Jail Bait (23 page)

‘Mother-in-law,’ Lavinia corrected.

‘Mother-in-law, then,’ Fabella snapped. ‘Just get Ruth to search, all right?’

‘She needs to find that bracelet,’ Sabella added sadly. ‘She’s lost without it.’

‘Hardly lost, Sabella! My point is—’

To Claudia’s relief, their chit-chat was drowned by the arrival of a troupe of dancers in pastel blue and green costumes, gyrating with grace and sensuality and a doublejointed sinuousness to the haunting tunes of the musicians as they invoked the water spirit, Carya, to bless this race. More girls arrived, dressed all in white and carrying in their hands white-painted boards bearing garlands of tumbling flowers—alkanet, anemones, cranesbill—and when they lined up, supporting the boards on their heads, it was a living replica of the colonnade in the Athens Canal! You should hear the clapping and the catcalls, the stamping of the feet, the whistles of appreciation, but if that wasn’t enough, a cymbal clashed and a dancer clad from head to foot in silver passed along the human Caryatids to the place where Mosul dispensed his holy waters.

But long before the thunderous applause for this breath-taking incarnation of Carya had died away, a curtain came down on Lavinia. As though in a trance, she sat wooden and motionless, staring out across the lake. ‘Lavinia?’

But bright blue eyes fixed on the coracles and the fishing boats and did not blink. As though she’d had a shock of some sort?

‘Mother, dear, you don’t look well,’ Fabella said, and Claudia felt, for once, in agreement with the old porker. A greasy sheen had appeared on the wrinkled face, a greyness beneath the weather-beaten tan.

‘Ooh, no,’ Sabella said, peering closer. ‘She doesn’t, does she?’

‘You haven’t been taking your medicine, have you?’ barked Fabella. ‘After all the money we spent to send you here, you throw it back in our faces!’

‘She ought to take her medicine,’ Sabella echoed. ‘Won’t get better, otherwise.’

Lavinia’s shoulders sagged, her jaw hung slack. ‘Could you,’ she croaked, ‘get Lalo to carry me back to my room?’

Holy Jupiter. Claudia stared at the empty arena, being swept in preparation for the big race. Could it be…? No, of course not. The idea was so monstrous, so preposterous, it couldn’t be true. Lavinia couldn’t possibly be being poisoned…

Stumbling down the wooden steps into the crush of vendors and hawkers, Claudia’s brain was on fire. And what of the old woman’s stories, the curious deaths which occurred here? Around her, the air exploded with everything from candied fruits to frying fish to spiced apple cakes, still hot and steaming from the oven. Surely there couldn’t be a connection…? Dazed, she glanced around at the happy throng, guffawing at each other’s jokes, drinking wine and effusing on the dancing and the show. Good grief, it was absolutely ludicrous! Imagining the guests were being picked off one by one. Disgusted with her neurotic imagination, Claudia reeled away, to find herself thrust in the thick of the runners warming up for the race. Arms and hands were being shaken, short sprints run, backs kept supple with contortions.

‘The very thing I need,’ a baritone said. ‘A lady’s favour to carry.’

‘Orbilio?’ He was competing in the foot race? Then, goddammit, a scarlet flash whizzed past her eyes. ‘Hey, give that back!’

‘To the winner,’ he grinned, ‘the spoils.’

‘For heaven’s sake, Orbilio,’ she hissed. ‘What will people think, me wearing just one ribbon in my hair?’

‘They’ll think you’re exactly what you appear to be,’ he flashed back, twisting her hairband round and round his wrist and tying a knot with his teeth. ‘A single woman.’

‘I’ll have you know I wear two ribbons in my hair to signal that I’m a respectable married woman, not some flibbertigibbet on the lookout for a—’

‘Man like me? What happened to your face?’

‘Oh, you know.’ With wild mass-murder theories thundering through her brain and still reeling from Dorcan’s death, Claudia had actually forgotten her encounter with the fat man. ‘Girls will be girls.’

‘Thank Jupiter for that,’ he grinned. ‘Now wish me luck.’

‘I wish you a plague of locusts, a burr in your saddle and a really large boil on your bottom.’

‘Same thing,’ he said, and she watched him trot off, his oiled muscles gleaming in the sunshine.

