‘Those are the only tangible facts I have,’ she replied slowly. ‘But if, during the course of your enquiries, you come across a woman who has mislaid a small son answering to Jovi-’
‘And what,’ interrupted Kaeso, ‘shall I tell this Magic when I find him?’
‘Tell him?’ Claudia set down her glass and leaned forward. ‘My dear Kaeso, I think you are under something of a misapprehension. I don’t want you to tell this Magic anything.’ She shot him a dazzling smile. ‘I want you to kill him.’
XI
Marcus Cornelius Orbilio emerged from the tavern, gingerly rubbing his belly and deliberating which direction to take next. Should he turn right and head for the Field of Mars, because if there was loose talk to be overheard, it was there at the baths and along the porticoes, amongst the running, wrestling and fencing? Or ought he to cut up to the Palatine, give his report to his boss and catch an update on policy and matters of state? He sighed. It was all very well, wanting to clap the Market Day Murderer in irons, but when the security of the Empire was at stake, a man had to be clear about his priorities. Nevertheless, there was a Scythian tattooist on the Vicus Tuscus, was there not, who might shed light on blue dragons…?
Having made his decision and with his thoughts firmly centred on a wild adventuress who made his heart turn somersaults, Orbilio went out of Silversmith’s Rise. Say what you like about the weather, it never affected life in the Forum. From the winter winds which blew straight off the marshes to sticky summers riddled with insects, the hucksters continued to go with the flow. On the wet, slippery steps of Concord’s temple, cloth merchants spread gaily coloured bales to tempt the ladies, while over by the basilica, fortune-tellers promised riches and happiness for the price of a meal, and four men carried a strong box to a depository.
‘Marcus!’ Every man within a half-mile radius must have halted, not just him.
Waving from a seat sheltered by the sacred lotus tree of Vulcan was his Great Aunt Daphne. Orbilio groaned inwardly. Rumour had it, his grandfather’s sister slept in a bath full of ice and thrived on a diet of cobbles and vinegar. Now she was bearing down like a trireme in battle.
‘Long time no see! Still playing Greeks and Spartans, are we?’
‘If you mean, am I still attached to the Security Police, the answer is yes,’ he smiled. Greeks and Spartans, indeed.
Behind her, four liveried slaves struggled with baskets and packages wrapped in oiled cloth. Rain could not and would not deter Daphne from her purpose. Knowing her, it moved out of her path.
‘I’m all for a boy sowing his oats while he’s single but now it’s time you got yourself a proper job, my lad. Your cousins have magisterial seats, and you’ve a lot of catching up to do, if you plan to take a seat in there.’
She pointed over his shoulder to the Senate House, with the famous letters SPQR engraved on its pediment. Smallest Problem Quick Retreat, he mused irreverently, or Superior Profile Questionable Reasons?
‘My career isn’t a game, Daphne-’
‘Your father never forgave you for turning your back on a good career in law. He’d spin in his tomb to think you were spurning the family tradition.’
A troop of soldiers marching at the double scattered street vendors and pedestrians alike, their armour jangling, their hobnail boots clanking in eerie unison. In the confusion, a porter’s pole caught the edge of a perfumer’s tray and fragrances of citrus oils and lilac, hyacinth and oakmoss exploded as his phials hit the flagstones.
‘There are alternative routes to the Senate,’ Orbilio explained patiently.
‘Come to dinner tonight, Marcus. It so happens your uncle will be entertaining a praetor as well as a retired consul and it will do you no harm to become acquainted with the men who have influence in this city.’
‘Tonight? Sorry-’
‘The praetor’s daughter is ripe for marriage and you’ve been single too long. You need a wife and a family. Marcus, these things count at election time.’
‘I’ve been married once,’ he reminded her. ‘She ran off to Lusitania with a sea captain, remember?’
‘Tch! I told your uncle at the time there was too much inbreeding in that girl’s lineage, but you’re divorced now, nothing to stop-’
‘Excuse me,’ a small voice piped up alongside. ‘Are you Mistress Lovernius?’
Marcus looked down. A sprite, no taller than his shoulder, her fair hair caught loosely in a bright cerise ribbon, smiled up at his great-aunt. Salvation came in the most unexpected packages, he thought cheerfully.
‘Who wants to know?’ she barked.
The sprite held her ground. ‘Mistress Daphne Lovernius?’ Clean clothes on a personable frame clearly passed muster with the older woman, because she nodded curtly. ‘Then I wonder, might I have a brief word?’ The scrubbed face turned speedwell blue eyes upon Marcus. ‘In private?’ Daphne pulled a face which suggested she supposed so and with a great sense of release, Orbilio turned towards the Vicus Tuscus where the tattooist plied his trade.
‘I’d be much obliged if you’d wait for me, Marcus.’
So this is what a thrush feels, caught in the hunter’s net. You could see a way through, but finding it was a different matter entirely…
‘Of course, Daphne.’ His professional smile encompassed the elfin creature as well, and although his great-aunt was clearly baffled by the young girl’s approach, Orbilio could hazard a strong guess. She was perfect for the job. Older than she looked, with her long fair hair and sing-song voice, that wholesome appearance would be her stock-in-trade.
He was damned if he’d loiter in the rain, so he took himself up the steps to shelter inside the soaring temple of Juno’s handsome father, god of agriculture and holder of the state reserves. Poor old Saturn. No sooner had his temple been restored after decades of neglect than it promptly burned down, but Augustus invested the proceeds from a Syrian campaign to create a majestic new building, with columns six times the height of a man and marble and gold in eye-watering abundance. The Great Laws of Rome, inscribed on bronze tablets and illuminated by torchlight, hung on the back wall for everyone to read, but below the shrine, secret and well guarded, sat the treasury. Many a thief had wandered round, paying his respects at the wooden feet of Saturn, working out how to get his hands upon those ingots. None had so far succeeded.
‘Diabolical child,’ Daphne thundered, marching down the aisle to join her nephew. ‘Of all the bloody cheek!’
‘Begging?’ he suggested amiably, his eye’s fixed on a sickle the height of a cartwheel in Saturn’s right hand. A hard-luck story from a well-dressed character often proved remunerative.
His great aunt shot him a glance. ‘I suppose I’d better tell you,’ she said sourly. ‘In your line of business, you’d probably find out soon enough, now that little bitch has aired it.’ She paused, looking up at the giant statue for a full thirty seconds before saying, ‘Walk me home.’
‘I-’ He thought of the coups and the murders and the crises rocking the Empire, and then looked at this proud, old woman, dwarfed by the temple. ‘I’d be delighted.’
As she slipped her arm into his, he realized that Daphne had been considerably rattled by the encounter. All her energies had been expended in bluster, and he was not surprised that she did not speak until they reached the Esquiline, that pocket of aristocracy known as Nob Hill, and even then it was not to him, but to dismiss her servants. Continuing past her own front door, she led him to the public gardens which, unsurprisingly on a day like this, were deserted. Why this urgent need for privacy, he wondered, passing the nodding purple heads of fritillaries and spikes of larkspur pushing up through feathery leaves. The air was heavy with the resinous scent of terebinth trees and with the sound of songbirds calling out their territories.
‘There.’ Daphne pointed past the elegant portico which, on a summer’s day, would cast shade on the rippling watercourses, then tersely addressed the gardener clipping the laurels. ‘Leave us.’