“And he made no mention of it? Do you not find that odd, my lady?” He was speaking to her as a tutor leads a student to an answer. “Allow me to propose a different scenario, since you have made great leaps of hypothesis and are too ignorant to see the gaps in your own logic.”
She wanted to tell him to shut his mouth, to stop his lying tongue, but she could not, for the answer was beginning to dawn on her, even as he continued.
“The signet of the black Raven, my dear girl, is sacred to the brotherhood – or the sect, as you call it. It is a symbol of authority. You no doubt deduced this, since you used the one found in your father’s chamber to mark that false letter to Antony.”
She began to protest ignorance of this, but was stopped by a wave of his hand.
“Don’t bother denying it, my dear. It is very clear to me now. We in the brotherhood errantly assumed that your father had sent the letter, which is why he was killed. But now I see very plainly that it was you all along. You sent that message, hoping to spawn a ripple in our secret communications that would ultimately expose the Raven’s identity. Very clever, my dear, though foolish and futile as you will soon learn.”
“You murdering blackguard!” She said enraged, clenching her dress in her fists and unable to curb the tears streaking down her cheeks.
“Do not put on such a show, my lady, for you long suspected that he was murdered. Yes, we did kill him. But surely, now you can see that you were partly to blame.”
“I?” She said incredulously.
“As I said before, you meddle in affairs you do not comprehend.” His lips made the smallest smile before he continued. “Did you know, my lady, that only the inner circle of the Raven Brotherhood is permitted to possess the signet ring of authority? The rings are used only to issue orders to other members of the brotherhood. Each ring is different, slightly altered, so that the recipient of the message can identify the sender simply by examining the mark.” He eyed her slyly. “It was not through any random deduction that we suspected your father of sending that letter to Antony, for you made your forgery well, my dear, when you used that ring to seal it. Your father’s mark was clearly visible.”
Calpurnia felt a numbness overtake her as she realized where he was steering her.
“Then the ring I found -” she started.
“Was your father’s, yes,” he finished her thought. “Your father was a member of the Raven Brotherhood, my dear.”
Her world felt turned on its side. Was it possible? Could it be that her father belonged to such a repugnant, secretive society, who disregarded the age-old procedures of the forum and made their moves in the shadows? Her head spun as she was faced with the stark reality of it, and she was finding it hard to breathe.
“He had become quite a burden to us in his final days,” Postumus continued, ignoring her distress. “You see, he defied us when he sent your brothers to Egypt. Your father was convinced that Caesar could not be defeated unless the brotherhood made an alliance with Ptolemy’s heirs. He felt that securing the grain of Egypt should be our paramount objective. Our master, the Raven, disagreed. But your father was insistent to the point of obsession – to the point of sending his own sons to negotiate with the Egyptian court in direct defiance of the Raven’s will. Your father gave your brothers his own ring as a symbol of their authority that they might negotiate on behalf of the brotherhood, an authority our master had not granted. We in the brotherhood were left with few options. Your brothers were killed to head off your father’s pig-headed imprudence. He had left us with no choice. The ring you used to seal your forged message to Antony bore your father’s distinctive mark. This was recognized by our agent on Antony’s staff, and he immediately informed the Raven of your father’s assumed treachery. The Raven naturally suspected that your father was trying to craft some deal with Antony in retaliation for your brothers’ murders. He was killed for this reason, and this alone. So, you see, my dear, it was all your doing.” He smiled devilishly at her stunned expression, and then added with mock pity, “It must feel terrible knowing that you murdered your own father.”
She wanted to leap at him, to scratch his eyes out, to choke him, but she knew any such effort would be easily overpowered by the large man.
“I have done nothing other than the duty of any daughter, of any sister,” she said through watery eyes. “I have sought to avenge my loved ones, and I will have succeeded on the day that you and your cronies are dragged before the Senate as criminals.”
A sudden iciness befell his countenance, and he slowly moved towards her.
“Such a day shall not come, Lady Calpurnia,” he said sinisterly. “And you are wrong. You have done far more than the duty of a daughter. You have interfered in the affairs of a man ten-times more powerful than your father, or any other man in Rome. And now you will tell me what foolishness you have wrought with Antony this time.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Your schemes do not elude me. Your handmaid, that Syrian woman, has not been seen since the fleet was off Brundisium.” He grabbed her arm and squeezed it tightly with a surprising strength. “We are alone, my dear. There is no one that will heed your screams. And now you will tell me where that woman has gone. Did you send her to Antony? Did she carry another of your forged messages? Why does Antony drive his fleet toward Illyricum? Tell me, damn you!”
“No!” she cried as his grip moved from her arm to her throat. “I don’t know! I have sent no message!”
“You lie!” he snarled, his face now contorted with rage. “Tell me, or I’ll wring your neck here and now!”
His face was a hand’s breadth from hers, so close that his saliva spattered her lips as he spoke. She could not break free from his iron grasp no matter how much she struggled. The large, strong fingers were crushing her throat, slowly and deliberately. She found it harder and harder to draw breath and suddenly realized that Postumus intended to murder her whether she gave him an answer or not. She felt the blood in her bloated face and then began to lose feeling as his grip slowed the lifeblood from flowing to her brain. She felt herself go limp, her struggling hands losing all of their strength.
But then the grip suddenly lightened, and then was not there. He released her and she fell to the deck, and as she looked up at his tall form above her, she realized that he was not looking at her. Something had drawn his attention away, something in the shadows, and the lined face of the old senator seemed almost white with fear in the dim light.
She heard a great cry from the shadows, a piercing, bestial cry. Postumus stared back into the darkness as though he gazed upon his own corpse in the grave.
“What devilry is this?” She heard him say in terror. “Stay away from me! Stay away, damn you!”
But the next moment a shadow surged from the darkness, bounding across the lit space on its hair-covered arms in the interval of a heartbeat. It breathed heavily and seemingly grunted in anger as it rushed the terrified Postumus. But it stopped short of laying its large hands on the senator. There was no need, for the big man now clutched his chest, his face frozen with fright. A hollow sinking sound escaped from his open mouth before he collapsed to the deck, falling onto his side opposite Calpurnia, his wide eyes unblinking in the lamplight.
In her final moments of consciousness, Calpurnia felt giant hands upon her. But these were not the rough hands of Postumus. Though repellent in aroma and calloused like leather, the hands that held her now had a gentle aspect. They tenderly cradled her face and stroked her hair, accompanied by a muffled whimpering as the world around her fell to darkness.
XXXIII
A splash of spray bounded over the bulwark and doused Libo’s prostrate form, reviving him. He opened his eyes to find that he was being attended to by the Argonaut’s physician and several assistants. As the elusive memories of the sea chase and his own fall from the tower slowly fell into place, he felt a cascade of pain seemingly tap every nerve whenever he tried to move his shoulder or his arm. It was not to be outmatched by the ringing throb in his head that urged him to close his eyes once again, to drift back into sublime unconsciousness and shut out the frenzy of activity all around him. He might have surrendered to that urge had his eyes not beheld the vast canvas sheets stretched to their full height above him, or had his ears not heard the protesting creaks of the straining masts.