Wolf Whistle (10 page)

He tilted his chair back against the wall and folded his hands behind his head. ‘No legionaries,’ he agreed. ‘Until after the old trouts have left.’

Claudia waited.

‘But until then,’ he continued eventually, ‘I shall have to take other precautions to safeguard your life.’

Claudia set her drawstring bag upon the table and patted it. ‘Such as?’

He even made out he was considering other options. ‘You leave me no choice,’ he said gravely. ‘I shall have to protect you myself.’

Now why is it I had a feeling you’d say that? ‘And just how do you plan to do that?’

‘By moving in, you can pass me off as a relative, a servant, even your agent. We’ll think of something.’

We certainly will. ‘Oops.’

Bending down to retrieve Claudia’s bracelet which had fallen on to the tiles. Orbilio thought he detected a flash of movement from the corner of his eye, but when he straightened up, she was helping them both to a rich gamey stew of venison and hare.

‘I have a plan,’ she said. There was no sign of the little blue bag on the table. ‘It’s one I’ve used before and I call it my Runaway Success.’

‘Foolproof?’ He was so suspicious, he almost checked under his plate.

‘Foolproof.’ But it takes half an hour. ‘I’ll explain, but in the meantime, tell me this. Do you think Jovi is in any danger?’

‘Because he saw the “sleeping” lady, and possibly the
killer, who thinks he might identify him?’ Orbilio mopped his stew with his bread. ‘No,’ he said decisively. ‘My guess is that yes, Jovi saw the victim in the alley. It was dark, he was lost and frightened and alone, and he wanted help, but that’s when the killer got lucky. I think the victim had already been knocked out—the other two had bruises on their skulls, that’s how he ties them up and strips them without a struggle. So when Jovi came bumbling along, the killer simply melted into the shadows until the boy gave up.’

Around the tavern, smells of meat juices dripping from the spit mingled with guffaws of raucous male laughter from the corner. Logs from the fire crackled as the flames licked round their splintered edges.

‘Then that’s one cold-blooded bastard you are looking for.’

‘Isn’t he, now.’ Marcus combed his hair with his hands. The torn flesh on his knuckles was healing over, she noticed. ‘We know the girl was unharmed at that stage, and Jovi would certainly have said if she’d been naked, so having secured himself both victim and secluded killing ground, our man simply toughed it out.’

Roaring fire or not, it seemed cold all of a sudden. ‘He? You think the killer’s a man?’

‘Do women do things like that to each other?’ Claudia shivered. ‘Was he…slicing her up while Jovi and I were there?’

Orbilio pushed back his plate in distaste. ‘That girl died in the early hours of the morning,’ he said in reply, ‘and she took one hell of a long time to do it. But to answer the question you are too damned proud to ask, no, Mistress Seferius, you could not have saved her life.’ His face had gone white and his lips were pursed to nothingness. ‘Instead, I’d have had three bodies lying in the mortuary, instead of one.’

She waited for the lump in her throat to subside. ‘And the only clue is a man whistling his dog?’

‘That’s one more than the previous two murders,’ he said ruefully. ‘Jupiter alone knows how many men whistle their dogs along the Argiletum at night, but I’ve got a man going back after dark to find out—and hopefully one of the witnesses can fill in some gaps.’

Claudia swallowed a mouthful of wine, as much to get rid of the taste of that alley. ‘What do you make of the market day connection?’

Orbilio ran his hands over his face. ‘It suggests the killer, rather than his victims, comes from out of town, but what I don’t understand are the knife wounds. Why twenty-seven?’

An elm log rolled off the fire and sat glowing against the brightly bronzed dog. The landlord returned it to the fire and, by way of thanks, it spat red-hot darts in his face.

‘In addition,’ Marcus continued, ‘each victim had a distinctive tattoo on her shoulder. A blue dragon. Unfortunately, tracking down its significance takes time and resources.’ He rubbed at his eyes. ‘Both of which are denied me at present.’

For several long moments they stared into space, their thoughts converging on a young girl bleeding to her death in a stinking, dirty runnel and pondering the significance of chopping off her hair. Whatever the gesture symbolized for the killer and his victim, laying it in her lap after death meant the bastard had stayed around long enough to watch her die.

