway was staring at her. ‘I…I…’
His mouth hung open, and either he had a speech impediment or—as she very much suspected—he was stinking drunk. For good measure he produced another guttural gargle and lurched forward.
‘Get away from me, you revolting little dung-beetle!’
He really was the most unprepossessing creature she’d ever had the misfortune to lay eyes on.
The dung-beetle’s mouth opened and closed. ‘I…’
Claudia put out her left hand to push him away while the other tried to slam the door in his face, but he was too fast. He dived towards her. Using both hands, Claudia pushed against his chest, but his arms had closed round her shoulders.
‘Wrong room, buster.’
She daren’t risk connecting her knee with his groin for fear of unbalancing herself—and the prospect of this horny sod on top of her didn’t bear thinking about. Along the atrium, still bright with night-torches, a blonde slave emerged from the kitchens with a wide, steaming bowl. Good. Between the two of them, they might be able to prise this animal off. She tried to call out, but the pressure of his body against hers was threatening to squeeze the life right out of her. Mercifully the girl looked up…and, incredibly, began to scream.
Silly bitch, Claudia thought, nearly buckling under the weight of the gargling lecher, but at least it’s brought help. Doors were opening left, right and centre.
Almost rhythmically, Claudia and the drunk danced in the doorway. He pushed, she pushed, he pushed back, but all the time she was growing weaker and weaker. Surely someone has the sense to yank him off?
Inexplicably everyone seemed to be yelling, and it was only when Claudia finally lost the battle with the dung-beetle and they toppled sideways together, she began to understand why.
The dung-beetle wasn’t drunk. The dung-beetle wasn’t gargling.
The dung-beetle had a bloody great knife in his belly.
II
‘I honestly don’t know what the fuss is about.’
Claudia had changed out of the blood-soaked shift and was silently tapping her toe on the floor. The dining room faced east, where the first rays of sunshine had punched through the mist to give a rich, buttery quality to the landscape beyond and bejewelled the narrow stream that bounced down the hillside to make the valley so rich and so fertile. An early orange-tip butterfly made its wispy flight past the window to investigate the white clouds of arabis that tumbled over the rocks beside the water, and a wagtail bobbed up and down in delight. ‘It’s not as though I killed him.’
The only other occupant of the room glanced up from the pear he was peeling. ‘Darling girl, he’s not breathing and his pulse has stopped. I can’t see him dancing the fandango again.’
‘I’m well aware of his condition, Pallas.’ Round the walls, Ganymede was being swept from his flocks by a giant eagle and on the floor, boozy Bacchus frolicked among maenads. ‘The point I’m making’, Claudia ground her heel in Bacchus’ eye, ‘is that it wasn’t me who killed him.’
In fact, the whole thing was a mystery. Amid doors flying open and a positively prodigal amount of shouting and squawking, and despite Claudia’s obvious shock and revulsion, she had been conscious of immense confusion within the household. Perhaps it was not entirely surprising that Sergius recovered first. Propelling her gently away from the carnage (and unwittingly straight into his sister’s predatory arms), he could not apologize enough. The shame of it, having a guest subjected to violence. Was she hurt? Was she frightened? She mustn’t be put off by this, please don’t think badly of us, I hope you’ll feel safe still. Tulola, look after her, will you? Hot, honeyed wine, please, to put colour in her cheeks.
Pallas carefully cut away a blemish. ‘Didn’t winter very well,’ he said, chopping the pear in half and sniffing intently. ‘But then neither did the apples. Damp in the fruit store, presumably.’
Outdoors, the five monotonous notes from the wood pigeon perched on the bath-house roof added a curiously sleepy dimension to the proceedings.
‘Claudia, Claudia, what a terrible experience! How you must be feeling!’ Alis fluttered into the breakfast room, pale as ever. ‘Was it—? Oh, I say! What a wonderful tunic! So vibrant. Wherever did you find it?’
‘It’s Tulola’s.’ That, if nothing else, would teach her not to travel light in future. Bright orange cotton with a blue band round the neck and a large blue flounce? It might suit Egyptian hairstyles and heavily painted eyes, but on a sophisticated city girl, it was as out of place as a corpse at a wedding. Corpse? Bad joke, Claudia.
‘It suits you. I mean, really suits you.’
‘It makes me look like a common tart.’
Claudia hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud until Pallas said drily, ‘Definitely Tulola’s, then.’
Alis’ eyes widened in shock. ‘Pallas!’
‘Dear child, you are quite right and I take it back.’ He laid down his chicken wing and swivelled his eyes towards Claudia. ‘My cousin’s morals do not aspire to such heights.’
Colour flooded Alis’ white cheeks. ‘Sssh!’
Pallas began to dissect a quail. ‘I think you’ll find Tulola is aware of my sentiments.’
Claudia bit her lip. ‘Forget Tulola, what about—’
‘Oh dear, were you two in the middle of a conversation?’ Alis clicked her tongue. ‘Well, don’t mind me.’ She unlocked one of the carved chests and examined a green glass jug. ‘Carry on as though I’m not here.’
