Virgin Territory (30 page)

‘There’s something else, too.’

‘Oh?’ He leaned forward, but only to top up the glass. ‘That birch grove. The day Acte was killed, Tanaquil was there, as we know, because she found the body. But Marius was also there. Apparently there’s an ash tree on the edge of the grove and he wanted to make himself a bow—’

‘A what?’

‘Fabius is teaching him how to shoot arrows, so for any quail in the area, now’s the time to strike camp. Marius wasn’t there, of course, when Acte was killed—in fact he didn’t even see her—but guess who he did see?’

‘I am preparing to be astonished.’

‘So you should. Fabius. Bet that took you by surprise?’

‘Marginally.’

‘That’s not all. Dex was there, and so was Piso.’

‘And?’

‘What do you mean,
and
? And nothing. Good life in Illyria, I’ve done half your work for you, all you’ve got to do is arrest the guilty party.’

‘Who is?’

She hit him with a cushion. ‘You’re the policemen, you fathom it out.’

Orbilio snatched the glass out of her hand and drained it. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said ruefully, combing his hair with his free hand. ‘Can someone please tell me why, when the grove is supposed to be deserted on account of it being haunted, the whole world and his wife just happen to be up there the very day Acte is killed?’

Claudia snatched the glass back and frowned when she saw it was empty. ‘That’s easy,’ she said. ‘The slaves avoid it, which is the circle Acte moved in, and don’t forget the only spare time she got was when the family were gathered round Eugenius. It wouldn’t have occurred to her that the family mightn’t believe in ghoulies and ghosties. They often congregated there. I know something else, too.’

Birds were singing, dogs were yapping, suns were rising, skies were clearing—and policemen were groaning. Groaning. I ask you! Claudia cheerfully recounted the old man’s proposal of marriage, but it seemed he’d heard the story, which was a shame, really, because she’d saved that titbit till last.

‘So the only person who wasn’t in the grove was Diomedes? How very convenient. Ouch!’ He ignored the kick to his shins and pressed on. ‘Is this because Dreamboat’s been showering you with love gifts?’

Thick, dark curls shook in confusion. ‘Not me, I’m afraid.’ She was sure she’d have noticed gold bangles or British pearls lying around.

‘Then what do you call that white dove?’ Was he talking about the pigeon? ‘Among Greeks, it’s a token of undying love.’

Claudia clapped her hand over her mouth. ‘Oh-oh!’

‘What have you done with it?’

‘I…’
She burst into giggles. ‘I’ll tell you what I did with it. I ate the bloody thing.’

Orbilio began to splutter. ‘You what? You ate it?’ He threw his head back and roared.

Her eyes were watering, too. ‘Damn right. With mushroom and parsley sauce.’ She stood up and walked to the door, clutching her aching stomach. ‘And I’ll let you into another secret. It was absolutely delicious.’

His laughter, echoing through the still morning air, was as refreshing as the water in the atrium pool and it was singularly unfortunate that the first person she bumped into in the colonnade outside Orbilio’s room happened to be a Greek physician with blue eyes and obedient blond locks.

XXVIII

It doesn’t matter whether you live in the centre of Rome or the outer reaches of the Empire, every eighth day is market day and that’s that. Hides are traded, cheeses are sold, gossip is embroidered and fashions are admired by stallholders who set up stands long before the first rays of dawn clear the hilltops or shadows lift from the ravines.

Claudia was too fired up to sleep and in any case it was too noisy. Bitumen, it seemed, was an essential element of sheep dip. Eugenius already had enough watery olive lees to float a warship, sulphur from his fullers’ yards and sufficient hellebore and squill to fill the Pharos. What he did not have was bitumen, and without bitumen sheep could not be dipped. Instead they were crammed together in makeshift pens, bleating and baa-ing every god-given moment, clearly preferring ticks and footrot and scab to pressing flesh (or rather fleece) with their neighbours and you could tell they were not going to be mollified by the odd feed of broom and willow. Moreover, you couldn’t take a walk without tripping over a shepherd, they really did clutter the place up.

