by Marilyn Todd
The cheetah treated the assemblage to a show of awesome fangs as it yawned, then looked into the middle distance in disdain. Tulola patted its head and, in that second, Claudia realized it was no mere sentiment which attracted Tulola to the cheetah. It was the same predatory instinct in both.
‘Don’t mind her,’ Tulola drawled. ‘She’s quite harmless.’
The cheetah’s expression changed to suggest that, actually, a nice joint of Prefect was just what she fancied. Look how the black tip of my lovely long tail twitches in anticipation!
Macer, struggling to regain his composure, barked, ‘There’s no one else, I presume? We’re not waiting for a husband or something?’
Tulola smiled coyly. ‘Married? Me?’
‘Don’t be so modest, cousin.’ Pallas leaned back in his basketweave chair and crossed his arms. ‘Tell the Prefect about your dear old spouse.’
If looks could kill, Pallas would have been impaled by a thousand spears. ‘That marriage,’ Tulola spoke through clenched teeth, ‘was over years ago.’
‘We’re wasting time,’ Sergius said dismissively. ‘Oughtn’t we to move on to the peeping Tom?’
‘Peeping Tom, sir?’
If Macer was confused, it was nothing compared to what Claudia was feeling. What was he talking about? Had she missed something?
‘The dead man, of course.’ Sergius’ impatience was ill-concealed. ‘I want to find out who he is and let his family know what sort of scum he was.’
Macer pulled a loose thread of embroidery from his tunic. ‘May I ask what leads you to this conclusion, sir?’
It was Tulola who answered. ‘Me. Several times lately I’ve seen a face at my window.’
‘And you recognized this person as the deceased?’
‘By the time I reached the window, he’d vanished,’ Tulola replied.
‘That’s why I sent for you,’ Sergius explained. ‘I’d been increasingly concerned for my sister’s safety—you know how these perverts operate. Starts off with spying and escalates from there.’ He turned to Claudia and spread his hands apologetically. ‘In retrospect I should have brought the army in sooner, I didn’t realize how far things had gone. I really appreciate your staying on to give evidence.’
The room swam. Staying on? To give evidence? Gods-dammit, Sergius Pictor, you are one selfish, devious son-of-a-bitch. You stood by and let me think… ‘The pleasure is all mine, Sergius,’ she assured him through a mouth full of honey.
She realized, now, what he was up to. Those big beefy guards weren’t here to protect property. Their job was to ensure the performing animals remained a secret. Once someone had breached that security, and clearly the dung-beetle had, what better way to ensure Master Pictor wasn’t pipped to the post by poor imitations than broadcasting your copyright via the might of the Roman legions? No wonder you can afford marble on this scale.
Macer was holding up a restraining hand. ‘One moment. You’ve lost me, sir.’ He beckoned forward the little blonde girl. ‘Coronis, you’re on record as saying you saw—you actually witnessed—Mistress Seferius stab the deceased.’
‘Well…yeah. That’s what it looked like.’ Coronis stared vigorously at her feet. ‘At the time.’
The Prefect put an exploratory finger in his ear and examined the result. ‘Are you now retracting your statement?’
‘Re—?’
‘Disclaiming. Disowning. Withdrawing.’ Macer tutted impatiently. ‘You did not see the actual knife thrust?’
Corbulo leaned closer to whisper in Claudia’s ear, but she was too intent on Coronis’ testimony to hear what was said.
The girl had clenched her thumbs in her fists. ‘Well, I saw Miss Claudie and the dead bloke, I saw the knife sticking out’—a glance flickered across in Claudia’s direction—‘and since there weren’t no one else, what was I supposed to think?’
Frankly, Claudia couldn’t care what conclusions the silly cow had drawn. A weight had been lifted from her shoulders and she was happily planning revenge on Sergius Pictor. Should that involve regular consignments of Seferius wine, so much the better—sales were abysmal since her husband had died.
‘Prefect, we’re getting off the track.’ Sergius waved his hand from side to side. ‘It’s obvious this pervert had taken his filthy game one step further and either it was an accident, the door slamming on to him, or else, caught red-handed, he took the coward’s way out.’
