‘Then that’s one cold-blooded bastard you are looking for.’
‘Isn’t he, now.’ Marcus combed his hair with his hands. The torn flesh on his knuckles was healing over, she noticed. ‘We know the girl was unharmed at that stage, and Jovi would certainly have said if she’d been naked, so having secured himself both victim and secluded killing ground, our man simply toughed it out.’
Roaring fire or not, it seemed cold all of a sudden. ‘He? You think the killer’s a man?’
‘Do women do things like that to each other?’ Claudia shivered. ‘Was he…slicing her up while Jovi and I were there?’
Orbilio pushed back his plate in distaste. ‘That girl died in the early hours of the morning,’ he said in reply, ‘and she took one hell of a long time to do it. But to answer the question you are too damned proud to ask, no, Mistress Seferius, you could not have saved her life.’ His face had gone white and his lips were pursed to nothingness. ‘Instead, I’d have had three bodies lying in the mortuary, instead of one.’
She waited for the lump in her throat to subside. ‘And the only clue is a man whistling his dog?’
‘That’s one more than the previous two murders,’ he said ruefully. ‘Jupiter alone knows how many men whistle their dogs along the Argiletum at night, but I’ve got a man going back after dark to find out-and hopefully one of the witnesses can fill in some gaps.’
Claudia swallowed a mouthful of wine, as much to get rid of the taste of that alley. ‘What do you make of the market day connection?’
Orbilio ran his hands over his face. ‘It suggests the killer, rather than his victims, comes from out of town, but what I don’t understand are the knife wounds. Why twenty-seven?’
An elm log rolled off the fire and sat glowing against the brightly bronzed dog. The landlord returned it to the fire and, by way of thanks, it spat red-hot darts in his face.
‘In addition,’ Marcus continued, ‘each victim had a distinctive tattoo on her shoulder. A blue dragon. Unfortunately, tracking down its significance takes time and resources.’ He rubbed at his eyes. ‘Both of which are denied me at present.’
For several long moments they stared into space, their thoughts converging on a young girl bleeding to her death in a stinking, dirty runnel and pondering the significance of chopping off her hair. Whatever the gesture symbolized for the killer and his victim, laying it in her lap after death meant the bastard had stayed around long enough to watch her die.
‘Anything for afters?’ The serving girl who came to clear away the tray was refreshingly cheerful. ‘Cook does lovely buns, full of candied fruit and nuts they are.’
‘Maybe later,’ Orbilio said, and then, turning to Claudia, asked jauntily, ‘So tell me, madam, what constitutes a Runaway Success?’
She smiled. ‘Mostly a large dose of carob beans mixed with figs, dates and a dash of castor oil-’
He looked puzzled.
‘-which for obvious reasons is best disguised by a very strong taste. A rich gamey sauce, for instance-’
He looked worried.
‘-and it takes a half hour to work.’
He looked at the water clock.
‘Runaway success?’ he asked, feeling the first faint gripes in his stomach.
‘Foolproof.’ She smiled. ‘And the latrines, I believe, are that way.’
IX
In a smoke-filled kitchen on the Caelian, a small boy clung to the broad hips of the girl from Thessaly and sobbed convulsively. Servants milled around him, and it wasn’t that they were indifferent to his plight-they slipped him pomegranates and dates, and Hylas the carpenter even carved him a small wooden horse-but right now they were in a rush to provide for the deluge of womenfolk who, having returned from the ceremony on the Palatine, were looking forward to a good hot lunch, having changed their clothes, unpacked their belongings and then swapped sleeping accommodation, because no way would Julia share with Aemelia, which meant Fortunata had to sleep with Eppia, but what about Fannia, because everyone knows she snores.
Larentia, scrawny and shrewd, revelled in these wranglings-what better cover for a good poke round? Only her son’s bedroom appeared locked and that, the steward informed her, had been so since the day Master Gaius had died and the mistress had retained the key. Slightly unsettled but not quite sure why, the old woman moved on to inspect the gold and silver plate using an inventory she’d drawn up from memory, because she’d never actually lived under this roof. Gaius had bought the property during the early days of his prosperity, and because his eldest son, her grandson, had been too young to take over the Etruscan estate, Larentia had acted as chatelaine, a position she enjoyed even after the boy had taken a wife. But there was nothing wrong with her memory.
‘Buggery, sodomy and fuck.’ She banged down the lid of the chest. Not only were the pieces on her mental list present and correct, it would appear the bitch was adding to them. Three silver platters as wide as a man’s reach, and a gold fluted bowl with swing handles. ‘Damn-bloody-nation to hell.’
‘… so I said to the mercer, either they all have red piping or none of them do… ’
The shrill voice of Larentia’s sister penetrated the walls, and that was another reason she chose to live in Etruria. Foolish women! She had no time for idleness, all her life she’d worked for what she got-her husband had been a builder of roads, for gods’ sake-and yet these stupid cattle twitter on about jewellery, clothes and the hairdresser. Ach! Dragging her daughter, Julia, away from her unpacking, Larentia led the way to Claudia’s office. Occasionally, and today was one of those times, she fell prone to pondering how she’d produced such a dull, plain duckling and why, later, the child did not do what others had so often obligingly done and turned into a swan. Julia had grown up a goose.
‘Read the ledgers,’ she instructed curtly, for her illiteracy remained a constant thorn in her side, even among her own family.
Julia was at once grateful, delighted and flattered and thumbed through the tablets and scrolls, calling out the figures for her mother to digest, her hooded eyes fair closed with excitement at the prospect of bringing down her sister-in-law. She had not forgotten the night, in this very house, when her own husband had made his advances. True, he’d come back from the encounter with a squashed and bleeding nose, but the insult had still stung. Her husband lusted after the bitch.
Literate Julia might be, though. Numerate she was not. ‘Well, Mother, what’s the verdict?’
‘It would appear,’ said Larentia slowly, ‘that the accounts are not only in apple-pie order, Gaius’ business is thriving.’
‘Shit.’
‘Precisely.’
‘Have you checked out her debts with the bankers and moneylenders?’
Larentia kicked the tripod brazier which was counteracting the dampness in the room and her mouth soured. ‘What debts?’
‘Shit!’
‘ Precisely!’
They took a long, lingering look at the intricate ivories on the shelf, especially that exquisite figure with a fawn round his shoulders and a peacock by his side, before moving into the dining room, where the life-size bronze of Venus served only to depress them further. The table was piled high with swordfish and salmon, peafowl and venison and at least five types of cheese-and was surrounded by a gaggle of excitable hens.
‘… she gave me a beautiful little cameo for my birthday, I’ll show it to you later…’
‘… my dear, I have it on the highest authority, this year’s colour will definitely be coral…’
‘Fannia, have you just eaten that whole tray of quails eggs?’
The servers, to-ing and fro-ing with yet more silver platters, were truthfully able to report to Verres the cook that the gourmet dishes he’d prepared were much appreciated, especially the fricassee of antelope, although his peppered flamingo tongues were going down a treat.