by Marilyn Todd
‘Now that, darling girl, is where it gets really interesting. Uh-oh, look who’s coming. Quick! Run!’ Faster than a jackrabbit, Pallas had grabbed the jug and was lumbering back to the house, but Claudia’s arm was caught in a vice.
‘Ah, Mistress Seferius! How enchanting you look in cinnabar.’
Macer, you slimy little salamander, how obnoxious you look in daylight.
He released her arm. ‘May I join you?’
Why don’t you crawl back under your stone and wait for the moon?
‘I am, you see, eager to hear your account of the terrible events of last night.’
Oh, Pallas. How wrong can you be.
With his handkerchief he brushed the marble before allowing his red embroidered tunic to make contact, but, alas, not before Claudia had tipped the remains of Pallas’ lunch on to the seat.
‘In case my story clashes with that of the crocodiles, Prefect?’ She tossed the plate in the shrubbery and flicked an ant from her finger. With any luck, there would be a small army of the little beggars sinking their pincers into his bottom even as she forced herself to smile at him. ‘Or out of concern for my personal safety?’
‘I fear you are making fun of me, Mistress Seferius, but murder is a serious matter.’
‘Especially when one is at the sharp end and the distinction between breathing and investigating the possibilities of an afterlife are beginning to blur.’ She leaned forward so her nose was a mere hand’s span away from his. ‘These bruises are not fake, Prefect. Last night someone tried to kill me.’
His smile was pure reptile. ‘I realize that, my dear Claudia, and one of the things I am trying to establish at the moment, apart from his identity, is a connection linking Fronto with the dead man and, ergo, with yourself.’
‘The eternal triangle, how original. We’ll see your name carved on great monuments yet.’
Actually he was more the sort who’d want a sundial for his memorial to ensure you saw his name whenever you looked.
‘Mock me all you wish, Mistress Seferius, only there is a nasty smell to this place which has less to do with the menagerie than appears on the surface.’
Do smells appear on the surface? Frankly, she was too disinterested in this little maggot to waste breath baiting him, and besides, if there was a ready answer, then he would find it as soon as he stood up. Pallas had had mullet on his plate, as well as mustard and vinegar and soft-boiled eggs.
‘So while my men delve for clues, perhaps you and I could go over a few of the facts that you have already presented to me, since there appear to be one or two anomalies in your statement.’
If you’ve only found a couple, then I’m doing better than I hoped. ‘Such as?’
‘Well, for one thing, you told me you had sent your servants on ahead by ox cart, when in fact you did nothing of the sort.’
‘Macer, you surprise me. You’re the Prefect of a legion covering a very large territory,’ which as we both know boasts a microscopic population, ‘yet you find that an anomaly?’
Puncture his pride and you prick Macer’s innermost soul. ‘I don’t’—the bluster was almost painful—‘quite follow you.’
‘Come, come. Surely you must have realized that in questioning me before fifty, sixty witnesses, I was hardly going to admit, a woman of my social standing, to travelling without servants. What would people think?’
‘You’re saying you lied to retain your self-respect?’
‘Wouldn’t you? The truth, Macer, is that I have been a widow for but a short time.’ She dabbed at the corner of her eye. ‘This opportunity to travel unencumbered, it was like a godsend. I am not’—sniff—‘the type of person who needs a retinue of slaves to flaunt her status and naturally I keep a chest of clothes at my dear husband’s farm.’
He scratched the tip of his thin nose. ‘Let’s recap, shall we?’ Damn. It didn’t work. ‘You received a note from your bailiff urging you to come to Etruria at once?’
‘Correct.’
‘You decided this was a much-needed escape from a crowd of attentive servants and, with the exception of Junius, left them in Rome?’
‘Correct.’
‘You hired a gig from the stand, taking your chances with a new and untried driver?’
‘Correct.’
‘You left the Via Flaminia at Narni in order to take a shortcut through Umbria on the abandoned road and spent the night at Tarsulae simply because that was the only town with a half-decent inn?’
‘Correct.’