Possibly. I mean if you were intending to rape a helpless victim at knife point, you would be carrying the weapon with the blade pointed towards you, wouldn’t you? Still, if Macer didn’t pick it up, Claudia had no intention of drawing his attention to the anomaly. He was still addressing the slave girl.
‘Who else was sleeping in the guest wing apart from Mistress Seferius?’
‘Only me, I’m afraid.’ Pallas saved her the bother of answering. ‘And I plead not guilty.’
‘That’s right,’ Sergius said. ‘We all heard screams and came running.’
‘Hmm.’ Macer tapped his lip thoughtfully. ‘Mistress Seferius, in your own words, how would you describe the deceased?’
‘A sleazeball.’
‘You knew him?’
‘I know his type.’
Macer considered carefully before laying himself open twice. ‘I was rather hoping you could give us a physical description. You see, most of the group gathered this morning haven’t seen the body. Your description might trigger a memory.’
In a word, seedy. ‘Medium height, heavy, balding, spongy nose, pouches under his eyes, yellow teeth. Oh, I nearly forgot. He also had a very large belly with a knife in it.’
The Prefect nearly laughed with the rest of them. ‘That’s a pretty detailed description.’
‘We shared a pretty intimate embrace.’
‘Distressing, I’m sure.’ His gaze swept round the room. ‘Your bodyguard. Where is he?’
Junius? Dear Diana, she hadn’t even noticed he was missing. Come to think of it, she hadn’t seen him since yesterday morning… ‘He’s running an errand.’
‘Oh?’
Think! Think! ‘I asked him to return to the gig and search for my earring. Present from my late husband. Sentimental value. Very precious.’ Wasn’t it warm in here?
‘You appear to be wearing two at the moment.’
‘Silly me.’ Claudia patted one of the studs. ‘I had it all along.’ Junius, you low-down son-of-a-snake, I’ll roast your gizzard for this.
Sergius’ eyes narrowed. ‘Prefect, you will be investigating Claudia’s accident, won’t you?’
‘Naturally.’ Macer seemed less than pleased with the insinuation. ‘Perhaps you can tell us exactly what happened, Mistress Seferius?’
Claudia’s blood turned to steam just thinking about it. ‘We were,’ she pointed south, ‘about two and a half hours out of Tarsulae. The fog was thick, but with the road deserted, we were still making reasonable time when half-a-dozen riders came up, blasting on trumpets and banging drums. The mares bolted and—’
‘Talking of mares, Barea reports one missing from the stables. Do you know anything about that?’
Try Pallas, he probably ate it. ‘Are you accusing me of kidnapping a horse, Prefect?’
A titter ran round the room.
‘No, no, I think we’d have noticed. Are you able to describe your attackers?’
Am I! ‘One was bug-eyed, another had a birthmark on his face about here,’ she indicated her right cheekbone, ‘and a third had ginger hair.’
‘I congratulate your memory for faces, Mistress Seferius. You, sir, can you add anything to those descriptions?’
‘Me?’ The driver looked up sharply. ‘I didn’t hardly see them, not to speak of. Me mares was bucking like crazy and I could barely see the frigging road as it was.’
‘You’re not the lady’s regular driver?’
‘No, sir. I’m new at the stand.’
Macer tweaked the lace of his leather corselet. ‘Was there much damage to your rig
?’
‘Complete write-off. One of me mares was killed outright, the other broke her neck and Master Pictor here helped me cut her throat, she—’
‘Didn’t anybody stop to render assistance?’
‘Like milady says, it’s only local traffic, innit? We didn’t see no one.’
‘Yet it was Mistress Seferius here—a noblewoman, no less—who set off alone to fetch help. Why didn’t her bodyguard go? Why, for that matter, didn’t you?’
The driver shuffled from one foot to the other. ‘Well, young Junius was out cold, see, and—’
‘Yes?’
‘Well—’
‘Yes?’
‘Milady said—’
‘For pity’s sake, man, what did milady say?’
‘Well, as I remember it were,’ he coughed and fixed his gaze on the painted satyrs high on the ceiling, ‘“For gods’ sake, driver, where do you think you’re sneaking off to? Can’t you see there’s a crisis?”’ He looked anxiously at the Prefect. ‘It were her sandal, see?’
