Theory be damned. Since Augustus took the helm, the provinces of Egypt, Pannonia and Sicily had been turned into the Empire’s wheatfields, with fleets of four-hundred-tonne cargo ships, known as ten-thousanders after the number of sacks that they carried, doing the Puteoli-Alexandria run in under twelve days. Rome would never be brought to her knees again, held to ransom over her need for grain. But it was important not to forget these things. Remind citizens of how it used to be, before the Eagle’s shadow covered the earth, and for that reason Augustus had restored the much larger temple to Consus on the Aventine. It was here, in the main temple, that the sacrificial offerings were burnt before being taken in festive procession down the hill to his underground shrine, but it was in the Circus where the real entertainment took place.
In full Imperial regalia, Augustus himself would ride a circuit in his war chariot. This would be followed by a procession of some of the finest horseflesh in Rome, then the consecration of offerings to Consus. After that, it became a free-for-all of mule races, donkey derbies, athletes racing on foot, before the festivities culminated in a series of full-blooded chariot races, and all this with the six most mysterious women in Rome in attendance at the Emperor’s side, the Vestal Virgins. Something for everyone, then, on this lively public holiday.
Everyone, apparently, except Claudia Seferius.
‘If you’re going to make a habit of inviting men into your bedroom,’ Orbilio said, warming his hands briskly over the brazier, ‘you’ll have to get your pitch in a lot faster. Jemima’s already offered me a knee-trembler, thank you.’
‘Be grateful it wasn’t Hermione. Thecks in the thellar for thickthpenth,’ Claudia mimicked.
‘I was more worried about Fenja. I have nightmares about her catching me in the hallway and jolly well helping herself.’
Ah, yes. The more urbane, the more dangerous…
Claudia shifted her weight to the other foot and thought about the reason she’d invited him into her room. Frankly, she wasn’t sure how to play this. Whichever way, it wasn’t going to be easy ‘Last year’s victims,’ she began.
The dancing light in his eyes vanished. ‘You’re talking about the rapist?’
She nodded. Ran her tongue over her lips. ‘Could you write down the addresses of the three women who identified their attacker?’
‘For gods’ sake, Claudia, if you know who-’
‘I don’t.’
That much was true. It was still only a hunch. Images swirled like a kaleidoscope inside her head. Of Ion, handsome and rugged, but never happy, sneaking out as the herald called the sixth hour. Of Doris, slipping out after him. Of a draught from the front door. Of Caspar, sneaking along the gallery in the dark. Blood thundered at her temples, and there was a pain at the back of her eyes.
‘Claudia,’ he said, warningly, and there was no trace on his face of the unimaginable relief that had swamped him when he heard about the hot-food vendor’s wife. ‘This is too dangerous a game to mess with. The man’s a monster and if you have even the tiniest suspicion, you have got to tell me. I’m serious, now who is it?’
‘I have absolutely no idea.’
‘It’s within my authority to have this house searched top to bottom,’ he said. ‘If I find one of your actors is injured-’
‘Very well, if you must know.’ She smiled, although the smile did not seem to reassure him. ‘I got to thinking last night that, well… Maybe a word, woman to woman, might coax one or two details out of the victims that they hadn’t liked to discuss in front of a man.’
Scepticism stretched the air. Silence stretched into infinity.
‘I don’t know what the hell you’re up to,’ he growled at last, spiking his hands through his hair. ‘But I don’t believe you’d cover up for this bastard, or that your talking to these girls can be worse than a pair of flatfoots trampling their fragile emotional progress.’ He reached for a quill and the inkwell.
Claudia’s eyes narrowed. ‘Last night you said you wouldn’tcouldn’t — put the victims through that torture again.’
‘Nor would I,’ Orbilio said tiredly. ‘You have to remember that I’m no longer in charge of this investigation.’
Both horns of Claudia’s dilemma prodded her at once. Bugger.
If she told Orbilio who she suspected was responsible, he would arrest him at once. That would be fine, provided, of course, she was right. But it was possible, more than possible in fact, that her suspicions were way off course-and there would be no way back for Marcus Cornelius after that.
Of course, a disgraced Security Policeman was a Security Policeman off Claudia’s back and, with Orbilio’s career in shreds, she would no longer be facing a lonely and penniless exile for fraud. But was she really prepared to jeopardize the career of a passionate investigator, who spat in the face of family convention to fight murderers, assassins and rapists? Especially when it had become a personal crusade between him and the monster terrorizing the streets? Being wrong twice would destroy him The horns started to hurt.
‘Dymas is adamant we interview the victims again,’ Marcus said, ‘and has it in his head to start with Deva, to ask her the questions we didn’t have a chance to put yesterday, and although I can see his logic, that girl’s sanity is already stretched to the wire.’
‘Then stop him,’ she said brusquely.
‘I can’t. The Head of the Security Police backs him all the way on this, but… ’
His voice trailed off into a tortured silence and, with his eyes glued to a point in the corner, he explained how Deva had tried to jump from the mezzanine. How he’d caught her, felt her bones quake uncontrollably in his arms, read the hopelessness in her eyes. He talked about what Deva had been like before the attack. Vivacious and vibrant, with her pretty pert bodices and Damascan fringed skirts.
‘A happy young woman with her whole life ahead of her, until that bastard destroyed her.’
Then, fixing his gaze on the doorjamb, he explained how the herbalist had been driven to the last resort of drugging her into oblivion with poppy juice, even though the risks of addiction were perilously high.
‘The herbalist seems a good man,’ Claudia said softly.
‘One of the best,’ Marcus replied, and, maybe because it was cold and he hadn’t slept last night, maybe he was in confessional mood, or perhaps it was simply because he was lonely, demoted and utterly demoralized, fearing the drops of the water clock were moving too fast and that soon, far too soon, there would be another victim to add to the list, he also told her the reason why he’d gone back to the little house by the river.
‘That was why my steward summoned me home,’ he explained. ‘Angelina had moved lock, stock and barrel into my house-’
But when he glanced up, it was to find Claudia and the three addresses had gone.
Which was a pity, Marcus felt, because he hadn’t got round to telling her that Captain Moschus had escaped from jail.
But then he had a feeling she already knew about that.
Twenty-Eight
‘Who are you?’ A hatchet-faced woman with permanently pinched lips peered through a slot in the woodwork. ‘What d’you want?’
Claudia told her.
‘So?’ the dragon barked back. ‘What’s it to you?’
Claudia told her that, too.
‘Hmmm.’ Shrewd eyes bored into shrewd eyes. ‘Well, you’d best come on in, then. Before the neighbours start gawping.’
The woman, who introduced herself as the victim’s aunt, relieved her of her mantle in a pleasant hallway from which four equally pleasant rooms led off. Fragrant oils burned in a niche, and the hall was decked with holly and yew. A white cat snoozed on a tasselled cushion on a chair.
‘In there.’
The aunt beckoned her into a light, spacious living area with rich tapestries hanging on the walls and bearskin rugs on the floor. The seating was padded and comfortable, apple logs crackled and spat in the hearth, filling the air with their scent.