‘The following morning you were run off the road by person or persons unknown and stumbled upon the Villa Pictor by chance?’
‘Correct.’
‘You did not recognize Fronto, even though he might (note, I say might) have been the arsonist, you did not argue with him, you did not plunge a kitchen knife into his belly?’
‘Correct.’
‘And last night another man, who has yet to be identified, tried to kill you by throwing you alive and kicking to the crocodiles?’
‘Correct.’
He breathed on one of his gold medallions and polished it with the heel of his hand.
‘Suppose I put it to you, Mistress Seferius, that you are lying through your lovely white teeth? That right from the very beginning you have tried to pull the wool over my eyes?’
‘I don’t think the servant issue constitutes major controversy, Prefect, I’ve explained—’
‘Servants? My dear Claudia, that’s neither here nor there, just another minor incident which shows your contempt for what you undoubtedly think of us yokels. I am referring to a far more contentious matter, the crux of your defence if you prefer.’
‘If I knew what a gog was, Macer, I would undoubtedly turn into one on the spot. Exactly where does the crux of my defence fall down?’
The Prefect stood up and flexed his shoulders. ‘There are several small irregularities, insignificant in themselves, yet lumped together they do cause me considerable grief. For instance, listening to the stories which abound, you’ve been through Hades and back, yet I see no broken limbs, Mistress Seferius. No cracked skull, no concussion.’
‘So if I was dead, you’d believe me?’
Macer’s teeth bared in a smile which didn’t extend to his eyes. ‘Your driver sustained a broken arm and Junius was, most fortuitously, knocked out, whereas you, my dear Claudia, you’ve had three encounters with violence in as many days and mere superficial scratches to show for it.’ He ran his finger under his collar. ‘And then there’s the cat.’
‘Drusilla? What about her?’
‘I have inspected her cage personally.’ He stared up at the darkening sky. ‘There is nothing wrong with that bolt.’
‘I never said there was, I merely said it shot open and she went to ground. If your accusation hinges on my hiding my own cat, I can’t wait to see the jurists’ faces. Is that your case, Macer?’
As he turned, she was eye-level with the splattered remains of Pallas’ lunch.
‘Not quite. There is also the little matter of the note.’ She stared at the stain. If it came out at all, it would need bleaching several times, and that’s a nasty place to have a big white mark, on your bottom.
‘Note?’
A fly settled on the egg yolk and she resisted the urge to swat it.
‘The message from Rollo. You see, my men have been asking questions at your villa and your bailiff seems a decent sort of chap. Honest, up-front. Quite without guile, I should say.’
A chill wind passed across the garden. ‘So would I, that’s why I employ him.’ She hoped this change of temperature was attributable to the impending storm.
‘So when Rollo tells me he didn’t send you a note, I am rather tempted to believe him.’
Claudia watched the Prefect stride up the path, where her attention was no longer held by the splurge on his tunic, but by his parting words. Because for once she agreed with this smarmy, smug weevil. She, too, was inclined to believe her reliable, hard-working bail
iff. If he said he sent no summons, he sent no summons.
Which meant Marcus Cleverclogs Orbilio was right.
Someone at the Villa Pictor hated Claudia Seferius enough to want either to frame her for murder, or, when that failed, kill her outright. By definition, last night’s attacker must have been a hired assassin, but would the brains and the money behind it stop there?
The sky turned dark as charcoal, a rumble of thunder bellowed along the Vale of Adonis, then another, then another. But long after the heavens had opened, Claudia remained bolt upright on the smooth white marble bench as though she had been grafted there.
How long before the killer tried again? she wondered.
And what method would they employ next time round?
XVII
Like other people’s lives after personal bereavement, the Villa Pictor set about its business none the wiser and certainly none the worse. As Claudia dripped across the atrium floor, two men staggered towards the kitchens, laughingly balancing an amphora of oil between them. A gap-toothed maid buffed up the bronzes. An applecheeked redhead tickled the corners of this splendid marble hall with her heather broom. Alis was making devotions at the family shrine, a young Syrian topped up the water-clock, the porters changed shifts in the vestibule.