Macer blinked. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The red one. It fell off when me gig turned over. She said it were valuable and—well, that I should stay behind and look for it.’
‘Is that right, Mistress Seferius?’ The incredulity in the Prefect’s voice was insulting to the point of malice. ‘You insisted the driver hunt for your sandal while you went off barefoot to fetch help?’
Don’t be ridiculous. I always carry a spare pair. ‘The man’s arm was broken, the chances are he’d have passed out long before he’d climbed the slope. I don’t see where this is leading.’
Macer ignored the edge to her voice. ‘I am simply curious as to why a woman of substance should choose to travel an abandoned road with no servants and no luggage, and why she should pick my home town for her overnight stop.’
It is not your home town, though, is it? You’d no sooner live in Tarsulae than I would. Claudia delved into her wardrobe of smiles and came up with a particularly dazzling model. ‘It’s very simple,’ she said. ‘Why follow the Via Flaminia on its newer, but longer route, when you can take the old road, then cross country on a local path?’
She’d reckoned without the fog, though, and she’d reckoned without the hooligans, but most of all Claudia had reckoned without the resilience of the locals. They had none. Like rats on the proverbial sinking ship, they’d left in their droves. Once-thriving settlements were reduced to ghost towns, their shops crumbling to dust, their inns providing hospitality only to vermin and spiders. Even the private huts which dotted the roadside—cabins where patricians and their friends would hole up for the night—were dilapidated, with what doors that remained swinging in the wind on ungreased hinges. Which explained why a group of drunken oiks could indulge in their antics and get away with it. (Or thought they could.)
‘Tarsulae was simply a question of expediency and, as for servants, I’d sent them ahead by ox cart.’
‘What exactly was the reason for your urgency? Family illness, perhaps? Or maybe—’ he paused—‘problems with an arsonist?’
‘Good heavens, is there one on the loose?’ How the hell did he know about that?
‘Might that have been what your bailiff, Rollo, meant by urgent?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ None that I’m telling you, anyway.
‘Prefect, unless this is relevant,’ Pallas said lazily, ‘I think we all have better things to do.’
Thank you, Pallas. Thank you, thank you, thank you. ‘Yes, indeed.’ Sergius threw his two quadrans’ worth into the ring. ‘My wife is distressed enough as it is.’ Two bright spots of colour had appeared in Alis’ cheeks, but how long they’d been there, Claudia couldn’t tell.
‘Well, she would be, wouldn’t she?’ Euphemia cut in suddenly. ‘Isodorus was another one who met with sudden death under this roof.’
The Prefect looked baffled. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘My first brother-in-law.’ The way she stressed the word ‘first’ was singularly unattractive. ‘His name was Isodorus.’
‘Euphemia, please—’ There was a quaver in Alis’ voice.
‘My wife was a widow,’ Sergius explained, giving her shoulder a reassuring pat. ‘And Isodorus was a sick man.’
‘He was only twenty-two when he died.’
‘Euphemia, that’s enough,’ Sergius snapped. Alis pleated her gown between her fingers. ‘Prefect, could I ask you to deal with this a little faster so my wife can have a lie-down? She’s feeling faint.’
‘Really, Sergius.’ Alis’ embarrassment was painful to watch. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me.’ Her eyes remained riveted on the folds in her hands. ‘I’m fine.’
Macer burnished his chestplate with the inside of his wrist. ‘Mistress Pictor, I am proceeding with all haste.’ She might not have spoken. ‘Bear with me a few moments longer. Mistress Seferius.’ He smiled ingratiatingly. ‘Claudia. Am I right in believing you are negotiating to purchase a parcel of land adjacent to your vineyard?’ Claudia felt a shot of liquid fire hurtle through her veins. He was up to something. This fussy, pompous, humourless so-and-so was up to something.
‘You are indeed,’ she replied silkily, with no attempt to elaborate. If he has dice hidden up his sleeve, he’ll have to bloody well play them.
‘Well, correct me if I’m wrong,’ Macer smiled a reptilian smile, ‘but wasn’t some of the land you are after recently targeted by an arsonist?’