She eyed them closely. Young men, mostly. Rough, tough, sure-footed; men able to withstand all manner of hostile conditions and that didn’t just mean the weather. Loneliness must be a problem. Maybe a real problem for some of them. And maybe, just maybe, an uncontrollable problem for one of their number…
?

Orbilio believed the killer was Diomedes, Claudia thought it more likely to be a local resident—but had anybody considered the shepherds? Well used to rough terrain, they could move quickly over ground most of us would struggle with, which could explain their rapid disappearance after the event.

How often did they see a woman? How often did they take a woman? How did they feel about the prospect of a soft virgin? They were strong men, accustomed to fighting off mountain thieves and wild animals—and they carried small, sharp knives about their persons. Claudia studied each weatherbeaten face carefully and decided they all looked capable of this heinous crime. She hoped the bitumen would arrive shortly.

In the meantime, it was market day in Sullium.

Portius climbed into the car beside her, the gems on his fingers looking like gaudy knuckledusters. ‘The old man’s taken a turn,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Gone right downhill.’

Claudia refrained from telling him she knew all about it. That’s where Diomedes was off to at dawn, to visit his patient. There was time, though, to ask him about the tramp in the clipshed, and although he admitted it was really too soon to tell, he did think the prognosis looked good.

He looked strained, she thought. His eyes stared past hers at Orbilio’s closed door, as though something was bothering him.

‘I must see Eugenius,’ he said, without any great emotion in his voice. ‘Can I call to see you on my way back?’

That, she thought, was as good a reason as any to nip into Sullium.

Since Pacquia was still officially assigned to Claudia, she’d left the girl playing with heated cauteries, chamber pots and goodness knows what, on the strict understanding that it was to be a secret between the three of them, Claudia, Diomedes and Pacquia, and that she was to report to Claudia the minute the tramp said anything sensible. At present he was alternating between sleep and incoherent ramblings, but one thing they had discovered. He had a name, Melinno.

It didn’t mean anything to anyone.

‘I’m sorry about your grandfather,’ she said.

‘Father will be pleased,’ Portius was saying, fanning himself with the most ostentatious band of pink and blue ostrich feathers. ‘He and Linus rub along well enough, they’ll be happy for Fabius to go off and work his own lands.’

She was thinking about Melinno and nearly missed it. ‘I beg your pardon?’

Portius licked his middle finger and wiped a smudge of antimony away from his left eyelid. ‘Fabius was given a parcel of land in Katane when he left the army and, being a centurion, the old so-and-so’s done rather well for himself.’ He coiled a ringlet back into place. ‘It’s just up your street.’

‘How so?’

‘Didn’t you know? The old man made him plant vines on it.’

‘Made him?’

Portius’s mouth puckered and his eyes rolled theatrically. ‘You should have heard them! Big Brother knows nothing about grapes, wanted to grow wheat like everyone else in Katane, but would the old man wear it?’ He leaned over conspiratorially. ‘Between you and me,’ he said in an exaggerated whisper, ‘I don’t see Bacchus getting much veneration from it, Fabius hasn’t a clue about wine.’

Who had? But it certainly explained one thing.

‘What about you?’ she asked. ‘Where do you fit in?’

Why were they talking about the business as though Eugenius was already dead?

Portius laughed. ‘You must be joking. When Father takes charge, I’m off.’

‘Rome?’ Claudia found her fingers were crossed.

‘Capri,’ he said, and she sent up a silent prayer of gratitude. ‘Rather more to my eclectic tastes, don’t you think?’

Claudia laughed aloud. ‘Hence the Virgil quotes?’

Portius assumed a tortured artist pose with his hands. ‘Please don’t say that!’ he mocked, then added seriously, ‘My parents don’t know the difference between Virgil and valediction. That poetry is my escape, Claudia. Father thinks it’s genius—which it is, of course, except it’s not mine. It’s my ticket to Capri.’

Only a couple of miles off the mainland, its high cliffs and dense greenery made the island an impenetrable haven for pederasts and paedophiles, sycophants and orgies, where prying eyes did not see the ‘games’ enacted there nor ears catch the splash when, occasionally, those ‘games’ went wrong and there was a body to dispose
of…

Gooseflesh rippled up her arms. Portius? She looked at him again, peeling off the veneer of antimony and carmine, jewels and unguents. Underneath was a boy, a
man,
eighteen years old, strong and healthy which was more than his appetites appeared to be. How unhealthy were they? It was a point to bear in mind.