Proof positive that victims don’t suddenly glow in the dark to distinguish themselves from the rest of humanity.
And proof that the expression on one’s face doesn’t necessarily reflect the fact that one’s brains are bubbling so loud you’re surprised other people can’t hear them.
Once inside her bedroom, however, cosy and warm thanks to the gentle heat of the charcoal brazier, a sense of balance prevailed and Claudia finally thought to peel the cold, soggy tunic away from her skin. Yeuk! She hung the gown over the back of a chair and as clouds of steam rose up from her clothing and dribbles of condensation ran down the walls, she vigorously towelled herself dry. The very action—instinctive, elementary, primordial—was sufficient to restore perspective, and she cursed herself for allowing that snide little Prefect get to her. Now had the crocodiles eaten him, they’d have had a belly-ache to remember. Probably turn them vegetarian.
Flipping the towel into a roll to dry her back, Claudia wondered what Sergius intended to do with those plug-ugly reptiles. They won’t dance very gracefully, and somehow I can’t see them jumping through hoops. Ah, now, wasn’t there some talk of him employing Egyptian natives to swim amongst them?
She leaned down and rubbed between her toes. Good grief, people will hand over small fortunes to watch a gang of youths splashing around with the crocodiles. Indeed, these spectacles are going to turn established shows right on their boring old heads. What innovations, what vision this man Pictor has!
And talking of animals… Cat fur and rainwater is an explosive combination and by the time poor old Drusilla can leg it to shelter, she’ll have a hump the size of a camel’s. I really don’t know where she learned swear words like that.
Today’s storm, though, had an entirely different quality about it, throwing out an invigorating energy as opposed to the ill-mannered depletions of last night’s tantrums. It was, Claudia thought, listening to the raindrops pitter-pat on to the broad, flat leaves of the elecampane, the difference between a play by Plautus and a torrid melodrama. One blows life—the other just sucks.
It was only when she reached for a comb to untangle her curls that she realized that, even in her own bedroom, she wasn’t safe. The room had been searched. Not just cleaned. Not just heated. Not just tidied. She meant searched. By an amateur at that.
She teased open the door. ‘Pssst.’
‘Who? Me?’ The red-headed slave looked round in confusion.
Claudia crooked her finger. ‘Tell me who came into my room while I was gone and this little fellow is yours.’ Her hand opened to reveal a shining silver denarius.
The girl’s heather broom clattered on to the floor, but Alis seemed not to notice as she continued to pour libations at the family shrine.
‘Um—’
Utterly transfixed by the coin, you could see the girl’s mind working out how to spend it, which, of course, was the object of the exercise. A couple of asses would have ensured Claudia had her answer, but it would not necessarily have given her an honest one. Silver would.
‘Um—’
‘Um, what? Umpteen Umbrians umpiring under umber-coloured umbrellas?’
‘Ever so sorry, m’m,’ the redhead bobbed down and picked up her brush. ‘I can’t say.’
‘Blackmail is a depressing concept,’ Claudia reminded her. ‘Let me make it quite plain that a single denarius is all that’s on offer.’
‘Oh, no, you’ve got me wrong, m’m. I mean I don’t know.’ Her eyes said goodbye to the silver coin. ‘We’ve just changed shifts, see? But I could ask around, if you like.’
Good life in Illyria, anything but that. For the time being, this remains our little secret, me and the son-of-a-bitch who’s been prying.
‘It’s not important,’ she replied airily, flipping the coin towards the servant. ‘And this should ensure I never asked the question. Now, fetch me a raw octopus, will you?’
‘A raw— Sorry, did you say octopus?’
‘Are you deaf?’
Actually, it was the only thing Claudia could think of that would reduce Drusilla’s hump to a meaningful proportion. The cat could slap it about a bit, and it would make her feel she’d gone some way towards catching the horrid slimy creature for herself.
Claudia looked again at her jewellery box. Walnut, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and with a hinged lid, it was an exquisite piece of workmanship. It contained bracelets and anklets of gold and of silver, diadems set with sapphires, pendants set with pearls.
