“What about your husband? Father? Other family members?”
She reddened, and studied a painted pot on the corner shelf. “My father … I came against my father’s wishes. No one can know I was here.” She paused, and a spasm of pain caught her face and held it. The words helped break its grip. “My … my husband is dead.”
I chewed my cheek and kept staring. The face was a proud one. It didn’t like asking for help. “How did you get this information?”
I could smell lavender, and the moist, still odor of fear on her body. Her hands were grasping the edge of the couch. She looked into the hearth fire as if she knew what it felt like to burn.
“The Syrian is my sponsus. My father arranged it. He’s old and ill. My husband was killed before he could give me children.”
She pulled her eyes from the flames and met my own. “I’ll slit my veins before I carry that monster’s seed.”
The ferocity was familiar. A cornered cat. A tigress in the arena. The medallion drew her back again. I wasn’t surprised she recognized it.
“That still doesn’t explain how you found this out. Or why you came to me instead of the governor.”
One of the logs in the fire popped a small explosion of sparks. Neither one of us noticed.
“You’re his doctor-his friend. You have a reputation for solving problems. You were pointed out to me and I-I liked the way you looked.”
Our eyes met again and were formally introduced.
“Is that all?”
“What do you mean?”
“I thought maybe Agricola’s men ask too many questions.”
Her face got cold, and a wave of red washed over it without thawing it out. The words got harder.
“Think what you want, but you’re a fool if you don’t warn the governor. Agricola’s brought peace, good fortune-he’s given us the hand of Rome, not her fist. My-my husband believed in him. What do you believe in, I wonder?”
“I’ll tell you what I don’t believe in. I don’t believe in beautiful widows interrupting my lunch and feeding me lines about Syrian spies. I think you want my help because you don’t want to marry him.”
The color drained from her lips. Blue ice raked my face.
“I don’t need you. I can look after my own affairs. I want him to die. I’d kill him myself, before he touched me.”
Maybe it was the way she was standing, with her shoulders back and her fists clenched into white balls at her sides, or maybe the frozen voice trying hard not to shatter. Or maybe because as a child I’d seen women standing like that in the face of death.
“All right, I believe you. You don’t need me and Agricola does. So explain how you know this.”
She waited until she could breathe again. “I can’t tell you. You’ll have to trust me.”
“Trust you? I don’t know who you are, lady. I don’t even know your name.”
“Claudia Catussa-to the Romans. Gwyna to my own people. Which man are you today? Julius Alpinus Classicianus Favonianus or Arcturus?” The sarcasm seemed to help her. She was good at the Roman versus native game, but I’d played it all my life.
“You can call me Arcturus. And if I trusted you like my own-sister-I’d still need to know how the hell you found it out. And I will … eventually. Is there anything else you know-anything at all-about the Syrian’s plans?”
Her tongue ran over her lips, while she thought about how much to say. “Something about … about a new governor.”
That made too much of the wrong kind of sense. Agricola played the game, and he knew how to win. But he also knew how to pretend to lose. His success was Domitian’s success, and the day it became his own would be his last. But the army loved him-maybe too much-and he was about to conquer the North. So the Emperor would want an eye on him. Or a knife at his throat.
Londinium was already stinking with rumors. Some swore he’d be here forever, Domitian’s favorite general, but more were laying even odds that he’d be replaced before next season-before he could achieve his dream of holding the whole country in his hands. For the glory of the Emperor, of course.
I looked around. We were both still standing in front of the fire.
She said: “I have to go.”
The fine lines around her mouth hadn’t been there before. Her palla was on the floor. We both bent down to pick it up, and her hand brushed my arm. The hair was standing up where she’d touched it.
I could smell lavender again. I draped the palla around her, and maybe my fingertips lingered on her shoulders. She turned to face me. Her eyes searched mine, looking for something. She moved closer, and I felt the heat of her body through the silk. She stood on tip-toe, and a softness I could barely remember caressed my cheek.
She whispered: “I do need you. Be careful, Ardur.”
I closed my eyes, inhaling a fragrance from the past. When I opened them, she was gone.
CHAPTER TWO
I couldn’t work. I could barely think. Focus. Focus on Agricola. I called Bilicho.
“It’s about the governor. I’m not sure what exactly.”
He grunted. “Women who look like that-”
“What do you want them to look like? My Aunt Pervinca, the Gorgon? Follow her. Find out as much as you can about her.”
He looked startled. “Why? I thought you said this has to do with Agricola? What’s the mystery?”
“Something about a spy. For Domitian. A Vibius Maecenas, a Syrian. Supposed to marry that girl.” I blamed the tightness in my chest on too many partridge eggs.
He studied me as if I were some sort of new hemorrhoid salve. I could feel my face flush and get irritable.
“What is it?”
“You’re afraid to do it yourself.”
I rubbed my cheek, and gave him a sour look. He grinned in return.
“I haven’t seen you like this in years. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you like this.”
“Well, don’t stand there gawking at me. Tell Coir to go down to the market and ask around. Her native name is Gywna-Claudia Catussa to the Romans.” I caught his arched eyebrow. “And don’t look so damned pleased with yourself.”
He sucked his teeth for a moment, suppressing a smile, and then headed for the kitchen. I could hear him call for Coir. He’d better hurry if he was going to catch Gywna.
Gwyna. I didn’t want to think about her. What I needed was a fresh, cold slap in the face. My favorite old cloak was wadded up underneath a chair cushion, and I put it on and stepped into the atrium.
The air bit my face, and the thin sunlight did nothing to help. I looked around, and wondered what the hell I was doing. A loud purr interrupted me. Fera was watching the wood doves with dinner on her mind. I scooped her into my arms, her black body heavy with a thick fur coat.
I petted her for a while, before she got impatient and went looking for a rat, leaving me to deal with my own-the latest gift from the god of mischief. I stood up and frowned at a broken statue. The house was unfinished, like most things in my life. All right, Arcturus, where did that come from? I reminded myself not to talk to myself. Focus. Focus on the house.
I wandered up to the wall separating the courtyard from the street. It was covered in graffiti, but no one had scrawled over Postumus and his claim to have screwed ten girls on the very spot. His legend was still secure, and my atrium still wasn’t.
One of these years I’d finish the wing, and the house and gardens would be completely private, and I wouldn’t have to worry about waking up one night to the sound of Postumus grunting in the herb garden. One of these years. Right after Domitian made me Pontifex Maximus.
A loud clang from the kitchen startled me. Just Venutius, whistling and clanging and preparing more food, and I hoped to God it wasn’t more roasted eggs. I massaged the knot in my forehead.
My eyes landed on the Lararium huddled in the corner, shivering from neglect. If the protectors of the household decided to move out to plusher accommodations, I couldn’t blame them. I muttered a small, feeble prayer for forgiveness, and wiped the marble with my arm until the first level of grime was gone. The incense cup was full of ashes. When had I last made an offering? Why the hell did I avoid it? I forced the questions back down the hole they crawled out of. Focus. Focus on the Lares.