Wolf Whistle (33 page)

‘Ssssh.’

Teeth made a playful grab for the admonishing fingertips. ‘What’s that you’re hiding in your hand?’

He unclenched his fist. ‘A lily,’ he replied. ‘Nothing but a lily.’

‘It smells better than that perfume she’s left in the room.’ Expert hands began to unbuckle Kaeso’s belt. ‘Do you think she suspects?’ a voice murmured in his ear. ‘About you and me, I mean?’

Grey eyes pierced the lily he still clutched in his fist. ‘Not a chance.’

His belt clattered to the floor, but when fingers gently tugged the tunic upwards, they were stilled by firm and downward pressure.

‘Not now,’ he said. ‘Not just for the moment.’

Hurt replaced lust in the eyes. ‘Why not?’

Kaeso smiled, but in his eyes there was no emotion to be read. None at all. ‘Because I have to go out for a while, that is why.’

*

The last person Orbilio expected to see when he returned to his own house was Annia, and several emotions hit him at once. Relief, of course, that she was safe. Anger, aimed at himself for not keeping proper tabs, and at her, for being irresponsible. And other, less rational feelings. Irritation, compassion and, it has to be said, pride. Watching her feeding the caged birds in the courtyard with seed from the palm of her hand, her long, fair hair tumbling down her back just like her mother’s, he felt a constriction in his breast, which he could not explain. So slight, he thought. So fragile. He followed the liquid pleats of her tunic down to the hem. How could Daphne have been so callous?

The thought was an ignoble one, but he was glad it was Severina last night…

‘I only did what you told me.’ The strain showed clear upon Annia’s pale and scrubbed face as she brushed the birdseed from her hands. ‘Go home and stay there, you said.’

Weary to the bone, Marcus had no defence. He did not recall using the word home, but, he admitted to himself, that was precisely how it felt. Whenever he was with Claudia, wherever they might be and whatever the circumstances, it bloody well felt like home.

‘You look awful,’ Annia tutted, straightening his crumpled clothes and smoothing the nap. ‘You look like a man who hasn’t slept, you need a shave, and really, Marcus, if you’re going to make an impression on the Emperor, you ought to have a haircut. How is Augustus? Have you spoken with him personally? What’s he like?’

She was relentless. What’s the latest on the crisis? Has the Emperor appointed an heir? What about his stepson, Tiberius, is he in the running? She questioned him about the coup, how did he feel, he a proud aristocrat, mixing among the lowlife of informants? And then, as he caved in to the demands his growling stomach insisted upon, Annia broached the subject which he’d so far managed to skirt.

‘Did…did anything happen yesterday?’

He drank the wine she poured him. Should he tell her? Would not telling her be protecting her? Having overstretched himself these past few days, he could hide under the umbrella of exhaustion without a conscience. But then she’d find out somehow, either from the servants or from gossip at the baths, and in any case she’d require an explanation for being shipped off to the country, which was the best (and possibly only) way he could guarantee her safety for the moment.

He broke a steaming roll in half and formed a ball of dough between his fingers. ‘As a matter of fact…’ With only the barest of encouragement, he recounted the facts, and by doing so clarified them in his mind.

‘Oh, Marcus!’ Annia buried her head in her hands. ‘What am I going to do? I’ll never be safe!’

Marcus was seven years old when Penelope knelt on the parapet of the Aemilian Bridge one heavy, thundery night. As the lightning crackled and thunderbolts rumbled, she knotted a lump of masonry round her waist and then calmly pushed it over the side. Passers-by had rushed to the spot, but Penelope had timed her moment well. In the dark, churning waters there were no discerning ripples and no splashes. Then the rain began to fall in buckets.

The blonde head emerged from its burial place and pushed the hair from her face. ‘It was selfish of me, wasn’t it? Not going to Arbil’s with Claudia?’

He tossed an apple from hand to hand. ‘Being frightened is nothing to be ashamed of,’ he said slowly.

One shoulder rose and fell. ‘You say that, because you’re brave. When those thugs attacked you last week, you said yourself you weren’t scared.’

