‘Yes?’
‘Milady said-’
‘For pity’s sake, man, what did milady say?’
‘Well, as I remember it were,’ he coughed and fixed his gaze on the painted satyrs high on the ceiling, ‘“For gods’ sake, driver, where do you think you’re sneaking off to? Can’t you see there’s a crisis?”’ He looked anxiously at the Prefect. ‘It were her sandal, see?’
Macer blinked. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The red one. It fell off when me gig turned over. She said it were valuable and-well, that I should stay behind and look for it.’
‘Is that right, Mistress Seferius?’ The incredulity in the Prefect’s voice was insulting to the point of malice. ‘You insisted the driver hunt for your sandal while you went off barefoot to fetch help?’
Don’t be ridiculous. I always carry a spare pair. ‘The man’s arm was broken, the chances are he’d have passed out long before he’d climbed the slope. I don’t see where this is leading.’
Macer ignored the edge to her voice. ‘I am simply curious as to why a woman of substance should choose to travel an abandoned road with no servants and no luggage, and why she should pick my home town for her overnight stop.’
It is not your home town, though, is it? You’d no sooner live in Tarsulae than I would. Claudia delved into her wardrobe of smiles and came up with a particularly dazzling model. ‘It’s very simple,’ she said. ‘Why follow the Via Flaminia on its newer, but longer route, when you can take the old road, then cross country on a local path?’
She’d reckoned without the fog, though, and she’d reckoned without the hooligans, but most of all Claudia had reckoned without the resilience of the locals. They had none. Like rats on the proverbial sinking ship, they’d left in their droves. Once-thriving settlements were reduced to ghost towns, their shops crumbling to dust, their inns providing hospitality only to vermin and spiders. Even the private huts which dotted the roadside-cabins where patricians and their friends would hole up for the night-were dilapidated, with what doors that remained swinging in the wind on ungreased hinges. Which explained why a group of drunken oiks could indulge in their antics and get away with it. (Or thought they could.)
‘Tarsulae was simply a question of expediency and, as for servants, I’d sent them ahead by ox cart.’
‘What exactly was the reason for your urgency? Family illness, perhaps? Or maybe-’ he paused-‘problems with an arsonist?’
‘Good heavens, is there one on the loose?’ How the hell did he know about that?
‘Might that have been what your bailiff, Rollo, meant by urgent?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ None that I’m telling you, anyway.
‘Prefect, unless this is relevant,’ Pallas said lazily, ‘I think we all have better things to do.’
Thank you, Pallas. Thank you, thank you, thank you. ‘Yes, indeed.’ Sergius threw his two quadrans’ worth into the ring. ‘My wife is distressed enough as it is.’ Two bright spots of colour had appeared in Alis’ cheeks, but how long they’d been there, Claudia couldn’t tell.
‘Well, she would be, wouldn’t she?’ Euphemia cut in suddenly. ‘Isodorus was another one who met with sudden death under this roof.’
The Prefect looked baffled. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘My first brother-in-law.’ The way she stressed the word ‘first’ was singularly unattractive. ‘His name was Isodorus.’
‘Euphemia, please-’ There was a quaver in Alis’ voice.
‘My wife was a widow,’ Sergius explained, giving her shoulder a reassuring pat. ‘And Isodorus was a sick man.’
‘He was only twenty-two when he died.’
‘Euphemia, that’s enough,’ Sergius snapped. Alis pleated her gown between her fingers. ‘Prefect, could I ask you to deal with this a little faster so my wife can have a lie-down? She’s feeling faint.’
‘Really, Sergius.’ Alis’ embarrassment was painful to watch. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me.’ Her eyes remained riveted on the folds in her hands. ‘I’m fine.’