It was wellnigh impossible, but Claudia made a gallant effort. ‘Why,’ she leaned over the breakfast table, ‘has Sergius sent for the military?’
Why not handle it himself? Come on, jurisprudence isn’t reserved for patricians. We merchant classes are equally entitled to administer justice among our own, it’s one of the perks.
‘Pallas, are you listening? I’m trying to work out—’
‘Why Sergius sent for the Prefect. I heard you.’ He searched around for a finger bowl. ‘I presume you’ve asked him?’
Claudia pushed across a bronze bowl filled with warm, scented water. ‘He felt, and I quote, it was essential for the officials to get to the bottom of the matte
r.’ She refrained from mentioning the crispness in his tone which brooked no argument.
‘There you are then.’ He shook the drips from his pudgy fingers. ‘Try a dried cornel and stop worrying. They’re simply divine and—’
‘I’m not worrying, I—’
‘Claudia, which do you think will look best centre stage at dinner tonight?’ Alis weighed a green bowl in one hand, a yellow bowl in the other.
‘—I repeat, I’m not worrying, but it’s not every day a man’s life-blood drains itself out on your nightshift.’ Claudia smiled a beguiling smile. ‘Couldn’t you have a word with him?’ There were enough skeletons in her closet to keep a pack of hungry jackals happy for a year. The last thing she needed was Officialdom picking over the bones.
‘Ah!’ The big man’s nose wrinkled ominously. ‘Unfortunately my stock is not that high with the man of the house—’ He let his voice trail off.
‘But you’re related?’
‘The connection is not as close as you might imagine.’ Pallas put a slice of pear in his mouth and chomped away for a while. ‘And I’m afraid Sergius leans to the impression that I have outstayed my welcome.’
‘Why? How long have you been here?’
He shot her a glance from the corner of his eye. ‘Two years.’
Laughing aloud is not generally prescribed to heal bruised ribs, but Claudia couldn’t help herself. I’m beginning to like you, she thought. I’m beginning to like you very much.
Across the room Alis clearly felt some decision ought to be made about the bowls, but before she could determine the verdict for herself, the green jug took the matter into its own handles and crashed to the floor.
‘Everyone ignore me,’ she quivered and Everyone obeyed. Claudia by letting a slave through to brush up the slivers, Pallas by cracking a snail shell.
‘Have you seen Tulola’s harem?’ He impaled the unfortunate mollusc on the point of his knife.
‘That ragbag collection of animals? Not yet.’
‘Darling girl, the beasts are Sergius’.’ His chins shook in amusement. ‘I’m talking about the men.’
Alis took advantage of the shocked pause. ‘Oh dear, I did so want to get a matching set for dinner. Why couldn’t it have been the yellow bowl?’
‘For gods’ sake, woman, a man’s been murdered! Claudia and I are trying to converse!’
‘I’m sorry, Pallas. Sorry.’ She twisted her face in a girlish gesture which had the unfortunate effect of making her look closer to thirty-eight than twenty-eight. ‘Pretend I’m not here.’
He did his best. ‘Not that her odalisques stay long, you understand. Our dear cousin bores easily.’
Claudia felt her pulse quicken. ‘Are you saying the dung-beetle was one of them?’
‘Wander round the west wing some time, it’s quite an experience, but as much as our Tulola goes for the rough trade, she hasn’t sunk that low.’
‘By rough trade, you mean…?’
‘Britons, Iberians, Germans. The ruff-tuff hairy types whereas me’—he peered down the neck of his tunic and pulled a face—‘I’m simply a martyr to depilation.’ Claudia flung herself on the couch opposite him. ‘What about the Negroes?’ Who could forget the sight of their sweat-drenched bodies harnessed to Tulola’s chariot?
‘She goes through, how shall I put it, phases.’ Pallas swallowed the remainder of a sausage before elaborating. ‘Last year, for instance, she was into tattoos. Kept a whole string of Scythians, and you know how partial they are to body art. The black boys, I’m afraid, she picked up at auction.’
To use as toys, the bitch. ‘So if he wasn’t one of Tulola’s conquests, who was the man in my bedroom?’ Pallas let out a soft belch and refilled his long-stemmed glass. ‘How should I know, darling? Never seen him before in my life.’
How odd. Claudia helped herself to wine, but it was the strong stuff and she merely sipped, although her mind was working faster than a goldbeater’s hammer. ‘Sergius has asked me to stay for the Prefect’s questions, and,’ not that she’d hang about once Drusilla turned up, ‘I was wondering how long it would take him to get here.’
‘Macer?’ The fat man picked up a pickled onion and began to eat it like an apple. ‘His barracks are in Tarsulae—’
Her ears pricked up. Tarsulae was the town where they’d spent the night before last, Claudia, Junius and the driver. She’d never forget that dump so long as she lived. In fact, her legs still bore a cluster of itchy red lumps from the damned bedding.