‘I beat him by a furlong and a half,’ a thick accent sneered.

Oh, no. Not another one stripped to his loin cloth! With Tarraco, of course, it was not altogether surprising. A tight strip of linen invariably attracts the ladies’ eyes.

‘I thought you didn’t compete in athletics events.’

‘Sometimes,’ he said darkly, ‘one has to make an exception. Suppose you give me a ribbon? To keep the hair out of my face?’

‘Look, being reduced to one band is bad enough, I’ll be—’

—damned! The second ribbon was already tying back his long, dark mane to form a mare’s tail at his nape. Claudia lunged to snatch it back, but the curls in her eyes obscured her vision and her hand flew wide of the mark.

‘Remember,’ the Spaniard took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and leaned so close she could smell basil on his breath, ‘everything will be decided. Very soon. I can feel in here,’ he placed her hand upon his beating heart.

‘To the winner the spoils?’ she asked, jerking away.

‘Of course,’ he whispered, running one hand lightly down her arm. ‘And I always win what I set out to achieve.’

‘Two minutes, boys,’ the judge called out, though Claudia could hardly hear for the pounding of her heart. Damn you, Tarraco. Damn you to hell.

Edging her way through the competitors, only a blind man could not be aware of the posturing between them. Glowers. Stances. Muscles pumping up. Then she realized that it was not so much every contestant who was sizing up the opposition, more Supersnoop and Tarraco, and as the runners lined up along the chalk starting line, she wondered what on earth they were getting so riled up about. It was only a silly foot race, for gods’ sake.

‘GO!’

Standing on the sidelines, she clapped as the thirteen entrants set off over five circuits, and by the time they had completed the first lap, she counted Orbilio fifth, but Tarraco was ahead in fourth place and forging on to third, though when they swept past a second time, Hotshot had surged forward to run in Tarraco’s slipstream as the competitor in second place dropped back to fifth, then sixth, then seventh having shot his bolt too soon. The field began to divide, the race narrowing now to just three runners, Tarraco, Orbilio and the current title holder, the eldest son of the wheelwright, the one whose winning Fabella’s bracelet depended on. But come the start of lap five, the favourite was watching his prize money overtake him not once, but twice.

Half a lap to go, the two were neck and neck. Their bodies strained with every movement, sinews stood out, sweat poured down their faces. Faster now, they approached the final bend. Every man, woman and child was on their feet, cheering, clapping, whistling encouragement—

Claudia watched them, side by side, each with a red ribbon fluttering behind them. ‘Come on, you wooden clod,’ she urged the panting wheelwright. ‘Get a bloody move on!’

Something was happening off the field. The tumult was deafening still, but the cheers had changed. Screams predominated. Suddenly spectators down by the lake were pointing, yelling, shouting, and the judge wasn’t even pretending to keep an eye on the racetrack.

Frowning, Claudia watched as, with not so much as a change in pace, Orbilio calved away from the racetrack to the lake. What the hell…? With no crowded steps to negotiate, no human impediments, Claudia raced behind the grandstand to the shore, where Marcus was wading into the shallows. Pul was there already, up to his kilted thighs, and suddenly Claudia saw the reason behind the hysterical behaviour of the crowd.

Face down bobbed the body of a woman, her long hair streaming, her gown as blue as the balmy waters which supported her.

Together Orbilio and Pul each grabbed an arm and hauled her to the shore. Pylades, Mosul and Tarraco were surging through the crush, but it was Kamar who got there first.

‘Somewhat redundant, my services,’ he muttered, his mouth souring at the white and swollen flesh, ‘but turn her over anyway.’

A collective gasp rang round as Orbilio and the Oriental heaved the corpse on to its back. Retching noises rippled round the circle.

‘Mighty Mars!’ Mosul made the sign to avert the evil eye.

Pul also opened his mouth to speak, but Pylades preempted him. ‘Fetch the army,’ he ordered a liveried lackey. ‘Tell them we have a murder on our hands.’

*

Full marks for observation. Not only had the poor cow’s face been mashed to a pulp, the livid purple bruises round the neck told a story of their own.