You slimy bastard. Claudia took a good, long, deep breath before answering. ‘The operative word there, Prefect, is “some”.’ She would give him no quarter.
‘I see.’ And he wasn’t giving her any, either. ‘But as a result of the damage, wasn’t this land offered for sale at a greatly reduced price?’
Damn right. ‘I have no idea. I leave the monetary side to my banker.’
For some time she had been trying to outwit a certain Senator Quintilian on various land deals. This was the third such occasion, but how come Macer knows about it? Shit. She’d forgotten how Quintilian boasted of his villa on Falcon Mountain—just up the bloody road from here. Smack bang in the middle of Macer’s patch, and of course the local aristocracy get together from time to time. Bugger, bugger, bugger.
Macer had pulled out a handkerchief and was buffing his fingernails in silence. The atmosphere was so heavy you could have cut it into slices and fried it in olive oil, but no one dared break it, not even Claudia. What, her mind raced, was this little maggot driving at?
Time seemed to stand on its head and do nothing. The field workers were returning for their midday meal, a donkey brayed in the distance. Pungent smells of roasting goat and cabbage, chestnut bread and sprats wafted round the banqueting room. Pallas’ stomach began to growl. Finally the Prefect put away his handkerchief and turned to face Claudia. The tip of his thin nose was quite pink.
‘Tell me, Claudia. Why did you kill him?’
A hush settled over the room.
The breath caught in Claudia’s thoat. ‘Quintilian? Is he dead?’
Macer’s eyes narrowed. ‘Not to my knowledge, no. I was referring to your friend in your doorway.’
It was Corbulo, sitting beside her, who sprang to her rescue. ‘This is outrageous! We’ve already established the man’s a complete stranger—’
‘I beg to contradict.’ Macer was calm to the point of disinterest. ‘We have done nothing of the sort. As a matter of fact, the deceased was a local man named Fronto and he is well known to me.’
‘Remus!’ Sergius, who had turned as pale as his wife, pushed Alis aside and slumped on to the stool. ‘What—? I mean, if you knew about his activities, why didn’t you lock this pervert away?’
‘Fronto might be many things, sir, but he was no sexual deviant. In fact, until very recently, he was employed on my staff.’
Macer silenced the buzz of excitement with his hand. ‘Quiet, please. Moreover,’ he continued, ‘the description of the arsonist laying waste those lands so close to your own, my dear Claudia
, matches your description of Fronto to a T.’
Claudia jumped to her feet. ‘For gods’ sake, man! Do I look the sort of woman who goes around stabbing total strangers?’
The Prefect studied her for a full five seconds before a slow grin spread across his face. ‘No, Mistress Seferius, you do not.’ He bared shiny, white teeth. ‘Which is precisely why you thought you could get away with it.’
VI
The imbecile! The half-wit! The absolute bloody cheek of it! Claudia stomped out of the room and slammed the door into next week. Behind her swarmed a sea of faces, some slack-jawed, some shouting, some still digesting the evidence, though none made an effort to stop her. Let them try, she thought. Just let them bloody try. The opulence of the atrium flashed past unnoticed. Pyrenean marble. Friezes. Frescoes. Gold lampstands. Lavender stalks and elecampane burned unheeded in silver braziers, a fountain splashed in vain. Garlands of daphne draped round the columns might have been invisible.
What was he thinking of, Macer, fixing the trial for next Wednesday? She was overtaking a bronze bust of somebody’s pug-nosed ancestor and imagining a scene, not too far in the future, in which Macer lay prostrate at the Emperor’s feet, begging to be spared the disgrace of patrolling the Dacian frontier for the remainder of his career, when she stopped dead.
I’m seeing things. By the gods, that moron has made me hallucinate!
At the far end of the atrium, however, clouds of dust bellying out from the cloak he was shaking, that tall, strong figure of a man was most definitely of the flesh. Patrician stock, you could tell by the length of the tunic and the high purple boots. Military background, you could tell by the set of the shoulders, the dead straight line of the backbone. Totally unwelcome, you could tell by the mop of wavy hair and a hand that would be used any minute to cover his mouth and stifle a laugh.
‘Well, beat me on the bottom with a bun!’