‘Angry,’ he said. ‘I was bloody angry, mainly for allowing myself to be cornered so easily, but that’s different. The blood’s up, emotions are running hot and they’re running high. But inside, we’re all frightened of something.’

She twisted her head on one side. ‘What scares you, then?’

‘Me?’ He bit into the apple. ‘Losing people I care about.’ Passion deepened his voice. ‘That scares the hell out of me.’

Annia brightened. ‘Then you’d better tell me what Claudia found out at the ranch. Maybe together we can come up with some answers!’

Even as Orbilio relayed the information Claudia had passed on, his mind travelled to an altogether different plane. With so much going on, he’d overstretched himself of late. Well, he wasn’t the only one under pressure. Suppose the killer, too, had overstretched himself? Suppose that by staging the last murder in Claudia’s garden, he’d tried just that bit too hard to be clever?

‘I have to get some sleep,’ he told Annia, because he needed to be alone with his thoughts. Break the problem into segments then deal with them one at a time, that was the rule that he worked by, and right now he was paying the price for ignoring his own advice. By juggling three demanding cases, he’d not been true to any.

He splashed cold water over his face. Segment one, the Magic problem seemed to have sorted itself out—no more letters, packets or ripped dolls had been delivered and Orbilio’s theory was that, unable to frighten Claudia, he’d moved on to terrorize another, weaker victim. In a way, he was relieved. The pressure was off, Claudia was safe—but now what excuse did he have to hang around?

As for segment two, the plotting merchants, that was easy. Had a coup been imminent, he would know about it.

Which left the maniac who preyed on the Children of Arbil.

In a fresh linen tunic, with his hair combed and a glass of chilled wine under his belt, Orbilio decided that, having deposited all the facts in his investigative cauldron, it was time to let them stew for a while. In his experience, it was through exercise that his thought processes honed themselves, and that was precisely what he intended to do now. He smiled to himself as Annia’s high-pitched trilling instructed his steward on the merits of employing women rather than men to clean the silver, their hands are every bit as strong but far more flexible, and really, in an atrium of this class, more lampstands were in order, didn’t he think, plus extra gilding on the ceiling. Making no attempt to rescue the poor man, Orbilio made his exit through the back.

The athletics yard was packed, a battleground where young blades showed their muscle tone and old men overreached. Orbilio cut a straight line through the grunting and the wheezing, through the javelins and wrestling towards the gymnasium where, oiled and naked, he gathered together a team to play small ball. It was the only game he knew which exercised every single muscle of the body and while his body worked out, his mind could rest. Afterwards, while his flesh was pummelled by a masseur, his refreshed brain would begin a workout of its own.

XXXI

The traffic on the Via Lata was light as Claudia cut across from the Quirinal. What had she hoped to achieve from her visit to Kaeso? A confession? Hardly. On the other hand, do men who slice their victims into twenty-seven pieces dash home for a spot of vigorous sex? She did not think so.

The girls’ terror, their blood, an absolute domination, these were the triggers for a ritual murderer, that’s how these freaks get their kicks.

But then Kaeso was an esoteric individual…

Always, on the Field of Mars, you’d find schoolboys running races, jousters on horseback, wig sellers displaying their curly wares on the marble heads of statues (at least until the wardens found out). The baths were free, the lake invariably jammed with rowboats, so take a deep breath, forget about little Severina, just take time out and relax.

Claudia bought a cinnamon bun from a vendor and inhaled its warmth and spiciness.

Counting today, she reflected, ambling down the Portico of a Hundred Pillars, the Megalesian Games still had three days to run and praise be to Bacchus, whose humble wine dregs had sabotaged Larentia, she could enjoy these Games in peace. Tomorrow, in the Theatre of Pompey over there, already flooded and floating proper warships, they were staging a mock naval battle and on Monday the festivities culminate in The Procession of the Gods and more races at the Circus. Today, however, the Theatre of Marcellus was putting on a riproaring musical farce.

Around Pillar Nineteen, the heel of her sandal snagged in the hem of her gown and as she released it, Claudia thought she caught a movement. Shadows, of course. With its alley of plantains, its frescoes and bronze statues, what do you expect?

