John looked skeptical.
“You doubt the goats, don’t you?” Zeno was genuinely hurt. “Well, Minthe was waiting for the sun to rise when I got to the shrine, so that she could interpret the placing of the animals. Luckily for us it’s a clear morning so as the sky lightened I could just make out the goats. To me they were just specks scattered all over the hillsides, what with my eyesight not being what it once was and the distance and all, but even I could see they had wandered into a most peculiar arrangement.”
“This fortune-telling by goat arrangement sounds rather like reading the twisted entrails of a chicken,” Anatolius said with interest.
“Indeed it is, and Minthe has the skill to read the meaning of the patterns,” Zeno replied enthusiastically. “Now, it seems when the white goats graze high-”
John broke in, sensing a rambling lecture in the offing. “And what exactly did the goats have to say?”
“Their message was that Barnabas has crossed the waters. In other words, he’s definitely gone away,” Zeno replied.
“They’re probably right,” John agreed. “Felix and I have come to the same conclusion. The mime most likely took ship within hours of the boy’s murder.”
“So now will Felix call off his patrols, and we’ll be able to concentrate on arrangements for the festival?” Zeno asked hopefully.
“You’ve overlooked one thing,” John replied. “Even if the goats are correct about Barnabas, the patrols must continue until we catch the person who attempted Poppaea’s murder.” John sighed. “And as far as Gadaric’s death is concerned, we still don’t know who was responsible.”
Zeno looked downcast, but only for an instant. “That can be my next question for the goats!”
***
Hero had decided he could put off his task no longer.
He crept softly down the long corridor. The sun had been up long enough so that the occupants of Zeno’s villa would have risen from their beds, or so he supposed, but not so long since that they would have finished eating their morning meal. What a luxury it must be, to be served breakfast in such a grand dining room. Not that he would care to be stuffing himself with bread and dates at such an early hour, let alone wine, and especially surrounded by painted schools of fish and octopi and other such creatures as a drowning man might see as he sank to the depths to die. The very thought made him lose his appetite.
No, he corrected himself, he had lost it because of the task he had to do. He had kept putting it off, trying to banish it from his mind, but now the unfortunate necessity could no longer be delayed.
He was absolutely certain that his mechanical hand had not been misplaced, as Bertrada had repeatedly assured him. He had searched every shelf and cupboard and cranny in the workshops where it could possibly have been mislaid, not that he had ever have done such a thing before. What, was he becoming a forgetful, doddering old man like Zeno?
No, someone had definitely stolen it. But who? And why? He could only speculate and none of the conclusions he drew were pleasant. Thus his current quest.
He padded into the wing where the Ostrogoths had their apartments. Passing by Bertrada’s room, he turned around a corner and continued down a shorter corridor whose walls were washed in bright morning light. His foray had been as meticulously planned as one of his mechanical contrivances. If he were to be stopped by a house servant, he intended to say he was in the villa to repair one of Zeno’s automatic wine dispensers, the one in the form of a satyr, and was seeking the master to discuss the matter. The excuse would be accepted. After all, he was known and trusted-not to mention that the mechanical devices were constantly malfunctioning one way or another.
As he went along the corridor, he met no one. The fact was, he thought, that Zeno did not have a sufficient number of servants for the size of the estate, nor did he keep a tight enough rein on those he employed. The ones who weren’t serving breakfast to the household were doubtless currently lolling around the kitchen, shirking their responsibilities. He’d seen it often enough.
Poppaea would not be at breakfast, of course. Someone would be sitting with her. That might present a problem, but he had never shrunk from dealing with problems.
He slowed his steps as he approached Poppaea’s room, then stopped and listened intently before moving forward and peering through its open door.
The girl was alone. Hero smiled to himself. For once he was benefiting from his employer’s remarkably negligent regime.
He moved swiftly to the sleeping girl’s bedside. The solemn little face was almost as white as the linen sheet pulled up under her chin. Hero glanced around. It wouldn’t take long, he thought.
He heard the rustle of stiff fabric.
“What are you doing?”
Livia, Poppaea’s mother, was suddenly standing in the doorway.
Hero straightened up. Panic filled his chest.
Godomar loomed behind the woman’s shoulder. “By what right do you dare to enter this room?” he thundered, then fell silent. Livia also stared speechlessly.
Hero realized that he had lifted his left arm and was gesturing wildly toward them with the stump. “My hand,” he stammered. “Who has stolen my hand?”
Chapter Seventeen
Anatolius lingered in the bath. His head felt as full of wool as an overstuffed exercise ball and the steaming caldarium seemed to relieve its distress somewhat.
The water temperature was kept exceedingly high, probably in deference to his uncle’s old bones, he thought as he lolled in the water gazing up at the steam coiling around the marble vines decorating the dome of the ceiling. His drowsy mind saw ever-changing shapes in the shifting mist, yet each was a reminder of Lucretia. The pale hand that had brushed his hair away from his eyes, a white shoulder, the curve of a breast caught by a stealthy beam of moonlight. All of them part of a past as irretrievable as the days of Augustus.
She had been warm flesh and whispers and sweet skin and now she was another man’s wife, greeting her former lover politely in a house where he was not welcome. It had been only a few years since they were intimate and he thought he had long since come to terms with his feelings for Lucretia. But his visit to Balbinus’ house had stirred his blood-and his memories.
By the time he arrived for the morning meal, Zeno’s dining room was empty but the serving girl clearing the table was happy to scamper away to the kitchen to seek viands on his behalf. He slumped down to await their arrival. To his consternation, the tall woman who had attempted to flirt with him at his uncle’s ill-fated banquet swept in shortly thereafter, bearing his breakfast on a silver platter.
“I met a servant in the corridor, Anatolius, and thought I’d bring this in and keep you company for a while.” Calyce sat down next to him, so close that her light yellow sleeve brushed his arm. “Zeno has been telling everyone his nephew is unwell, but I must say that you look positively glowing.”
“I’ve just come from the bath. I’m probably better cooked than that egg.” Anatolius stared at his plate gloomily. “It looks as if one of those painted jellyfish decided to leap down off the wall and onto my plate.”
Calyce gave a throaty laugh. “Oh, Anatolius! The reports of your wit are vastly understated.” Her narrow fingers patted the back of his hand, then daintily retreated.
Anatolius was suddenly reminded of Lucretia. Perhaps it was the way Calcye’s impeccably reddened lips had shaped his name, pronouncing it with a slight breathiness he had not noticed before. Perhaps it was her husky laugh. No, he corrected himself, she was not Lucretia. She did not even resemble her physically. On the other hand, she was smiling at him.
“I’ve caught an occasional glimpse of you at the palace, Anatolius,” Calyce was saying, “and whenever I did I always wondered why that good-looking young man with the dark curls looked so sad. But I’m repeating myself, for I surely mentioned that during our delightful discussion on the night of the banquet. Alas, that an evening that began so auspiciously for the two of us should have ended in such a terrible event.” She dabbed at her eyes and when she again fixed her gaze on him he noticed how large her pupils were, no doubt dilated with belladonna as was the fashion among women of the court.