‘Anything for afters?’ The serving girl who came to clear away the tray was refreshingly cheerful. ‘Cook does lovely buns, full of candied fruit and nuts they are.’

‘Maybe later,’ Orbilio said, and then, turning to Claudia, asked jauntily, ‘So tell me, madam, what constitutes a Runaway Success?’

She smiled. ‘Mostly a large dose of carob beans mixed with figs, dates and a dash of castor oil—’

He looked puzzled.

‘—which for obvious reasons is best disguised by a very strong taste. A rich gamey sauce, for instance—’

He looked worried.

‘—and it takes a half hour to work.’

He looked at the water clock.

‘Runaway success?’ he asked, feeling the first faint gripes in his stomach.

‘Foolproof.’ She smiled. ‘And the latrines, I believe, are that way.’

IX

In a smoke-filled kitchen on the Caelian, a small boy clung to the broad hips of the girl from Thessaly and sobbed convulsively. Servants milled around him, and it wasn’t that they were indifferent to his plight—they slipped him pomegranates and dates, and Hylas the carpenter even carved him a small wooden horse—but right now they were in a rush to provide for the deluge of womenfolk who, having returned from the ceremony on the Palatine, were looking forward to a good hot lunch, having changed their clothes, unpacked their belongings and then swapped sleeping accommodation, because no way would Julia share with Aemelia, which meant Fortunata had to sleep with Eppia, but what about Fannia, because everyone knows she snores.

Larentia, scrawny and shrewd, revelled in these wranglings—what better cover for a good poke round? Only her son’s bedroom appeared locked and that, the steward informed her, had been so since the day Master Gaius had died and the mistress had retained the key. Slightly unsettled but not quite sure why, the old woman moved on to inspect the gold and silver plate using an inventory she’d drawn up from memory, because she’d never actually lived under this roof. Gaius had bought the property during the early days of his prosperity, and because his eldest son, her grandson, had been too young to take over the Etruscan estate, Larentia had acted as chatelaine, a position she enjoyed even after the boy had taken a wife. But there was nothing wrong with her memory.

‘Buggery, sodomy and fuck.’ She banged down the lid of the chest. Not only were the pieces on her mental list present and correct, it would appear the bitch was adding to them. Three silver platters as wide as a man’s reach, and a gold fluted bowl with swing handles. ‘Damn-bloody-nation to hell.’

‘…
so I said to the mercer, either they all have red piping or none of them do…
’

The shrill voice of Larentia’s sister penetrated the walls, and that was another reason she chose to live in Etruria. Foolish women! She had no time for idleness, all her life she’d worked for what she got—her husband had been a builder of roads, for gods’ sake—and yet these stupid cattle twitter on about jewellery, clothes and the hairdresser. Ach! Dragging her daughter, Julia, away from her unpacking, Larentia led the way to Claudia’s office. Occasionally, and today was one of those times, she fell prone to pondering how she’d produced such a dull, plain duckling and why, later, the child did not do what others had so often obligingly done and turned into a swan. Julia had grown up a goose.

‘Read the ledgers,’ she instructed curtly, for her illiteracy remained a constant thorn in her side, even among her own family.

Julia was at once grateful, delighted and flattered and thumbed through the tablets and scrolls, calling out the figures for her mother to digest, her hooded eyes fair closed with excitement at the prospect of bringing down her sister-in-law. She had not forgotten the night, in this very house, when her own husband had made his advances. True, he’d come back from the encounter with a squashed and bleeding nose, but the insult had still stung. Her husband lusted after the bitch.

Literate Julia might be, though. Numerate she was not. ‘Well, Mother, what’s the verdict?’

‘It would appear,’ said Larentia slowly, ‘that the accounts are not only in apple-pie order, Gaius’ business is thriving.’

‘Shit.’

‘Precisely.’

‘Have you checked out her debts with the bankers and moneylenders?’

Larentia kicked the tripod brazier which was counteracting the dampness in the room and her mouth soured. ‘What debts?’

‘Shit!’

‘
Precisely!’