The farce should be quite a show. Apparently the playwright was a sparkling newcomer whose wit and musical score—

There it was again! At Pillar Thirty-one. The flicker from behind. She glanced along the colonnade. Portly merchants eyeing up the painted nudes. Lovers, arm in arm, eyes locked. A small boy sitting on the step, picking intently at a scab on his elbow. People. Not exactly crowds, but nevertheless she wasn’t alone here. So why this flutter of unease for what was probably nothing but the effect of fast-moving clouds?

Around Pillar Forty-three, Claudia simply had to know. Had Kaeso’s House of Silence made a sucker out of her?

Backtracking round a cypress grove, the path diverged. This way to the Pantheon, that way to the baths. But wait. Behind an overhanging branch, a narrow, weed-choked path would prove it once and for all. Claudia did not consider the danger as she draped her bright magenta wrap around her elbows and was swallowed by the shrubs. She was intent only on defying an overheated imagination.

Dappled shade turned to deeper shadows. Dense undergrowth muffled sound, the greenery snagged in her hair. Ought she turn back? Narrowing to the point of obscurity, the path terminated at a building where ivy scrambled over walls for sparrows to make nests in. There was a coldness and a damp about the place. The long, wet grass was a stranger to the scythe and when the leaf litter rustled, Claudia squealed aloud. A blackbird hopped out, dangling a caterpillar from his beak, and she rolled her eyes in disgust. What’s to be scared of? This old voting hall, abandoned because who the hell wanted to traipse this far out of town to hear speeches? There were rumours about it being turned into a bazaar—’

‘BITCH!’

Claudia spun round.
‘Magic!’

He hadn’t changed his clothes, they were filthier than ever and stiff from the dried blood of two days back. ‘You faithless, whoring bitch!’

The hair was matted, just as she remembered, and the same uneven teeth and gagging stench. The only difference seemed to be that this time he wielded a knife in both his hands. Claudia screamed, even before she remembered the doll that he’d sent her, slashed to ribbons.

‘I followed you.’

Spinning on her heel, she raced across the courtyard. Inside the voting hall, I’ll be safe!

‘And saw you with those men!’

Up the steps she ran…

The voice changed, became wheedling. ‘Thought you’d kill old Magic? Well, you can’t.’

…across the portico…

‘Magic is immortal.’

…through the porchway…

‘Magic cannot die!’

…to the doors…

‘But you’ll die, you bitch! You deceived me!’

…which were locked and would not budge.

He stopped running when he knew he had her trapped. ‘All those men,’ he rasped. ‘Why? Why so many men, Claudia?’

Her fingernails chipped in a desperate attempt to claw open the lock. ‘Men?’ she croaked. He was deranged. But maybe she could reason with him and find a way out of this nightmare.

‘First the blond one, then the dark one.’ His eyes glittered harshly. ‘No thought of your promise to me!’ In the dank and slimy darkness, the glint from the twin blades shone menacingly. ‘What about the vows we took, do they mean nothing?’

It was no use, the doors were never going to open. Her heart was pounding, her breathing ragged. Think, girl, think. ‘That we still share, Magic.’ She forced her voice to be soft and reassuring. ‘Those men—’

‘Yes?’ His face twisted.

‘—they were cousins, that was all.’ She swallowed the bile in her throat, and forced herself to look at him and not the knives. ‘I told you…in my letters…about my duties.’ In an effort to quell the rising terror, had she overdone the soothing? Had it come out patronizing?

‘Then—’ He seemed to be trying to grasp something. ‘Then you’ll still come to me every night?’

‘Always.’

He nodded slowly, as though still taking it in. ‘And when the white light hurts my head, you’ll sing to me like Mamma did?’

‘Of course.’

His voice became petulant. ‘She doesn’t come to magic the pain away any more. She—’ The eyes blurred with tears. Was this her moment? Could she dash past him, unnoticed? ‘Mamma’s dead, isn’t she?’ he sobbed. ‘Mamma’s dead?’