Also, until very recently, it had contained the wing feather of a wren.
In colour wrens are very similar to walnut. You place the feather on the rim of the box and then you close the lid very, very gently to keep it in place. But no matter how carefully you open it again, that feather, that microscopic, insubstantial, practically invisible feather, becomes dislodged.
Intuition told her there was no need to unlock the box to learn nothing had been stolen, but Claudia went through the motions anyway. The key, which she kept on the webbing under her mattress, had been replaced, but the searcher had not been careful enough. The key now faced east instead of west.
Claudia tapped her lip thoughtfully. Whoever it might be, the spy was not Marcus Cornelius Orbilio.
Credit where it’s due, Supersleuth would have come and gone and probably taken the air he’d breathed with him to ensure he left no trace, so what was this person looking for?
A long soft whistle followed by two short ones came from the far side of her window.
What imbecile could possibly imagine Claudia either had something to hide or held incriminating evidence—and at the same time was foolish enough to leave it lying around? Someone who didn’t know her very well, that’s for sure.
The whistles were repeated before she realized it was her bodyguard’s signal.
‘Junius, did you know Rollo hadn’t sent any blasted message to Rome?’ Godsdamnit, she’d need to start sealing her letters.
‘Yes, madam—’
‘Don’t you turn your face away from me!’
‘But—’
‘Butt is just where I’ll kick you if you don’t look me in the eye. Now did you or didn’t you… For gods’ sake, boy, what’s the matter with you?’
Now the idiot had his hand across his forehead. Oh! Claudia bounced back from the window and grabbed her tunic off the back of the chair. It was damned hot, that cotton, because when she turned back to Junius, her cheeks were as scarlet as the tunic.
She cleared her throat. ‘Yes, that letter—’
‘I tried to tell you, madam, when I got back from Etruria—’
‘Rubbish. I’d have remembered something as vital as that. Anyway, what are you doing skipping around in this downpour?’
‘I wanted to ask you when you thought would be the best time for me to create a diversion.’
I suspected as much. You’ve been drinking. ‘What diversion, Junius?’
‘The one which enables you to slip away from here.’
‘Oh, and exactly where do you suggest I slope off to? Greece, Crete, Alexandria?’ And how long till the heat dies down? A year? Two? By then, I’ll have lost control of my wine business, I’ll be lucky to keep a roof over my head. Unfortunately I have to ride this one out.
‘No, no.’ When the young Gaul shook his head, it was like a dog shaking itself. Water sprayed everywhere. ‘I was only talking about Rome,’ he said in a small voice.
Rome! Bless him! ‘Junius, it’s a kind thought, but I can’t see that my doing a runner is going to help my case, so why don’t you—’
‘The Prefect can’t touch you in Rome, can he?’ Claudia stared at the elecampane as its leathery leaves shrugged off the raindrops. By Jupiter, the boy’s right. The same way Loverboy has no authority in the provinces, Macer holds no sway in the city.
‘Junius, come under the eaves, you’re starting to look like a water vole. That’s it.’ I don’t want my little genius catching a cold. ‘Now, one simple question. Do you want your freedom?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Come on, yes or no? Tulola wants to buy you’—it’d go to his head if she told him how badly—‘and I need to know where your loyalties lie.’
The bodyguard’s face flushed. ‘Where they always have. Madam.’ The last word came as something of an afterthought. ‘I didn’t think you’d ever need to ask.’
Dear me, his voice sounds a bit croaky, I trust he’s not going down with the fever.
‘That’s settled, then.’ He probably keeps some doxy over on the Aventine, or else he goes moonlighting, that’s why he sticks with me. ‘Now about this diversion of yours—’
*
Plans are fun. For a start they are such flexible little beggars, you can tweak them, twiddle them, you even have the luxury of abandoning, postponing or advancing them, all with the underlying reassurance that, come what may, they will repay you with the immeasurable satisfaction that can only be gained from voracious mental stimulation.
