Virgin Territory (29 page)

His eyes were as wide as colanders. ‘You can climb trees?’ It was a whisper of awe.

‘Oh, yes, Marius. I can climb trees.’ The amulet continued to oscillate, small eyes riveted to its arc. ‘I presume you’d like your bulla back?’

He nodded silently. On finding Marius had lost this valuable and essential asset, Piso had caned him and then reported the matter to his father, who promptly caned him again. One thing Fabius had taught the boy, though. Never snitch. Claudia admired the lad for holding out.

She lowered the chain and Marius reached up. Again it was whisked away.

‘It’s yours,’ she said, ‘for a price.’

Marius thought long and hard, and eventually pulled his wooden sword from his belt. ‘This is my most favourite thing,’ he said, twisting his lip. ‘You can have it, if you like.’

Claudia forced herself not to laugh. ‘No, Marius, you keep that. I just want a little chat.’

‘What about?’ he asked warily.

She released the chain. Marius caught the bulla in midair. It was carefully examined before being slipped round his neck.

‘Just things,’ she said casually. ‘Like what you saw at the birch grove yesterday.’

*

Marcus Cornelius Orbilio was frustrated. In fact, he was frustrated on so many counts, he had actually lost count. Taking them point by point, and not necessarily in order of priority, they looked grim. Put them together, and the outlook was bleaker than a Gaulish winter.

He could kiss his career goodbye. This evening he’d called on the local magistrate, a redneck equestrian called Ennius, and the meeting got off on completely on the wrong footing.

‘You’re interrupting my devotions,’ the man had said irritably.

Orbilio had difficulty in controlling his runaway eyebrows. Whatever goddess Ennius was worshipping, she wore cheap scent and left long, dark hairs on his tunic, which he hadn’t had time to belt properly. Orbilio apologized and offered to call back when it was convenient, but Ennius took this as a slight, the nobility patronizing the lower classes as usual, and insisted he conduct his business on the spot. To emphasize both point and authority, he meant it literally and Orbilio was faced with the embarrassing position of outlining the facts on the magistrate’s doorstep.

Ennius already had strong views regarding the Security Police stomping over his territory and showed Orbilio the letter of complaint he’d sent to the Head of Security Police in Rome. When asked politely what he, as magistrate, proposed to do about Utti’s illegal execution, Ennius lost no time in telling Orbilio that he backed Collatinus to the hilt—clearly the fellow was guilty as hell.

‘This is nothing short of cold-blooded murder,’ Orbilio pointed out reasonably.

Ennius jabbed his neatly manicured finger into the younger man’s chest. ‘Don’t lecture me on the law, you insolent puppy. In Sullium I am the law—and the law backs Collatinus. Now get the hell off my doorstep.’

Orbilio found himself raising the subject of Tanaquil’s illegal imprisonment to a bronze door-knocker.

So! Ennius had put in a less than favourable report and his boss, ever the wily politician, was unlikely to consider the subtler aspects of a matter which fell outside his jurisdiction. It would have been different (oh, how it would have been different!) had Sabina genuinely served as a Vestal Virgin, but of course she hadn’t. Instead, an innocent man had been executed and the whole affair had turned into nothing short of a fiasco.

He could not see a way out. He could not arrest Diomedes, there was insufficient evidence to go to trial—largely because, between them, Ennius and Collatinus would ensure the case against Utti was rock solid. Providing Diomedes didn’t kill again, he was free to move on and murder away to his heart’s content. Which he’d probably been doing for years and years.

As the law stood—Roman law, as opposed to Ennius’s law—a murderer need not stand trial providing (a) he confessed or (b) he was caught red-handed. Diomedes was no fool. A man had been executed for the crimes he himself had committed, he would not risk his neck by killing again in the same area. Orbilio did not relish the prospect of losing his job (and thereby his shot at the Senate), but he bitterly regretted his loss being caused by a man who had, quite literally, got away with murder.

He began to pace the room in frustration, not all of it connected to work. Common sense and logic told him to bed the first woman who came along and there had been plenty. The prefect’s mansion in Agrigentum was packed to the rafters with pretty girls and his ears still rang with their offers, and yet he’d held back. It made no kind of sense and was something he’d never encountered before, even when married.

He rubbed his back muscles. The tension started in his neck and continued to his loins. Here he was, in the wee small hours, unable to sleep for frustration. He urgently needed release, he was as taut as a bowstring, but what? He would wear a groove in the mosaic if he kept pacing up and down. Weights! That was it. In Rome he frequently worked out in the gymnasium, why not here? Two small statues stood on the desk, one of Castor, one of Pollux. They would do very nicely. He stripped off his loin cloth and systematically flexed every muscle in his body. Placing the statues at his toes, his hands closed tightly round them.

