In the end it took five drafts, but when the rested rider set off back for Rome, Orbilio was confident that not only would his superior officer rescind any threat of dismissal, but that to get his hands on the list of taboos surrounding Jupiter’s priest, the smarmy toad would actually send an apology by return.
Orbilio had not trekked all the way up to the Capitol and back yesterday morning for nothing.
With the sun sinking fast behind the hills which cradled Plasimene, he worked his way round to the shrine of Carya, where a corpulent priest gathered hyssop in the dusky pink rays to purify the altar, growling at his lanky novice to put some effing elbow grease behind his effing broom, or the boy would be working in the effing dark. At the edge of the walnut grove, Marcus leaned his hands on the low wall which surrounded it. The stone was warm upon his palms, purple from the glow of the sunset. All around, hills tamed into providing wood for hurdles, yokes and charcoal sank into the gentle, smoky twilight. Sheep grazed contentedly on the marshy plains and cattle chewed the cud, lowing softly now and then to rein in their boisterous calves. Lowering his gaze, he watched coracles and fishing boats, homeward bound and heavy, studding the surface of a lake which rippled with nibbling fish. Finally his meandering eyes found what they had, of course, set out to find from the beginning, and Orbilio could fool himself no longer. One of the fishermen’s hooks must have got left behind by mistake, it pulled in his gut as he watched lights far across the water twinkle in the darkening sky. There was no mistaking the island that they came from and he swallowed the lump in his throat. So many lights, they danced like fireflies out on that wooded lump of rock developed by a banker and his wife into a villa of great luxury and grounds which were, he understood, a beauty to behold. Then the banker died, and not so many months ago. And earlier this afternoon, his successor had rowed a certain party over to the island.
But had not yet rowed her home.
*
Out where those torches burned like fireflies, a man and a woman walked side by side, one unaccustomedly voluble, the other unaccustomedly quiet.
This island, Tarraco told her, was once a sacred Etruscan burial site and though the tombs had been robbed long ago, probably at the time of the Battle of the Lake, the paintings inside could rival the artists of Rome. One day, maybe tomorrow, maybe next day, he would show her.
‘But they are nothing compared to what I show you. Come.’ He led her to the eastern tip of the island. ‘My colossus. Fifty feet high, it takes your breath away, no? Is Memnon, son of the Dawn, and at daybreak he calls to his mother. Oh, you scoff, but is true. Memnon sings. You wait and you see. Memnon sings.’
Let me show you the gardens, magnificent gardens, with the peabirds who spread out their fan of fine feathers and the cote of white doves. Listen with me to the murmuring fountains; we feed the fish in the ponds. You like the villa? This marble here comes from the high Pyrenees, the doors are cedar from the forests of Lebanon.
Like a gentle tide, his words went in, his words went out, and Claudia’s mind was the beach they left no trace on. For her, this offered the perfect breathing space. Coldblooded murder could not intrude on this island. Strongroom robberies did not exist. The tentacles of the Security Police could not reach this far out. As the sun turned the banker’s villa salmon pink, stress floated away like a leaf on the water. Pressure flew home with the geese.
Leaving his guest in a portico planted with basil to counteract the clouds of midges, Tarraco returned a few minutes later with a magnificent gown in his hands-harebell blue, vivid rather than flamboyant, daring, yet anything but flashy. Claudia gasped with surprise. It was exquisite, true, but more than that, the gift revealed so much about the Spaniard. Perhaps it smacked of arrogance, that Claudia would show at the jetty, but it betrayed what she had suspected yesterday. That Tarraco could read her thoughts, because this was a gown she’d have chosen herself. In the setting sun, she smiled inwardly. In her experience, the only men who have such taste and comprehension are inclined towards their own sex, but not Tarraco! His dark eyes were compelling, his movements lithe and beguiling and she did not need to hear his sharp intake of breath to appreciate the effect of his gift when she changed into it. Without a word he led her between a line of tall cypress to a white marble seat which looked out over the lake. Laid out in the centre were platters piled high with oysters and stuffed eggs, asparagus and wild mushrooms.
‘The shadows lengthen,’ he said as they pushed their plates away. ‘Come.’
With the flat of his hand on her back as a guide, he led her to the dining terrace, where spiky palms flanked the marble steps and garlands of flowers-roses, lilies, valerian-hung from the capitals of deeply fluted pillars. Two couches upholstered in Tyrian purple and cast in bronze gleamed in the light of a score of burning torches and Claudia knew, as she stretched out, that the colour of her gown set off the scene to perfection. Tarraco, she reflected happily, was not just rich, he was an artist.
Crab and lobster, venison and quail sizzled under silver-lidded platters and the silence was broken only by the rasping of cicadas and an occasional mew from the peacocks. Across the lake, the lights of Atlantis reflected like stars in the water.
‘Your-’ Claudia cleared her throat and started again. ‘Your servants. Are they invisible?’
‘You wish for a crowd?’ he asked, stroking his long, dark mane out of his eyes.
She remembered the clearing. Him standing there, veiled by his hair, and her nearly naked, and despite the warmth of the evening, a shudder ran through her body. ‘How long have you lived here?’ she asked, gulping the heavy red wine.
He spread expressive hands and shrugged. ‘I lose track of time,’ he replied, and Claudia could believe him. Was this what happened to Odysseus, when he stopped on Circe’s island? Perhaps time stood still for him also? But then Circe, she recalled, was an enchantress…
Inside her chest, a blacksmith hammered on the anvil of her ribs. ‘Where were you before that?’ she asked.
‘Iberia, you mean?’
Whatever.
‘From the hills above the coast on the east.’ His mouth twitched downwards briefly and, she felt, involuntarily. ‘I was slave originally. Prisoner of war.’
‘What happened?’
‘You,’ he grinned and picked up a lyre, ‘talk too much.’ Softly Tarraco began to strum. ‘Just lie back. Listen to the music and the night.’
Sod it, why not? There were demons enough waiting when she returned! Thus Claudia abandoned herself to the marriage of chords which she never imagined existed. Haunting, aching melodies of sun-drenched Spanish hills filled the air, wordless songs of broken hearts and unrequited love, and they echoed across the terrace and far into the night. The level in the wine jug dropped, and the scent of the roses and the lilies intensified in the heat of the torches.
‘Now,’ he said at length, laying down his lyre, ‘let us eat honeycombs fresh from the hive.’
‘What is this?’ She laughed. ‘Like our festival of Beating the Bounds, have you laid on a moveable feast?’
Tarraco made no reply, but silently ushered her through an atrium resplendent with golden rafters and redolent of myrrh, past a fountain chattering in a diamond pool. Finally he pulled aside a heavy tapestry curtain, the entrance to a small office, from which a large door opened inwards.