Macer burnished his chestplate with the inside of his wrist. ‘Mistress Pictor, I am proceeding with all haste.’ She might not have spoken. ‘Bear with me a few moments longer. Mistress Seferius.’ He smiled ingratiatingly. ‘Claudia. Am I right in believing you are negotiating to purchase a parcel of land adjacent to your vineyard?’ Claudia felt a shot of liquid fire hurtle through her veins. He was up to something. This fussy, pompous, humourless so-and-so was up to something.
‘You are indeed,’ she replied silkily, with no attempt to elaborate. If he has dice hidden up his sleeve, he’ll have to bloody well play them.
‘Well, correct me if I’m wrong,’ Macer smiled a reptilian smile, ‘but wasn’t some of the land you are after recently targeted by an arsonist?’
You slimy bastard. Claudia took a good, long, deep breath before answering. ‘The operative word there, Prefect, is “some”.’ She would give him no quarter.
‘I see.’ And he wasn’t giving her any, either. ‘But as a result of the damage, wasn’t this land offered for sale at a greatly reduced price?’
Damn right. ‘I have no idea. I leave the monetary side to my banker.’
For some time she had been trying to outwit a certain Senator Quintilian on various land deals. This was the third such occasion, but how come Macer knows about it? Shit. She’d forgotten how Quintilian boasted of his villa on Falcon Mountain-just up the bloody road from here. Smack bang in the middle of Macer’s patch, and of course the local aristocracy get together from time to time. Bugger, bugger, bugger.
Macer had pulled out a handkerchief and was buffing his fingernails in silence. The atmosphere was so heavy you could have cut it into slices and fried it in olive oil, but no one dared break it, not even Claudia. What, her mind raced, was this little maggot driving at?
Time seemed to stand on its head and do nothing. The field workers were returning for their midday meal, a donkey brayed in the distance. Pungent smells of roasting goat and cabbage, chestnut bread and sprats wafted round the banqueting room. Pallas’ stomach began to growl. Finally the Prefect put away his handkerchief and turned to face Claudia. The tip of his thin nose was quite pink.
‘Tell me, Claudia. Why did you kill him?’
A hush settled over the room.
The breath caught in Claudia’s thoat. ‘Quintilian? Is he dead?’
Macer’s eyes narrowed. ‘Not to my knowledge, no. I was referring to your friend in your doorway.’
It was Corbulo, sitting beside her, who sprang to her rescue. ‘This is outrageous! We’ve already established the man’s a complete stranger-’
‘I beg to contradict.’ Macer was calm to the point of disinterest. ‘We have done nothing of the sort. As a matter of fact, the deceased was a local man named Fronto and he is well known to me.’
‘Remus!’ Sergius, who had turned as pale as his wife, pushed Alis aside and slumped on to the stool. ‘What-? I mean, if you knew about his activities, why didn’t you lock this pervert away?’
‘Fronto might be many things, sir, but he was no sexual deviant. In fact, until very recently, he was employed on my staff.’
Macer silenced the buzz of excitement with his hand. ‘Quiet, please. Moreover,’ he continued, ‘the description of the arsonist laying waste those lands so close to your own, my dear Claudia, matches your description of Fronto to a T.’
Claudia jumped to her feet. ‘For gods’ sake, man! Do I look the sort of woman who goes around stabbing total strangers?’
The Prefect studied her for a full five seconds before a slow grin spread across his face. ‘No, Mistress Seferius, you do not.’ He bared shiny, white teeth. ‘Which is precisely why you thought you could get away with it.’
VI
The imbecile! The half-wit! The absolute bloody cheek of it! Claudia stomped out of the room and slammed the door into next week. Behind her swarmed a sea of faces, some slack-jawed, some shouting, some still digesting the evidence, though none made an effort to stop her. Let them try, she thought. Just let them bloody try. The opulence of the atrium flashed past unnoticed. Pyrenean marble. Friezes. Frescoes. Gold lampstands. Lavender stalks and elecampane burned unheeded in silver braziers, a fountain splashed in vain. Garlands of daphne draped round the columns might have been invisible.