Claudia leaned against the great wheel of the wagon and was quietly, tidily, efficiently sick. Then, when the shaking subsided, the anger began to grow, intensifying, magnifying, getting hotter and hotter with each passing second until the volcano could contain it no longer.
She wanted to slap Tanaquil, tell her this was her fault, her stupid scams, her stupid brother, couldn’t she see where it would lead?
She wanted to pound her fists into Orbilio, tell him this was his fault, if he’d done his job properly, Utti would be alive and well and so what if it meant living in poverty, at least he’d be alive.
She wanted to shake Eugenius until his eyes rattled, tell him this was his fault, he should have consulted the magistrates, followed proper legal procedures instead of jumping to half-baked conclusions.
She wanted to scream at Aulus, Fabius, Linus, Portius, tell them this was their fault, why didn’t they challenge the old man for once, stuff the law which demands a father’s orders be obeyed, even at the expense of an innocent man.
But most of all, Claudia wanted to claw her fingernails down her arms and draw blood, to watch it drip into the dusty soil and turn brown and harden. This was not her fault, yet she could not rid herself of the guilt.
Before she even realized it, she was slithering down the slope towards the villa. Somewhere in the area-maybe in Fintium, maybe in Sullium-lived a man. A man who killed defenceless women, raping them while they lay paralysed, their lungs unable to supply the air they needed to breathe. A slow, agonizing death. The same man who now thought he had got away with it.
Well, he hadn’t. Not by a long chalk.
There was only the porter at the front gate, and Cerberus who came loping up, wagging his tail, straining on his chain to greet her. Claudia paused to rub his ears and pat his neck. It was sufficient time for Junius to catch up.
‘I didn’t realize you’d gone, madam.’ The words came out stilted because he was out of breath. Sweat poured down his forehead.
Claudia couldn’t speak, even if she wanted to. She wondered whether her face was as pale and pinched as his.
‘May I make a suggestion?’ Junius? Making a suggestion? Well, why not? ‘That you wait a bit before tackling Master Eugenius?’
She gave him a look that told him it was none of his business, but the young Gaul stared so earnestly that it clicked her brain back into action. And Claudia Seferius knew better than most that to succeed in this life, you follow the head, not the heart. And that sometimes it was hard.
She laid her hand on his arm and squeezed gently and didn’t speak. He was right. She had to separate grief from outrage and, to be in any way effective, to channel her anger in the right direction. Towards the man responsible for murdering Acte and Sabina.
It did not occur to her to ask the boy how he knew she intended to confront Collatinus.
*
You’d think nothing out of the ordinary had taken place. Slaves with buckets scrubbed the floors, polished the statues, dusted the tables, chairs and couches. A smell of sprats and cabbage and poached plums filtered through from the kitchen, and someone was singing a song to which Claudia sang different words. Marius and Paulus lay flat on their stomachs, prodding a wooden boat back and forth across the pool. Vilbia sat, tongue between her teeth in concentration, playing with her favourite knitted doll.
Claudia crossed to the garden, alive with the crunch of sand against stone as paths were swept, laurels were clipped and plants were watered. Eugenius’s room was at the far end, but before she could reach it, a blond figure intercepted.
‘Claudia!’ He was slightly out of breath, his hands hidden in an unsightly lump beneath his pallium. ‘You look as ravishing as ever.’
It was true. Between them, Claudia’s make-up box and her natural instinct to hide her emotions had veiled every trace of the turmoil within.
‘I…’ The beguiling accent hesitated. ‘I have something for you. A gift.’
From his pallium he revealed his secret. Claudia blinked several times.
‘Why, um, thank you.’ A pigeon? ‘Diomedes, that is… Well, what I mean to say is…’ She gave what she hoped was a light, silvery laugh as he pressed the fluttering bird into her hands. ‘You’ve no idea how much this means to me.’
‘Really?’ His cheeks flushed.
‘Oh yes. Really. I shall…treasure it. Always.’ Dammit, the bloody thing was already pecking her finger, but Diomedes looked so happy it seemed churlish to throw it back at him.
To her infinite relief he said, ‘I must go now,’ and his eyes, surprisingly, were moist.
Claudia’s smile was both practised and perfect, and the instant his back was turned, she stuffed the pigeon into the hands of the slave collecting the clippings. If it was going to poop, let it poop on someone else. She shook her stola, mint green and flattering, leaving a sprinkle of white feathers in her wake. She did not wait for Eugenius to reply to her knock.
‘Welcome back, my dear.’ The old man sat in his chair behind a desk, papers spread in front of him. Dexippus sat to his right, Fabius and Linus stood before him. ‘Enjoy the celebrations?’
For one absurd moment she thought he was referring to Utti, then remembered the festivities in Agrigentum in honour of some local deity whose name began with a K or an F or something, and which seemed years away, rather than hours.
‘Splendid.’ He hadn’t waited for an answer, the response was automatic.
A small shiver ran through Claudia as her senses sharpened and her brain clicked up a gear. She was about to witness the real Eugenius in action. Not the sanitized version he had allowed her to see up till now, the old-man-reminiscing version, the old-man-with-his-family version, which, whilst not actually exuding warmth and affection, was not cold or wooden either. No, the gloves were off and the self-same instincts that fired the inveterate gambler in Claudia were aroused. Her heart beat just that little bit faster, her eyes were just that little bit sharper, her mouth just that little bit drier.
Eugenius started laying into Linus, leaving Claudia with a sackful of mixed feelings. It was unquestionably satisfying, watching him wither and wilt under the onslaught, shrinking with each verbal missile, but Linus was not the type to let it rest. He would vent his anger and frustration later. On his wife.
‘How many times have I told you, you fathead, I don’t want cattle on my farm. I’m a sheep farmer, not a bloody cow man.’
‘But-’
‘Those brutes are neither use nor ornament. How much did you pay for them?’
‘About-’
‘You were ripped off. The buggers are too old to breed, and if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a million times, good cattle have thick necks. Janus, I could wring one of those in my own puny fist!’
‘I wanted-’
‘Get out.’
Linus opened his mouth.
‘I said, get out!’
Linus’s face was dark with indignation, but Claudia noticed the door closed quietly on its hinges. Dexippus’s thick lips smirked openly as Eugenius turned his attentions to his favourite.
‘And you, boy, I expected better things from you.’ Fabius had drawn himself up to his full height, shoulders back, staring straight ahead, two decades of army training standing him in good stead.
‘Yessir.’
‘White rams, I said, and what do you bring me? White rams with-what, boy?’
‘Black tongues, sir.’
‘What did I tell you about black-tongued rams?’
‘They breed black-spotted lambs.’
‘And do I want black-spotted lambs?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then get rid of them.’
‘Yessir.’
That was Fabius for you. Nerves of steel and a brain to match. It was interesting, she thought, as he reached the door in three long strides, to see the sprig of bay clipped to his tunic. She had learned much from her father, the army orderly. Admittedly he wasn’t home very often, but you picked up a lot in the short time he was there. Like, for instance, how soldiers wore bay to sanctify them from the blood they had spilled…