‘Shit.’ Orbilio punched his fist into the palm of his hand.
It was his musing on foreign mythology that made the connection. From Egypt, his mind travelled to Babylon. From Babylon to its patron god, Marduk. And from Marduk to the dragon. The blue dragon tattoo! It could not be coincidence. Those girls who had died slashed to ribbons had been raised by the Babylonian, it was his brand that they bore.
And Annia would be branded the same way! Marcus Cornelius buried his head in his hands and prayed.
‘Help me, Penelope. Help me find your daughter.’
Before the Market Day Murderer does.
XII
As dusk spread her cloak across the seven hills of Rome, Claudia slipped in unseen through the garden entrance. The drizzle had stopped. Or had it? It was the sort of day when you could barely tell the difference. Transparent beads of moisture had collected on the junipers and cypress, and fairy pools of water had formed in the crucibles of the peonies; well, water was fine in its place, but what Claudia needed to unwind with was wine, and strong enough to sink a horseshoe, if you please. So then. A glass (make it a jug) of Falernian. A quiet hour reading Virgil, a lavender massage, supper sent to her room. Definitely no sucking up to the old boilers, who’d only want to gossip about the Market Day Murders.
‘Claudia.’ Fannia was waiting indoors in ambush. ‘My bolster-I’m sure it isn’t swansdown, and you know how delicate I am. Could you get it changed, or I’ll never sleep a wink?’
This, after seeing a girl hacked to mincemeat and just minutes after she had hired a professional assassin to dispose of the maniac who threatened to torture the life out of her. Nevertheless, Claudia was sure she had a winsome smile somewhere.
‘My dear Fannia, for your pillow I bought soft cygnet down.’ Chickens, swans, they’re all birds, aren’t they? ‘Trust me, you’ll sleep well tonight.’
As will the rest of the old trouts. I’m lacing your drinks.
But no sooner had Fannia clucked off, than Claudia’s escape route was blocked by a skinny creature with watery eyes and prominent cheekbones who came flying down the staircase. She appeared to be clutching a hairless brown rat under her arm.
‘Cousin Claudia! Oh, Cousin Claudia, what are you going to do about Hercules?’
In the Forum, in the colonnades, in the public libraries you will hear philosophers argue daily the finer points of rhetoric. Should one, for instance, go ahead with a birthday celebration, even though the augur has cautioned against it? If the man you find in bed with your wife is your boss, do you still go ahead and castrate him? But never do you hear it mooted what one ought to do about Hercules.
Claudia stalled for time. ‘It’s Cousin Fortunata, is it not? I don’t believe we’ve met I’m-’
‘It’s affected his appetite, you know. Put him right off his din-dins, hasn’t it, Herky?’
Claudia goggled. Hercules? That sawn-off runt’s named after the hero who undertook feats no other mortal dared? Herky let out a high-pitched yelp, and Claudia realized it wasn’t vermin but some sort of dog Fortunata had in an armlock, and thought wistfully that if only the moneylender in the Subura had had a pack of Herkies, it would have been a different story yesterday.
‘Terrified, weren’t you, baby? Yes, you were. Some spiteful boss-eyed cat chased Mummy’s Herky-perky under the bed and Mummy had to throw a glass of water over the nasty beastie. He’s very highly strung, you know.’
Not strung up high enough, in my opinion. ‘Shall I take care of Herkykins? Come on, darling, come to Cousin Claudie.’ She whipped the lapdog out of Fortunata’s arms, marched into the kitchens and thrust it at the nearest kitchen maid.
‘I can’t cook that,’ the woman squealed. ‘It’s still alive!’ Pity. It would have gone down well with a pepper sauce and parsley. ‘Find a cellar, lock it in,’ she ordered. I’ll not have him teasing Drusilla like that. ‘What is it, Verres?’
‘I was wondering,’ said the cook, ‘which wines you’d like serving with dinner.’
‘Try giving them saucers of milk.’ Claudia turned to Leonides, warming his backside by the bread oven. A row of pastry piglets cooled on the rack, and a batch of olive dough was proving in an earthenware bowl covered with linen. ‘You miserable traitor!’ She picked up a broad-bladed flesh knife and when she pressed it to the tip of the Macedonian’s nose, the squeak that came from his throat was not too dissimilar to the one which Herky gave when he bounced off the cellar step. ‘Right now I have but one household steward, but I am quite prepared to convert you into a dozen, thinner versions unless you answer truthfully. Did you or did you not show Marcus Cornelius Orbilio my crank mail?’
Someone must have put more charcoals in the bread oven, because sweat began pouring down his face. ‘Well…’
‘Well is not a condition you’ll be in for long. Answer me!’
‘It was for your own good, madam-’
For your own good. Can any words strike terror into a soul the way those four can? ‘I shall be the judge of what’s good for me, Leonides, and if I ever catch you with my welfare at heart again, I’ll turn you into a human torch and you can light my house for a week, understood?’
A toad-like croak escaped from his mouth and, satisfied this was as close as he was physically able to manage by way of a grovelling apology, Claudia impaled a couple of hot pastry piglets on her knife and flounced off into the atrium.
‘Jovi!’ Horror of horrors, he was buck-naked in the fountain playing with what had, until recently, been a very elegant potted fern. ‘Out,’ she hissed. ‘Right now!’
‘I’ve given old Passi the slip,’ he said, rubbing soil into his hair. ‘She thinks I’m in the bog with the guts-ache.’
‘And so you will be when I’m finished with you. Out of there, this instant!’
Would anyone notice the colour of the water if she scattered petals on the top? From the upper galleries floated down the sounds of womenfolk preparing for an evening, the scrape of clothes chests, barked instructions, the sickly mix of unguents, creams and perfumes. Sweet Juno, please let the old crabs be perfectionists. Please don’t let them come down yet. As Claudia lunged for the boy, he darted out of the way, crashing the flat of his hands on the water. To some extent she sympathized. Previously, when he’d encountered the stuff, it had always come in a pail. After five attempts, however, Claudia was ready to negotiate.
‘If you come out of the pool, I’ll let you play there all day tomorrow and we’ll even heat the water for you, how does that sound?’
‘Can I keep the plant?’
Call that a plant? ‘Yours for ever, Jovi. Only come here, please.’
‘Do I get a hug, too?’
Anything, anything, just name your price. I’ll give you the sun, the moon and the stars, only please, please climb out of the pool before those wretched aunts find ‘Larentia. Julia. How nice.’
Too late now for explanations, anything she said would seem like a cover-up. Imagine it from Larentia’s viewpoint. She walks in to be confronted by her son’s widow and a small boy in his birthday suit, cuddled up so tight they’re both dripping wet and covered with mud. Could one paint a cosier picture of domesticity? Jovi jumped down and began to prattle about everything and nothing to his new audience, and Claudia decided her only recourse was to silence. Even when Jovi told them proudly he had no idea who his father was and Larentia snapped ‘I’ll bet you don’t, boy’, Claudia merely clamped her teeth tighter together. When that dessicated old bag learned the truth, there would not be a plate large enough on which to serve her humble pie. In the meantime, it was reward enough watching her frosty-faced sister-in-law turn puce when Jovi, quite without guile, took it upon himself to show Julia his willie.