‘Water under the Milvian Bridge, Junius. Last night some homicidal maniac damned near killed me, so I don’t think anyone’s going to lose sleep over one titchy-witchy fib, do you?’
‘There’s something else, too.’
Claudia waved an airy hand. ‘Don’t care, don’t want to know. I appreciate your efforts, but my advice is go to the kitchens then see if you can grab forty winks. In an hour or two, we set sail for Rome.’
‘But, madam-’
‘Butts are where archery is practised, Junius.’ To emphasize her point, she snapped the shutters to.
She heard a finely rounded oath of Gallic origin then, when silence prevailed (or what passed for silence, when you’re billeted next door to a hundred yowling beasts), she flung back the shutters and studied the sky. Was that a break in the clouds she detected?
‘With luck, poppet,’ she picked up Drusilla and swung her several times round in the air, ‘we should be home for the equinox.’
Always a good excuse for a knees-up, and heaven knows she needed one after this. Umbria? You can keep it. It’ll take a lot to prise me away from Rome in the future, and then if I travel, I stick to main roads. ‘Bbbrow!’
That’s the trouble with Egyptian cats. The effect of twirling them isn’t immediately obvious, they’re bosseyed to start with.
The bath was tempting but… ‘Let’s just see how that report reads, shall we?’
Claudia threw herself face-down on the bed. Drusilla dived through the open window without so much as a backward glance.
‘Ingrate!’ Bet you won’t be so proud when it comes to a piece of bacon at lunchtime.
Claudia broke the seal and flipped open the letter. ‘Madam,’ it read, ‘I am pleased to report that I have assessed the two Etruscan sites and my conclusions are as follows. With reference to the damage by fire, this is entirely superficial and has no real bearing on the plans you have for either property…’ blah, blah, blah ‘…and in conclusion, I would say this. Hunter’s Grove would be a suitable proposition for the growing of vines since the soil, though light, has excellent water-retention properties and is devoid of both chalk and tufa. White grapes will grow best here, and I strongly recommend the Thrasian variety to optimize soil conditions.’
Thrasian grapes, eh? He was smarter than she thought, this surveyor chappie.
‘As for Vixen Hill, although the site is superficially appealing, being south-facing and fed by a small brook, it is my recommendation that you steer clear of this property, since the land is not, as has been made to appear, in a state of neglect. The soil is exhausted and totally unsuitable for wine production, or indeed any other agricultural project. Should you require any further…’ etc, etc, etc. She let the scroll drop on to the floor and rested her chin on the bolster. The auction is on Saturday, the same day as the spring equinox. Do I bid in person or do I send an agent? No matter. There are far more pressing issues. Such as, which of Tulola’s brightly coloured tunics could I borrow next? And can I be certain the bath house operates a segregation policy?
The last thing Claudia wanted at the moment was to find herself naked and alone with Timoleon or Barea barging in, but at least the Celt wouldn’t be a problem. The fastest way to get Taranis out of a bath is to open the taps.
The changing-room steward assured her there was no chance of men barging in on her ablutions and left her in the capable hands of a large Cappadocian woman with characteristically curled hair and a laugh that rattled the finials on the roof.
‘Hot room? Wouldn’t if I was you, ducks.’ Not madam. Ducks. ‘You want them cuts to seal over, don’t yer? Well, steam ’em and clean ’em, that’s old Cinna’s motto. Right now, luvvie, into the buskins. Don’t want them pretty feet burned on the tiles, do we?’
Which just about set the pattern for the next half-hour. To a backdrop of life in the Cappadocian Uplands, which this woman could only ever have heard second hand, Claudia’s flesh surrendered itself to be oiled and scraped, steamed and massaged. Truly heaven on earth!
‘Them weals round your ankles looks worse than they are, but old Cinna’s camomile compress’ll fix ’em in a jiffy. By tomorrow they won’t even show.’
Between the harmonious scrape of the strigil, the lilt of the woman’s voice and the impenetrable swirling steam, aches eased and bruises were banished. Bastard, she thought. She didn’t even know the man, why should he pick on her? Still, he was dead now-and it was a death Claudia wouldn’t have wished on her worst enemy. Except, hang on, he was her worst enemy! He was the one who’d deliberately planned to feed her to the crocodiles. Hell, yes-and I tried to save the bugger, too.
‘My word, you have been in the wars. Rub my balsam salve on them bumps and cuts, luvvie, and they’ll be gone before you look in the mirror. Oh, hello, duck. Which do you want, the hot room or the steam?’
Tulola ungirdled her gown. Like all her tunics, this was also designed to slide away in one piece and she wore neither breast band nor thong underneath.
‘Steam’s fine,’ she purred, her eyes raking Claudia’s naked back. ‘Is that your famous rose oil I can smell?’
‘That you can, my luv, and I expect you’ll be wanting a rub over with it, too. Let me give you a hand with them buskins-’
‘No rub today, Cinna. Why don’t you go and check the plunge pool?’
‘I’m not half finished with my first darling, yet.’
‘I told you, Cinna, you check the plunge pool.’ She laid one stiffened finger on Claudia’s bare shoulder and began to trace a pattern. ‘I’ll finish the massage.’
Claudia slithered off the bench. ‘Don’t trouble yourself, I’m off to soak in the hot room.’
She knew Tulola would follow, but at least you could see where you were and pre-empt the strike. ‘How’s your brother?’ she asked, easing herself into the water. ‘Fully recovered from last night’s little episode?’
‘Funny you should ask,’ Tulola replied, a frown furrowing her usually unlined forehead. ‘I’m rather worried about him, as a matter of fact.’
The change in Tulola startled her. ‘Why?’
‘He’s such a ghastly yellow, and he feels bilious all the time.’
Claudia, who knew nothing about nursing, suggested that if he was too ill to ride into Tarsulae, why not let the horse doctor take a look at him?
‘I suggested that,’ Tulola said earnestly, ‘but he wouldn’t have it. Insists there’s nothing wrong, apart from a spot of food poisoning.’
‘He could be right, you know.’
‘Nonsense, sweetie. He’d have been as sick as a dog if it was something he ate.’
‘What does Alis think?’
Tulola snorted. ‘Alis! If my brother told her blue was yellow and she was a grasshopper, she’d believe him. “Anything my husband says goes” is all you get from that pompous little cow.’ She kicked violently at the water.
‘Sergius is a grown man, I dare say he knows what he’s doing.’ Claudia bobbed right under to wash the caked mud out of her hair.
‘That’s what that sulky bitch Euphemia said.’ Tulola began to chew her nail. ‘No one seems bothered about him except me. Even Scrap Iron thinks it’ll pass, and he’s well used to death and injury.’
‘But not illness, remember. Look, it was a long day yesterday, one way and another, perhaps the others are right. Maybe you’re worrying unduly? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m finished here.’
There was an argument raging in the atrium, she could hear it from outside. Timoleon, who had taken to fighting with words in lieu of net and trident, had this time picked on the Celt. Claudia positioned herself behind a pillar.
‘Who you call coward, you dirty motherfucker? I leave because there are too many dead men.’
‘Frightened of ghosts, Taranis?’
‘Who knows who is next to have knife in his back, heh?’
‘The killer’s dead, you saw him-or at least what was left of him.’ Timoleon’s taunts were having little effect, so he moved up a gear. ‘Unless you set him up and you’re the murderer?’
‘You crazy, you know that? Killer need motive, I have no motive.’