'It's more than simply identifying the right soil which retains water without turning to clay,' she said earnestly. 'One needs to monitor rainfall versus sunlight then factor in summer temperatures and compare them to frost cycles, then decide how best to shade the roots, whether this type of soil can cope with layering for the propagation of the vines, establish which cultivars are suitable for this climate how one prevents the young leaves from being eaten by deer, and
Claudia leaned towards him and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
'Purely between ourselves, Padi, these things are not looking good. Of course, I need to wait for the results of the salt tests to be sure.'
'Salt tests?'
'Too much salt in the air can kill the delicate vines,' she confided. 'And remember, we are less than twenty miles from the ocean.'
'Aah.' The sound was like the sighing of the breeze through a grove of poplars. 'Salt.'
And hogwash, she added silently. Don't forget the hogwash, Padi. 'If you could consult your rods for me,' she said with a radiant smile, 'I would be eternally grateful.'
On cue, the little pink palms plumped together and his little head bowed. 'My stones do not lie, Mistress Claudia,' he lisped. 'I will cast them this very evening.'
Excellent. Because if Marcia wanted to grow vines on these slopes, she could bloody well pay for her own research.
As the gig pulled to a halt in the Forum, Claudia's mind turned back to the reason she'd come to Santonum this morning. Given that she was unlikely to outwit the Security Police on this occasion, considering Orbilio had travelled halfway across the Empire specifically to nail her, there was only one solution. Dredge up the helpless-little-woman routine, then pray to every god up on Olympus that Orbilio fell for it the same way every other man had in the past. (Burto included, may his black soul rot in Hades!) And since our fine upstanding investigator preferred the well-upholstered charms of local girls to the gold and marbled luxury of Marcia's villa, Claudia had little choice but to go to him.
And, besides, what manner of floozies he associated with was entirely his affair. She didn't give a damn what he got up to when he wasn't clapping criminals in irons, and the thought of his bronzed torso rolling naked round the bedsheets didn't even cross her mind…
'Wait for me here,' she told her bodyguard, as they reached the apartment block. 'This won't take long.'
Oh, no. This won't take long at all.
Orbilio slumped down in the chair and combed his fingers through his hair in desperation. It had been a whole week now, and still this bloody case was going nowhere. Face it, the trail was colder than a witch's arse.
He rubbed the stubble on his jaw. Dammit, every waking hour had been spent on surveillance work and following up what he'd hoped were leads, and what time he hadn't spent doubled up under hot, stinking tarpaulins he'd passed in taverns, bath houses and brothels, spreading the word that he wouldn't be averse to reading bedtime stories to little children, boys or girls, it really didn't matter. And what had he achieved during that week? He'd had nothing but the honour of being branded a pervert of the very first order, and hopes of flushing out the child-abductors by offering himself as a punter were fading fast. It suggested they already had their market sewn up. But where? Who, for heaven's sake?
Zina remained convinced that her stepfather's accomplice must be local, poised out back to whisk the child away, because, as she'd pointed out, if there'd been a cart, they'd have heard it — and he agreed. Santonum wasn't Rome. Night-time traffic was unheard of here. Maybe an occasional despatch rider passing through the town, or a young blade's chariot arriving home late from a party. But neither he nor Zina had heard hooves or wheels, and for that reason she'd been pursuing the local angle, in spite of his misgivings. Fat lot of good that had done him, too!
She was well aware of the risks, thank you very much — in his mind's eye, he could still see her planting her hands on her hips, black eyes blazing, bosom heaving — but that bastard's married to my mam, and I'll not have it bandied around that my mam's part of this, and, in any case, it might sound strange but he loves her, that he does, and if anything happened to me it'd be the death of her, and that's me safety net, my lord.
Had he not been utterly exhausted, he might have smiled. He wasn't sure how she came about her reasonings half the time, but more often than not Zina hit her nails squarely on the head. It didn't mean the boatbuilder would have qualms about eliminating her, necessarily. It just meant he'd need to be ultra careful how he set about it.
As Zina laid a jug of wine on the table and hauled a tray of steaming, spicy rissoles off the gridiron above the hearth, Marcus scratched his neck in irritation. Half the problem was that he was working this case without access to the massive resources that he usually relied on from the army, but if 'Persons In High Places' were indeed involved in this repulsive trade, as Zina very much suspected, they would undoubtedly have soldiers in their pay. If word filtered back that Orbilio was investigating child sexual abuse, the operation would simply be closed down here and opened up elsewhere. He wouldn't risk it.
And of the two men he'd recognized in the yard the other night, the carpentry foreman and one of the riveters, all he'd been able to establish during this past week was that the former lived a lifestyle far beyond his means, with a smart town house near the Forum, his wife draped in fine clothes and his children schooled by private tutors, while the latter lived alone in a cramped apartment close to the boatyard, spending all his spare time and money on getting drunk and gambling on cockfights, often simultaneously.
'Croesus,' he groaned, 'how many more children are going to be subjected to a miserable existence because of my stupidity?'
Throwing herself at the feet of the Security Police and begging for mercy wasn't a procedure Claudia was overly familiar with. The technicalities of such a move were fraught with difficulties, not least because he sheathed his menace in a scabbard of urbanity. She'd had to think.
In terms of appearance, it wasn't difficult. Once inside the apartment block, a quick wipe over her face with a damp cloth removed the artfully applied cosmetics that concealed the black hollows round her eyes caused by too many sleepless nights and filled in the worry lines that had furrowed her forehead. Add a tweak of a seam here, the pull on a pleat there to create a hint of dishevelment, together with a slight readjustment of her girdle and mismatched alignment of her ivory hairpins and trained investigators would soon pick up the signals. There was no need to overdo the female-in-distress thing. Less was definitely more. All the same, worms slithered inside on an industrial scale as Claudia mounted the stairs. For years she'd worked to rid herself of the stink of the slums, and now her future hung in the balance once again, only this time it was a hundred times worse. She had eaten of the lotus and found its taste very much to her liking. Whatever it took, she thought, whatever it bloody well took…
'Croesus,' she heard a familiar baritone groan, 'how many more children are going to be subjected to a miserable existence because of my stupidity?'
The front door was ajar. Through the gap, she could see him slumped in a high-backed chair, head in hands, while a girl wearing a skirt that was little more than an oversized belt with a fringe round the bottom kneaded the tension out of his shoulders.
'It's not your fault, Marcus, my lord,' she told him gently. 'We're in this together, remember.'
And how, Claudia thought, looking at the cosy little domestic scene through the open crack. Table set with home-cooked food. Jugs of wine. Fresh bread. The bitch could cook, as well, it seemed. That was mustard Claudia could smell, with coriander, garlic, veal and olives, and her mouth might well be watering had it not been for the rumpled, unmade bed in the corner of the room and the obvious stubble on the Security Policeman's chin. Oh, well. Maybe this was a good time, after all. He'd be relaxed, after a lengthy bout of couch athletics…