Pulling up in the Forum, the driver watered his mule and Claudia disappeared into the crowd before Portius could finish describing the steep, grey cliffs of Capri and the delights awaiting him. Many of the streets were narrow and without pavements, packed shoulder to shoulder with men, women and children, their legs buckling under the weight of market produce. Blackberries, duck, pottery, ivory, ointments. She heard the clip of iron scissors on hair, the clap of wooden plates from the beggars. The air was filled with hot, spicy sausages and rich, spicy wine. A salt seller sawed lumps from his block, acrobats tumbled, and along the street a fight broke out between two women at the communal oven. Babies squawked, children played chase, their grubby little fists clutching tunics and stolas and togas as they darted between your feet. Donkeys brayed and women haggled and backstreet barbers, eager not to miss out on the trade, brought their chairs and their wares into the square, grating their whetstones and scraping the chins.

It was, Claudia thought, as close to heaven as mere mortals get.

Searching for a place to eat her slab of honey bread, still steaming and rich with the scent of the wood-fired oven, she turned away from the Forum, past the law courts towards the temple of Minerva. Recalling how Minerva didn’t exactly favour Claudia Seferius, she decided against tempting the goddess by nibbling her bread on the temple steps and followed the street down the hill. It was unpaved, and just to prove this was a poor area, shopping baskets contained more beets and less meat, lentils rather than cheese. Shops became booths, plaster peeled away from the buildings and the wooden overhangs looked rickety and dangerous. Sharing her honey bread with a small urchin who could have been boy or girl, Claudia watched a funeral procession pass by the lower road. How different from Sabina’s. No hired mourners, no hired musicians, no hired torchbearers to light the path of the soul.

‘That’s Hecamede,’ the child said, helping itself to another chunk of the hot honey bread while still chewing on the first.

‘Kyana’s mother?’ Claudia was shocked.

‘Yep.’

The urchin crammed in so much bread, its mouth couldn’t close properly. To avoid a close-up in mastication, Claudia stared down the street. ‘What happened?’ she asked.

‘Topped herself.’

‘How?’

No answer, and when she turned round the child had gone, along with the rest of the honey bread and a gold brooch set with carnelians. It was left to a passing crone with three dark hairs sprouting from a mole on her chin to explain that Hecamede could finally take no more. On the anniversary of her daughter’s disappearance, she cut her wrists and bled to death.

Claudia pictured her last hours. Lost and lonely, inconsolable in her grief. Did she think of Aristaeus? Or were her last thoughts focused solely on little Kyana, five years old and full of mischief? Little Kyana, who disappeared the day Aristaeus went to collect spiders’ webs.

Claudia raced after the funeral procession, intercepting the undertaker at the second block of tenements. When he reached the pyre, she said, he must do it properly. He must deliver the funeral oration personally, extolling Hecamede’s virtues as a mother and then afterwards ensure a sow was sacrificed to Ceres with all the pomp and ceremony he would bestow upon a wealthier patron. Pop-eyed, the undertaker agreed, mentally noting that the ring he had been given in payment would look particularly nice on his mistress’s finger.

It was only later, approaching the villa, that Claudia remembered seeing something that was important, if only she could remember what it was. Damn! So many people milling around, so many sounds and smells compounded by the mental confusion and shock surrounding Hecamede’s suicide, was it any wonder?

Doubtless, though, it would come back to her at some stage.

Providing it wasn’t too late.

*

Marcus Cornelius Orbilio had spent much of his morning listening. Listening and following.

It intrigued him to watch little Pacquia, dark-skinned and thin as a billhook, weaving back and forth between the villa and the clipshed via an extremely convoluted route which took in the dyesheds, the bleaching yards and the orchard. Sometimes she carried water in a bowl, sometimes cloths, sometimes objects hidden by cloths, but each time she was whistling, as though her errand was of no importance.

What on earth, he wondered, running an ivory comb through his hair, was Claudia up to this time?