'You're very good with plants, Semir. Knowledgeable, conscientious, you have a keen eye for the topiary…'
'Thank you.'
'It's not the compliment you think. As a plantsman, you can't be faulted, but you're no landscape artist
The gardens were neatly laid out and perhaps to an untravelled Gaul they were breathtaking in their design, but there was nothing remotely original about the planning, while the paths and water channels were little more than a geometry lesson.
'… and you're not a Babylonian, either.'
That night at the banquet had proved he knew an awful lot about Mesopotamia in general, but sod-all about Babylon itself, suggesting he'd boned up, though sadly not well enough. Also, no Babylonian would touch baked bread or meat on a Saturday, yet he'd wolfed them both while he planted Trojan irises as Claudia and Stella took lunch in the garden.
'I see.' He chewed his lip for a while. 'But since you hef not given me away, you are either very discreet or you want to blackmail me.'
A streetwise horticulturalist. Whatever next?
'I only blackmail the aristocracy and civil servants.'
His mouth relaxed into a broad, white smile. 'I am gardener not landscapes eet iss true, but you know, Lady Clodia, eef I do a good job here, eef I make a really good impression in Gaul, my reputation iss made, no?'
'Why the skimpy loincloth, though? Why the bangles and beads?'
'You not think eet iss good idea that people notice me?'
'Fair point.' She laughed back. 'But a word of advice. Go easy on the scented oils.'
'Better to smell like ladyboy than be eaten alive by mosquitoes!'
As he continued his inspection, Claudia was reminded of the Greek king who was killed by a snake concealed among smallage, and shivered. 'Be careful, Semir. Marcia might, just, accept that you're not a landscaper, but she'll never forgive you for ripping her off.'
That wasn't wine the slave was watering her roses with, it was pond water, and that's why Semir avoided discussing the subject with a wine merchant. He was afraid of being found out.
'That woman hef no idea about plants. To Marcia eet's another way of showing off, telling her guests that she waters her gardens with wine. Wine would kill them!' A sly grin escaped from the corner of his mouth as he plucked off any yellowing leaves. 'But she iss happy, and what the slaves do with the wine iss not my problem, though eef you look at the quality of the leather some of them wear on their feet you might be forgiven for thinking that maybe they sell some of eet on the side. Like the fish, eh?'
'Fish?'
'Marcia sends slaves to buy fish at the market, but — ' when he shrugged his olive shoulders, the bangles round his wrists jangled melodiously — 'she forgets two rivers and three streams run through her estate!'
Slowly, the sky turned six shades of crimson, bats took to the wing and nightingales trilled. Where are you, Orbilio? It's not like you to be late, and the Scarecrow wouldn't wait until darkness covered the valley. Fearful as he was, he couldn't afford to thrash around aimlessly in search of aniseed. Having heard the manhunt would be starting at dawn, and aware of the numbers involved, he would creep down at dusk, where the risk would far outweigh the consequences. No anise meant no luck. Without it, the Scarecrow stood no chance.
Wriggling on the warm, compacted earth, Claudia brushed the dust from her robe. Now there was a funny thing, she reflected. When she had returned to her room after her visit to Qeb, there was a box on her bed. Just a small wicker box a handspan in width, it wasn't from Orbilio, because it was empty and he would have left her a note. If she remembered, she'd ask one of the maids in the morning, and if she forgot, well, it was hardly the end of the world, was it?
Gradually, field hands filtered back to their quarters and the herb garden settled into quiet and stillness. Something rustled, perhaps a shrew or a snake, and a fox skulked along the hedge by the orchard. Then another pair of feet hove into view, peeping beneath a long, white, floating robe.
'Wrong time of day to be gathering leaves, Koros.'
The old man's lined face creased even further when it sneered. 'Do you presume to know more about herbs than me?'
'My cat knows more about herbs than you,' she retorted. 'She knows you collect them after the dew has evaporated, but before the heat from the sun has allowed the essential oils to escape. She knows you only harvest plants up to flowering time, before their energies are diverted into seed heads. And she knows that any herbalist worth his salt wouldn't dream of collecting more than one variety at a time.'
He snorted in derision. 'If you have any doubts as to the efficacity of my purges and linctuses, you only have to enquire of my patron.'
'And what a recommendation that is! You give Marcia syrup of figs to make her run to the latrines. You grate rhizomes of Basc peony to make her throw up.' Jupiter alone knows what the pepper enemas did. 'You're a fraud, Koros. Nothing but a fraud.'
'I'll have you know I'm a trained physician-'
'You're a fraud and a charlatan, and what's more I don't give a damn.'
His wizened jaw dropped, but it was true. Any woman who relied on quacks and potions, instead of taking responsibility for her own health, deserved every uncomfortable minute. Provided Koros wasn't poisoning the silly bitch — and a search of his room revealed nothing more than incompetence — Claudia had no complaint.
'On the other hand,' she shot him a radiant smile, 'I do object to your mischief-making.'
'This is monstrous!'
'Huff and puff all you like, you old fake, but Vincentrix didn't tell Marcia about the missing girls. You overheard Hannibal telling me, then you took the information straight to your mistress, knowing that she'd instigate a manhunt to catch the Scarecrow and claim the credit herself.'
'Why would I do that?'
'You mean apart from wanting to ingratiate yourself with your mistress, boosting your credibility and increasing your power over the other slaves?'
'I will collect my herbs another time.' The white beard jutted forward in anger. 'I don't have to take this from you.'
'Well, that's the funny thing, Koros. Actually, you do.'
Rheumy eyes flashed hatred for perhaps ten seconds, then the shutters came down. Placing his hands together, he pasted on his meaningless smile and bowed so deeply that his long white robes swept the dust. 'Your servant, my lady,' he said, backing away, and she made a note to test any foodstuffs left in her room.
Taking the doll from the folds of her robe, Claudia combed its hair with her fingers. Could Orbilio have sneaked in while she was sparring with Koros? Unlikely. He didn't believe the Scarecrow would come, so he'd want to do his gloating face to face, and maybe that was the answer. Maybe Marcus Cornelius was so sure of himself that he didn't see the point of turning up, full stop!
As the sky began to darken, her thoughts turned to her father. Where he was. What he was doing. Whether there were half-brothers and sisters of hers running around somewhere. Claudia still had absolutely no idea whether he was dead or alive, living in Santonum or even in Gaul. Would she recognize him, after all these years, she wondered? Would she even like him? And what would he make of her? She fingered the quality of her green linen gown, examined the rings on her fingers. Nothing of her old life remained, not even her slum accent, for him to recognize. What would he feel, when she eventually caught up with him? Happiness? Contrition? Guilt? Resentment at being hunted down like a stag? Despite the jitters in her stomach, Claudia was prepared for any, and all, of these things. Emotions didn't matter. All that mattered was the truth, because rich or poor, young or old, everyone reaps what they sow. Twenty-five years ago an army orderly sired a daughter. He made his home with her and her mother, a home that lasted ten years, and, no matter what prompted him to move on, no action is without consequence. A man cannot absolve himself of responsibility and pretend the past didn't happen. Like it or not, he would have to face Nemesis. As, indeed, would his daughter…