‘Oh really? So why aren’t I in chains?’
I might have no jurisdiction out here, Claudia, but I do have influence. High overhead, clouds began to roll in. ‘That’s the good news,’ he said quietly. ‘You’re under house arrest instead.’
*
With the spring equinox almost upon them and thus as many hours of daylight as dark, Marcus Cornelius Orbilio, despite his ride, was far from sleepy…and since Sergius ran his estate along the same lines as any other working farm, what better time to get a feel for the place, now Macer had trooped off to Tarsulae with the corpse? The Prefect had not taken kindly to outside intervention, reminding Orbilio bluntly that his boundaries lay within the walls of Rome and not poring over the remains of the deceased.
‘Unless’, he stressed nastily, ‘I ask for assistance.’
During the long pause that followed, neither man willing to drop his gaze, Orbilio began to sense that Macer was finding his sudden appearance somewhat suspicious, but only when he was forced to confess his was a private investigation, did he begin to grasp the full picture.
As far as the Prefect was concerned, Security Police or not, Marcus Cornelius Orbilio was a suspect. Possibly even an accomplice.
He might not have got far with his examination of Fronto’s corpse, but since Macer daren’t openly accuse him, Orbilio was free to make other investigations. Having already spoken to the Pictors, each the very essence of co-operation, what he wanted now was a good poke around.
The layout was standard-four blocks round a rectangular courtyard with the south wing for guests and the east being the family’s preserve, bedrooms, office, and so on. The west wing had been converted from store rooms into Tulola’s private quarters, with only the kitchens remaining, while terraced barracks walked up the hillside from the north wing to house the displaced servants and stores. Fanning out beyond were the more traditional farm buildings and workshops-all of which would be deserted this time of night. Apart from the security guards, the only person on the loose was young Salvian, and that solely because Macer had taken the rest of his entourage with him to Tarsulae, seconding his nephew to watch the prisoner.
Which was on a par with leaving a newborn infant in charge of a troop of baboons, thought Orbilio. Without even knowing it, she’d given him the slip, heaven help the boy when she put her mind to it.
It was always the same, he reflected cheerfully as he made his way round the crocodile enclosure, a myriad of torches lighting his path. Every encounter with Claudia Seferius spelled trouble with a capital T and sent the blood thundering through his veins like spring torrents. What would life be like without her? His limbs acquired an unaccustomed weightlessness as he pondered whether Vulcan’s own forge could produce as many sparks as that woman!
From the other side of the palisade, a black shape, as long as a man, slid silently into the water.
Orbilio had not expected an effusive wringing of his hand at the announcement of her house arrest, and could thus hardly claim disappointment. Reward came in the tearing of her hair, the release of a thousand trembling curls, and the flashing of her eyes.
There was a second bonus, too. ‘Men like you,’ she had hissed. Initially her words had sent his temper spinning out of control-until a flash of understanding got the better of him.
Spitting, snarling, snapping? This was part and parcel of Claudia’s defence mechanism.
Deep inside she was scared shitless…
To that inner sanctum, unassailable and unapproachable, Marcus Cornelius Orbilio had made a small but significant dent. Winning her trust, however, was going to be a tougher, longer and more complicated business than he reckoned, but I’ll get there, he thought. I’ll get there.
‘Glutton for punishment, aren’t you?’ he said conversationally to the figure coming towards him on the path.
The Etruscan dropped the bale of hay he was carrying and looked up. ‘It’s that time of year,’ he replied, wiping his brow with his sleeve. ‘Another week, maybe two, and a new batch of animals docks from Africa. We need to make room for them.’
For a moment Orbilio forgot the problems that lay ahead with that spitfire Claudia. He had, in the course of his cursory surveillance, seen the wide range of animals in Sergius’ menagerie, had heard about the tricks they could turn. The elephant who stands nonchalantly cross-legged. Seals that balance inflated pigs’ bladders on their noses. Ponies that curtsy. Monkeys strutting round in miniature army uniforms, even with their own monkey standard bearer. What he wouldn’t give to see a show like that! Striped horses, someone said, and leopards that lick hares. Mighty Mars, Pictor was teetering on the brink of a fortune-and so, although you wouldn’t guess from his face, it always looked serious, was the trainer.
‘I thought Sergius was shipping this lot to Rome for the Games?’ he said.
Corbulo grinned ruefully. ‘I don’t know whether he thought leopards would be like horses to train, but the message is starting to filter through.’ He heaved the bundle back on to his shoulder. ‘He’s resigned to missing April, but I’ve told him till I’m simple. You can’t hurry a project like this.’ He set off down the steps whistling under his breath. ‘Nature takes its own course.’
It certainly does around here. Orbilio was skirting the outhouses when strange grunts emanated from the ox stalls and he moved stealthily round to investigate. Was, he wondered, shaking his head in amusement, Tulola double-jointed or did that foot belong to the chap she was with, whose hair looked as though it had been cut with a ploughshare?
As he turned to leave them to it, he thought that in the faint, flickering light of a lantern at the far end of the barn, he detected movement. There it was again. Darting. Furtive. Twice more the shadow quivered and he edged silently round the haybales. He was barely halfway along before loud cries told him Tulola and her lover had climaxed. He heard a shuffle amongst the straw. Picking up the lantern, he raised it slowly. An ass blinked mournfully back.
‘Hey! Who’s down there?’
The Celtish accent was less than welcoming, and Orbilio turned the lamp to his own face. ‘Marcus,’ he shouted back. ‘I thought I heard noises.’
He heard Tulola’s deep chuckle in the darkness and felt, rather than saw, her pick up her tunic and walk naked back to the house.
‘Ach. Is nothing,’ Taranis yelled back, tucking his shirt into his pantaloons. ‘I just checking the stables.’ He slammed the door behind him and Orbilio heard footsteps running to catch up with Tulola.
With the barn to himself, he lifted the bar of the donkey’s stall. Someone had been here-the straw had been trampled where the watcher had waited. Why? Trapped and too embarrassed to excuse themselves? Orbilio crouched to search for clues. Or was there a more sinister purpose? Had the straw been crushed in an effort to crane a head over the barrier?
His mind busy on the peeping Tom, Orbilio stepped back and felt his boot slide on the slippery, shiny straw. Windmilling wildly, one arm knocked the pole as his other cannoned through the stall divider, knocking the lantern from its niche. The dry fodder caught instantly. Scratched and bleeding, Orbilio smothered the flames with his cloak, but it was not fast enough. Eyes rolling, the donkey bucked against the woodwork, terrified by the splintering and the smoke and the blood.
As he lunged to restrain the animal, his foot slipped sideways in something soft and he fell forwards just as the ass bolted out of its stall.
Prostrate on the barn floor, Orbilio stared at its galloping rear end, looked round at the demolition, looked at the sole of his boot and thought, ‘Shit.’
IX
Sulphur pools. The very thought conjures up visions of burning yellow treacle and the smell of eggs that have not fared well in the sunshine, of vulnerable invalids being purged by rich and zealous doctors. From parasites to paralysis, dropsy to dysentery, sufferers have been led like white bulls to the sacrificial altar to stew in the sweat baths and guzzle down jug after jug of crystalline emulsion, coming away relieved not of their symptoms but of several sesterces, but swearing until copper quadrans covered their eyes that they’d never felt fitter in their lives.