He’d gone grey. He stood up himself, raised a trembling arm and pointed. ‘You get out,’ he said quietly. ‘You get the hell out. And if you repeat one word of these lies in public you’ll find yourself sued from one end of the civil courts to the other. Is that clear?’
Placida was really growling now, and her hackles were rising. I reached out to grip her collar and felt her muscles tense. Soranus flashed her a look and swallowed. ‘Yeah. Yeah, that’s clear,’ I said. ‘No problems on that score, pal. I just wanted to tell you that I knew, that’s all. To make you sweat. Because when I have got the proof — and believe me I’ll get it — I’m going to take it round to the city judge’s office myself and then watch them nail your fucking hide to the Julian Hall floor.’ I turned to go, pulling the still-growling Placida with me, and then another thought struck me and I turned back. ‘Oh, by the way, who’s Albucilla?’
If he’d been grey before he’d’ve doubled now for week-old uncooked pastry dough. I thought for a moment that he was going to do a Cluvia into the ornamental flower-bed, but he pulled himself together.
‘Get out of my house!’ he shouted.
‘Ow-ooo-ooo-ooo!’ Placida launched herself forward, almost dragging me with her. Soranus half-screamed and took a step back against the chair, arm raised. For two pins I’d’ve let go the collar, but then the authorities might object to one of the top five hundred having his throat torn out in his own garden. Besides, she’d probably have got food poisoning.
‘Pleasure’s all mine, friend,’ I said. ‘I’ll see you around.’
We left.
Well, that’d been fun. Maybe not exactly politic, but the bastard would only have lied anyway, and as far as cage-rattling went I didn’t think I could’ve done better. Soranus had been frightened; that much was obvious, and it had nothing to do with Placida. Also, it was all to the good, because when I’d threatened him with the city judge I’d been bluffing. With Papinius dead, there wasn’t a hope of proving he’d paid Soranus hush-money. At least, not much of a hope. At least…
Hell. We’d just have to see. It would give me a great deal of personal satisfaction to nail the slimy bugger, and he’d find himself hard put to try any more blackmail when he was twiddling his thumbs out in Lusitania or living on frozen beets somewhere north of the Hellespont.
His reaction to Albucilla’s name had been interesting, too, whoever the lady was; which last was something I’d have to chase up before I was much older. Food for thought again.
And speaking of food I’d done enough for one day. We both had. Home, for Meton’s fish.
11
It turned out I had plenty of time. Meton (I got this from Bathyllus, when he handed me the usual belt of Setinian at the door) had had a slight contretemps with the guy down at the fish-market who was standing in for his usual supplier over the quality of the sea-urchins, which resulted in said guy almost having to have the offending crustacea surgically removed and Meton being forcibly restrained by five of the fish-seller’s mates and a handy tunny. The result was fish was off the menu, Meton was nursing a glorious shiner plus a sulk at the market officer who had taken the fish-seller’s side, and we were having slow-marinated lamb’s liver and long-cooked pork. Eventually.
Yeah, well; it’s all part of life’s rich tapestry.
‘Where’s the mistress, little guy?’ I said, sinking the first welcome mouthful of Setinian.
‘In the bath suite, sir.’ Bathyllus was eyeing Placida with a look that was so jaundiced it was practically the colour of his snazzy yellow tunic. Evidently I’d walked our barbarian house-guest off her paws because as soon as we’d cleared the lobby she’d sprawled out full-length on the atrium floor. ‘Apropos of which…’ He sniffed, pointedly, and gave the dog another sizzling glare.
Yeah, I’d noticed the smell myself. It would’ve been hard not to at any distance of less than ten yards. ‘Penetrating’ is the word; or maybe ‘corrosive’ is better. ‘She, uh, rolled on something,’ I said. ‘In the gutter outside that new butcher’s shop halfway down Head of Africa. My guess would be past-its-sell-by-date tripe, but it was too far gone to judge.’
‘Indeed, sir?’
‘Still, no problem, sunshine.’ I was taking off my sweaty tunic. ‘You can heat up a couple of buckets of water, take her out into the garden and sluice her down.’
Heh-heh!
Not an eyelid did Bathyllus bat. ‘Actually, sir,’ he said, ‘the mistress left strict instructions in that regard. To apply if you came home in time, sir.’
I paused re the tunic. Oh, hell! I was beginning to get a bad, bad feeling about the way things were going here. There were too many ‘sirs’ for a start, and the little bugger was wearing a smug expression which I didn’t like the look of by half.
‘Cut the faffing, Bathyllus,’ I said. ‘Just tell me.’
‘Well, sir, we’ve put a tub in the bath suite and — ’
Jupiter bloody Almighty! I held up my hands, palm out. ‘Oh, no,’ I said. ‘No way! Look, pal. I have had sole and total charge of that brute ever since breakfast and I reckon I’ve done my whack. All I want now is a quiet bath, a few cups of wine and dinner. I am not playing bath-time games with a fucking Gallic boarhound, especially one that’s been rolling in decomposed pig offal. All right?’
‘Perhaps you’d like to tell the mistress that yourself, sir.’ Smirk.
Hell. Fuck. Double fuck. I finished removing the tunic and pitched it into a corner.
‘Come on, Placida,’ I said.
She was waiting for us, sitting on the bench.
‘Oh, hello, dear.’ She brushed a damp strand of hair out of her eyes and gave me a welcome-home kiss. ‘Good, you’ve brought her. Everything’s ready, and the water shouldn’t be too hot now, it’s been standing for half an hour.’
‘Perilla…’
‘The sponge is over there with another two bucketfuls for the rinse, and I’ve put some perfumed oil in. Down, Placida, no, I don’t want licked, thank you very much. My goodness, she does smell a bit, doesn’t she, Marcus? What’ve you been doing with her?’
‘Lady…’
‘Never mind, we’d best start. Get her into the tub.’
I goggled. ‘What?’
‘Oh, really, dear! It can’t be all that difficult!’
Hell. I took hold of Placida’s collar and pulled in the required direction. The first two or three feet were okay, but the last bit, when she caught sight of the water and realised what was happening, was something else…
‘Uh, I don’t think she wants to go,’ I said. Understatement: it was like trying to haul the temple of Saturn up Capitol Incline.
‘Nonsense. She loves being bathed. Calvina told me.’
‘Really? Is that so, now?’ I was beginning to develop a real respect for that woman’s powers of falsehood and duplicity. ‘You care to pass the message on to the dog, lady?’
‘All right. Then you’ll just have to lift her in.’
Oh, Jupiter! ‘Yeah, and add a slipped disc and double hernia to all my other problems. ‘Perilla, come on! You know how much that fucking beast weighs?’
‘Marcus!’
Shit; I didn’t deserve this. I took a firm grip on the collar and pulled. Placida crouched down and pulled back. Her claws scrabbled on the marble and she held her ground.
Stalemate.
‘Perhaps you’d care to help,’ I grunted.
‘Oh, really!’ Perilla got up and joined me…
‘She is strong, isn’t she?’ she said after a bit. ‘And very determined.’
‘Yeah,’ I gasped. ‘Yeah, you could say that.’
‘I think she might be moving. One more pull.’
Scrabblescrabblescrabblescra-a-a-ape…
Yes! Well, at least we were within striking distance now. I let go the collar, lifted the brute’s front paws over the edge of the tub, went round to her rear end and heaved…