Claudia watched as the Oriental pulled back, shaking the drips off his massive hams, leaving Kamar and Orbilio to examine the body. Not a young woman, that much was obvious even to Claudia’s amateur eye, nor a pauper, judging by the cut and quality of her gown
. But by the gods, the fish had had a field day

A shudder ran through her as Orbilio scooped a
handful of green slime from the dyed tresses. Claudia clapped her hands over her mouth.

Pylades was shaking his head. ‘This is terrible. Terrible.’ And unlike at Cal’s funeral, Claudia could see that this time he really meant it. ‘What hatred could inspire such an act of savagery?’

‘Well.’ Undaunted by the condition of the body or the ghoulish curiosity of the crowd, Orbilio peered at the rings on her bloated fingers, the marks on her neck, checking the hair, the wrists, the feet. ‘We might be in a position to answer that if we could ascertain her identity,’ he said lifting the mangled head. ‘Hmm. Only one earring?’ Perhaps it was to avoid looking at the ghastly blob lying on the grass that Claudia noticed the colour had drained from Tarraco’s face. How strange. After what he did to the bear, she hadn’t imagined him the queasy type. Yet here he was, standing rigid, white, his eyes locked fast on the woman’s corpse. Oh, my god…

As her lunch curled inside her stomach, another part of Claudia became aware of Kamar answering Orbilio.

‘There’s no problem with regards to identification,’ he was saying, and Pylades and Mosul were nodding sadly with him. ‘We knew her well, up here.’ He glanced across at Tarraco. ‘This poor bitch is Lais.’

XXIV

The army, when it clanked to a halt beside the lake, consisted of one junior tribune flanked by two legionaries, though what it lacked in strength, it more than made up for in enthusiasm. Within seconds of its arrival, spectators had been moved back and out of earshot, grumbling at being short-changed, while the wheelwright’s son pestered for a decision on whether two runners dropping out of the race meant he had won.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ the tribune hammered for silence amongst the little group which remained clustered round the corpse, ‘I am Cyrus, the Emperor’s representative in Spesium. Now we have, as you all know, a new town rising on imperial soil, our reputation stands on our results. This applies to all of us and if we are to play our part in the evolving political climate, an ethic based on peace and on loyalty and trust, if Spesium is to take its rightful place among commercial centres, it is essential we get to the truth of this heinous crime and you have my assurance, ladies and gentlemen, my
word
that I shall not rest until the murderer of this poor woman is brought to justice. It is, of course, and I need not remind you, a capital offence—’

‘That man,’ Orbilio whispered to Claudia, ‘blows more hot air than Vesuvius. Thank you.’ The latter words were addressed to the small boy he’d sent to fetch his clothes. He flipped a copper to the child and pulled on his long, patrician tunic, and he had time to buckle it as well before the tribune’s speech was finished.

‘The victim has not only been strangled,’ Kamar was telling Cyrus, ‘she has been brutally battered around the head. These lesions here…’

Claudia blocked out the grisly anatomical details, leaving them to Cyrus to jot down on a wax tablet. Patrician, like Orbilio, and young, of course—this was a stepping stone in many an aristocrat’s career, be it the army or civilian life—but a certain podginess was beginning to show, a puffiness around the cheekbones suggestive of indulgences on quite a grand scale.

‘When,’ he asked the Spaniard, ‘did you last see your wife?’

Tarraco buffed his fingernails against the palm of his hand. ‘Why?’

Claudia rolled her eyes to heaven. You idiot, Tarraco. Won’t you ever learn?

‘Remorse is not your strong point, is it?’ Cyrus sneered. ‘Well, let’s see what other little weaknesses you have.’ After each question that he fired off, he scratched another annotation on his hinged tablet. ‘Right,’ he said eventually. ‘Let’s see if I have this straight.’ He read back over his notes. ‘The last time you saw Lais was Wednesday, correct?’

Tarraco made no response and the chubby tribune’s hackles began to rise in earnest.

‘Moreover, you say she walked out on you after a row?’

This time he received an imperceptible shrug and, stung, the tribune jerked his thumb at his legionaries. ‘Row out to the island. See whether anyone can corroborate that story.’

For the first time, Tarraco looked Cyrus in the eye. ‘No need for the army to start straining itself at this late stage,’ he said. ‘My staff come today to watch the race. You
may
interrogate them here,
if you wish
.’