They took a long, lingering look at the intricate ivories on the shelf, especially that exquisite figure with a fawn round his shoulders and a peacock by his side, before moving into the dining room, where the life-size bronze of Venus served only to depress them further. The table was piled high with swordfish and salmon, peafowl and venison and at least five types of cheese—and was surrounded by a gaggle of excitable hens.

‘…
she gave me a beautiful little cameo for my birthday, I’ll show it to you
later…’

‘…
my dear, I have it on the highest authority, this year’s colour will definitely be
coral…’

‘Fannia, have you just eaten that whole tray of quails eggs?’

The servers, to-ing and fro-ing with yet more silver platters, were truthfully able to report to Verres the cook that the gourmet dishes he’d prepared were much appreciated, especially the fricassee of antelope, although his peppered flamingo tongues were going down a treat.

And all the time, Jovi continued to hack. ‘Why don’t she come, Passi?’

Cypassis, having no answer, stroked his wracked shoulders and cooed into his hair. Even a five-year-old knew that, by now, there wasn’t one square inch of Rome that had not been covered in an attempt to reunite him with his mother. Messages had been posted, criers were calling, and in the warrens where Jovi lived, word travels fast. Tight-lipped, Cypassis unhooked the balled fists from her tunic and led him away to the corner where the oil jars were stored. Two dark ovals stood stark on her sky-blue cotton tunic, their wetness cold through her undershift.

‘Passi, have I been naughty? Am I being punished?’

She fell down and hugged his hiccupping shoulders. ‘No, Jovi, of course not.’ She could feel him gulping against the lushness of her hair and her bones dissolved with pity. ‘You’re a good boy.’

Verres the cook, passing, rumpled the little lad’s mop and offered to show him how you bone a hare then stuff it with truffles and oysters, if he liked? The head embedded itself deeper into Cypassis’ neck.

Steam spiralled from bubbling saucepans. The cauldron which hung over the fire gurgled contentedly, and fat from the goat on the spit hissed as it dripped on the charcoal. A kitchen maid strained carrots in a giant iron ladle, then dipped bream into white wine and parsley, wrapped them in cabbage leaves and laid them on the hearth. A shanty started up, and before long the whole kitchen was alive to the rhythm, voices joining in whether they knew the words or not. Cypassis patted his convulsions to the beat as almonds were ground in a mortar and smoked sausages were cut down and fried. And she thought what a contented, happy scene it was, were it not for Jovi.

As another tune took over, she considered his mother’s options. Too ill to claim her child, would she not send someone in her place? Cypassis could not understand abandoning a five-year-old to strangers and confusion. Who’d do such a thing? Tears streamed down her cheeks and filled her dimples right until the moment Verres the cook caught his finger on the gridiron and swore, with great fluency, in at least seven different languages.

Even Jovi laughed.

*

Up in his attic, the man who called himself Magic had his head bent low over the page. The light from his smoky tallow picked out patchwork walls blistering in the damp, cobwebs trailing from the ceiling and the remnants of a meal which had long since congealed. Six storeys below a dispute over a right of way was turning acrimonious, but for him, such things were trivia. A weight had been lifted from his heart, there was no time to lose. He smoothed out a clean sheet of parchment and flipped open the inkwell.

‘my beloved soon shall we be free
—’

He’d been so stupid! It was as clear as the waters from an Umbrian spring what had been happening. Other People were keeping Claudia from her beloved Magic. His fingers curled into claws. It was his fault. He should have realized sooner. All those letters he had sent without a solitary word by return—it was obvious. Her letters had been intercepted. The knuckles on his hand grew white. Now he knew Other People were between them, it was easy.

‘true love will always conquer,’
he wrote, and the candle guttered when he laughed. Theirs was a love which would last for all eternity. Other People could not keep them apart. He wrote that down as well.

‘other people can not keep us apart.’

Magic laughed again, and had there been fresh eggs in the room they would have curdled. He could not be sure, of course, that Claudia now received his letters, not when Other People interfered. He’d have to send her something else. What? He chewed his bottom lip for inspiration. What would scream his feelings for her, let her know she had not been abandoned.