‘Shannu?’
The handsome features creased into an open and amiable smile. ‘Hello.’ In his left hand he held a paintbrush, and on the table lay a palate. The paint dripping from both was a vibrant shade of yellow, the perfect match for winter aconites. The same colour paint covered every inch of wall and floor and ceiling. ‘Did you want something?’
Claudia felt her stomach churn. ‘No. No, I just came to…see what you were doing.’
Now she could see why the door was kept locked. And bolted again from the outside…
‘I’m painting,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I always paint, I find it relaxing. Tell me, do you approve of my landscapes?’
Landscapes? Stuck for words, Claudia suddenly realized it was his right arm which was inviting admiration of his work. His right arm. His sword arm. His painting arm, in fact-had it not ended in a stump. A chill wind blew round the horrid yellow room, which had nothing to do with the weather. Because it was only when looking at one law tablet that she’d noticed another next to it.
SHOULD A SON STRIKE HIS FATHER, LET THE OFFENDING HAND BE CHOPPED OFF.
So this was Arbil’s secret. No wonder Sargon was concerned about her entering.
‘Who are you?’ he asked, merrily splodging his brush in the paint. Shadows from the iron bars at the window striped the yellow floor.
‘Me? I’m a friend of um, Angel’s.’ Claudia backed slowly towards the door.
‘Liar.’ Shannu sprang across the room, and she felt splatters of paint on her face. ‘Angel’s dead,’ he spat. ‘Arbil killed her.’
Oh-my-god! ‘Yes. Yes, I know that. I…wanted to see where she lived, that was all.’
‘You knew Angel?’ The intensity that burned in his eyes froze her bones. ‘Angel was beautiful, wasn’t she?’ he said dreamily, taking Claudia’s arm with his remaining hand and leading her into the room. ‘Long, black hair, as lovely as Ishtar herself.’ The tone changed abruptly. ‘But my father debauched her and she died.’
‘How-’ Claudia cleared her throat and tried again. ‘How, exactly, did Arbil kill her?’
‘Don’t you know?’ Shannu snarled. ‘He took her maidenhead, and whoosh! Out went her soul.’
Sweet Juno, get me out of here. Claudia heard voices outside the window, but nothing would squeeze past her larynx.
‘I tried to avenge Angel,’ Shannu said. ‘I tried ramming a glass in my father’s face, but that fool Tryphon stepped in front. I told him. I said, “Arbil, one day I will kill you.” And one day, you know, I will.’
Claudia believed him. Insane he might be, but the boy was bloody determined with it. She wanted to get out, run up the corridor, but her legs would never make it. Oh, Sargon. Why weren’t you here to stop me this morning?
‘He said, strike me again and I’ll cut your bloody hand off.’ Shannu started drawing circles with his paintbrush on the wall. ‘Every time I tried to kill him, that’s what he would say.’
Janus. Claudia hated herself for asking, but- ‘How many times did you try to kill Arbil, Shannu?’
‘Seven or eight,’ he said casually. ‘But my brother was always there, or Dino. And then finally-’ he held up his stump ‘-the bastard did what he threatened. Tell me, do you really like my landscapes? Or-be perfectly honest-do you prefer the seascapes over there? I think I’ve got that storm just right, the waves and that zig-zag flash of lightning. What-?’
The second he turned his back, Claudia slammed the door shut and rammed the bolt home just as hard as she could. The broken end of her hairpin tinkled as it fell on to the floor, but she was well out of earshot. In fact, Claudia didn’t stop running until she met up with Junius, and then it was only to gee up the horses.
XXVIII
From the moment he received the news of his Regent’s death, the Emperor Augustus had remained virtually closeted inside his basilica on the Palatine, digesting reports, wading through correspondence, thrashing out the endless possibilities and despairing at the crackpot theories which surfaced with greater frequency and more frantic desperation as time wore on. Sedition, my lord? Round up the troublemakers, that’s what I’d do, make examples of the bastards. No heir? No problem. Let the herald proclaim your wife pregnant, declare public holiday, throw Games in her honour. All feasible. All dismissed. Certainly it was not beyond the realms of possibility that, even after fourteen barren years, her imperial majesty might fall pregnant-but how long before the populace saw that they’d been conned? Quick-fix solutions were no use, Augustus needed to gather the facts, sift them carefully, then see what nuggets were left.
In the end, perhaps, the difference between Marcus Cornelius Orbilio and the Emperor was not so great after all.
Market day had come and gone, scaffolding had been dismantled, monies banked, barges moored up for the night and as the city braced itself for yet another round of whoring and deliveries, roistering and burglary, weary street sweepers pushed spinach stalks and eggshells, donkey dung and pot shards in an ever swelling tidal wave of debris. Orbilio watched it all from the steep escarpment on the Palatine and remained unsure how, now the rioters had settled down and tempers had cooled, a security policeman kicking his heels outside the basilica helped any.
‘Why?’ he asked his boss, and the answer was revealing.
‘It’s not enough we do the work,’ his boss had replied. ‘Above all, we must be seen to be active.’
Active? Watching laurels being clipped in the Palatine Gardens when he could be moving quietly amongst his network of informants, mixing with the merchants, separating loyalists from traitors? What his boss hoped, of course, was that by sucking up to Augustus during the crisis, he’d land the post of Toady Supreme and as Orbilio stamped his feet in an effort to resuscitate his circulation, he could think of no better candidate. Across the way, priests illuminated Luna’s shrine as they did every night, and from the Temple of Apollo, Orbilio caught the last whiff of incense before the censers were locked away for the night. Incredible that, for two whole years, Penelope’s child had been a cog in the temple’s machinery, while he’d never even suspected her existence. At least this year, he thought, when I drop poppies in the Tiber, I can tell Penelope that she can walk the Elysian Fields in peace.
Initially he’d been hard put to see anything deeper than a physical resemblance between Annia and her mother, until he realized that neither woman felt bound by labels. Penelope behaved like no ordinary aristocrat, Annia like no orthodox slave. Marcus shook his head. How many times during his innumerable trips to the palace had he passed the time of day with the young temple warden? Sent a present, too, when the young man married, last July wasn’t it? A silver salver with a dome-shaped lid, if Marcus remembered correctly. And how often had he nodded in acquaintance to his new wife, without noticing Annia at her side? Strange, the quirks of life.
Yet wasn’t it the quirks he thrived on? Unpredictability is the drug of youth, they say, and if that was so, Orbilio was hooked. His drug wore strong Judaean perfume and had a smelting pot of metals in its hair. It possessed a deep and throaty laugh, a dancing step, and kept a man awake throughout the night with an aching in his loins and in his heart.
But the drug did not come home last night…
Bugger this, he thought, bounding down the Palatine ramp. This isn’t serving my country!
At the bottom, a crowd had gathered in the aid of an elderly statesman whose horse had thrown him awkwardly, Jews congregated on the Aurelian steps as they had for centuries and a male prostitute posed against a seated bronze hero and pouted.