‘—which, as you know, is the only town for miles since the new road was built.’
‘I don’t suppose anyone could give me a hand with these crocks, could they?’ wailed Alis.
‘Looks good on his record, a manor that size,’ Pallas continued. ‘Even though the population is somewhat disproportionate.’
Tell me about it. In the fifteen years since the Emperor diverted the Via Flaminia, most of the locals had uprooted themselves and their families in order to be in at the start of the new prosperity. And, make no mistake, prosperous it was. Since Augustus had brought an end to three generations of civil war, trade had virtually doubled and whether you were a butcher or a banker, a midwife or a marble merchant, you could be assured of one thing: a damned good living on the far side of those mountains.
What sort of crimes would the military this side of the range be used to dealing with, Claudia wondered. Fiddling weights and measures, petty pilfering, adultery? No, no, those were civil cases. Patrolling the roads? Fat chance. To call those goat tracks roads would be like calling an ulcer a beauty spot, and as for the Old Road, well. She hadn’t seen many patrols yesterday.
Lazily she tossed a hazelnut from hand to hand. Such a simple matter, this, and more than likely the culprit would be some grudge-bearing slave, so why, why, why this compulsion for the military? Surely Sergius could sort it out himself? She didn’t know their purpose, but she’d seen his private security measures—big buggers who probably munched ears for breakfast, washed down with the blood of babes. Not so much slaves as mercenaries, twenty or thirty of them, and men like these weren’t cheap to run.
Indeed, you couldn’t hold your own in this neglected backwater without some degree of commercial nous, much less flourish, and precious little was required in the way of mathematics to deduce that one diverted road plus fifteen years of mass migration ought by rights to equal a decrease in fortune. Yet, she tapped her knuckle on the arm of the couch—this is solid bronze—and as for the upholstery—surely this particular shade of violet is unique to certain aloes? A strain that will grow only on the Isle of Socotra? Which happens to lie smack bang in the Indian Ocean?
The sudden realization as to why Sergius had called in the army sent a thousand spiders abseiling down Claudia’s backbone.
She remembered the glance she had caught of her handsome host as she followed Tulola to change her bloodstained nightshift. Although fleeting, she had interpreted the expression as that of a man mining for lead and finding a thick, strong vein of gold in its place. Now she was not so sure.
For all his outward signs of hospitality, Sergius believes he’s harbouring a murderess! No wonder he was so solicitous. Be kind to the nice lady and she won’t stab you…
The hazelnut clattered on to the floor and came to rest on a maenad’s nose. Why Claudia’s hand was shaking, she had no idea. Good grief, I’ve nothing to fear, it’s not as though I stabbed the wretched man… The little filbert splintered under Claudia’s dainty tooled sandal as she recalled the law concerning murder. It was quite straightforward. No ifs and ands and buts and maybes. In fact, there’s a children’s rhyme that covers it nicely. Confession is death, denial is trial. By Jupiter, Claudia Seferius would most certainly be contesting the charge.
Pallas was too busy with his boiled bacon to notice her slip away, Alis too heavily entrenched with her fripperies. Minerva’s magic, what have I got myself into?
Her bodyguard, a bandage round his head and his left eye a splendid mag
enta, was waiting in the atrium and his shoes squeaked on the marble floor as he approached.
‘Are you all right, madam?’ His face was pinched with worry. ‘There’s talk in the slave quarters—’
Claudia cut him short with a flick of the wrist. ‘Never listen to gossip, Junius.’ I do, but you shouldn’t.
‘But a man was killed in front of you?’
‘Some trivial misunderstanding.’ Try as she might to address his good eye, there was something magnetic about the shiny, swollen, purple thing on the other side of his nose. ‘The authorities will iron things out.’
‘You mean—?’ His square jaw dropped. ‘By the gods, madam! They’re not accusing you of the murder?’
‘Temporarily. Now hop along and stick a steak on that shiner, there’s a good boy.’
A whirl of orange cotton, she swept down the colonnade towards the far end of the atrium where condensation from the roof tiles dripped into the pool and a shaggy-haired slave in check pantaloons carried a loaded salver towards the west wing. Claudia snatched it out of his hands and marched to her room, kicking the door open with her toe. Juno be praised, the blood had been mopped up, there was not so much as a single stain to show the dung-beetle had ever been there, let alone expired on the spot.
For several long minutes her young bodyguard remained motionless in the shadows, his stern blue eyes fixed on Claudia’s door, and when he did finally leave, it was not towards the slaves’ barracks that his footsteps were directed, but to the back exit leading to the thickly wooded Umbrian hills. Within seconds, he was swallowed up by the swirling mist.
*
No way!
No way is Claudia Seferius going to trial.
Claudia Seferius has enough on her plate as it is—and for heaven’s sake. What sort of a man is this Sergius Pictor, thinking she has nothing better to do than to go round sticking knives into people? You’ll pay for this, so help me, you will! I’ll take every copper quadran you own.