‘You don’t expect to see a full moon on a night like this.’

Orbilio spun round. ‘Croesus, Claudia, don’t you knock?’ He lunged for his tunic and held it in front of him as Castor rolled under the bed.

She had a wicked, wicked grin on her face. ‘Ssh! There’s something I want you to see.’

‘Do you know what time it is?’

‘Too long after supper and not long enough to breakfast. Come along, you’ll enjoy this.’

He stared, inhaling her spicy perfume. She was wearing a night shift, diaphanous and white. Her hair hung loose, luscious thick curls framing her face and tumbling over her shoulders. He could see the firm points of her nipples moving up and down as she breathed.

‘I’m not dressed,’ he said pompously.

She cocked her head to one side and let her eyes rest on the bunch of material he was gripping in front of him. ‘Orbilio, are you coming or not?’ she said innocently, and he found himself doing something he hadn’t done for over ten years. Marcus Cornelius Orbilio blushed to his roots.

Claudia watched while, with unconscious masculine grace, he donned a fresh tunic before letting the other fall to the floor. She thought back to the marble warrior in the garden of Julius Domiticus Decianus and compared it to the figure in front of her. Lithe and lean with hard, rippling muscles and dishevelled hair that fell into his eyes. How many women, she wondered, had succumbed to the urge? She doubted whether he could keep count, or even if he wanted to. Then she remembered Tanaquil and the hand on his knee…

‘For gods’ sake, Orbilio, we haven’t got all bloody night.’

But by then, Marcus had caught up with his equilibrium and he merely raised one little eyebrow in response.

‘Sssh!’ She placed her ear to the door and opened it carefully. ‘Be very quiet,’ she whispered.

He followed her on tiptoe across the shadows of the atrium, their bare feet making no sound. The only noise came from Cerberus, snoring loudly by the front door.

‘See?’ She spoke so softly, he could barely hear and it was dark, he had to squint. Then he saw what she was pointing at. Aulus. Pacing barefoot up and down a mosaic of Apollo in his chariot, spitting something from his mouth and glancing furtively round the hall.

‘What’s he doing?’

Claudia strained to catch the words. ‘Black beans,’ she hissed back. ‘Listen.’

‘With these beans I redeem me and mine.’

Aulus popped another one in his mouth, sucked it a bit, then
ptwee.
Out it popped and he repeated the phrase. Finally he poured a small trickle of water over his hands in a symbolic cleansing ritual, picked up two bronze kettles and closed them very, very quietly together.

‘Ghosts of my fathers, be gone!’

He gave a low bow, then walked softly across the hall towards his bedroom. Claudia and Orbilio filed back to Marcus’s room, since it was closest.

‘What do you make of that?’ she asked, settling herself on his bed and drawing up her knees.

‘I’m not sure. Some sort of death ritual?’

‘Like the rites you give a loved one’s spirit to help it on its way? I mean, the same bronze kettles, the nine beans and all that, but—did you catch his words?’

‘And what about the symbolic cleansing?’ He found Claudia’s excitement contagious.

‘Do you think what I think?’

He nodded. ‘The ceremony for the undead.’ Orbilio shook his head in bewilderment. ‘What were you doing
lurking in the shadows at this time of night, anyway?’

‘I was hungry.’

They thought everyone had the appetite of an ant in this house. The only one who looked properly nourished was Fabius, and when you compared Collatinus grub to army rations, it might well explain why he joined up.

‘So there I am, rummaging around in the black of night for a bit of cheese or a cake, and blow me down, what do I hear? Old Conky droning on. I thought at first he was sleepwalking, then…
’

Orbilio poured wine into a glass. It was the only glass, and Claudia wondered why she felt a brief flicker of pleasure at sharing. He sat down on the couch, keeping a horribly respectable distance, although she noticed his pupils were fully dilated. Which, of course, they would be in the darkness, they needed all the light they could get.

‘The undead, eh?’ Orbilio’s mouth turned down. ‘I didn’t know they still believed in wandering spirits out here.’

Personally Claudia didn’t believe in the undead either and, until now, didn’t know any self-respecting Roman who did. Well, not one who admitted to it. But there was no doubt Aulus was deadly serious. He was stone cold sober.

‘Backward lot, these Sicilians,’ she said. ‘But my point is this. Is Aulus expunging his guilty conscience? After all, he wasn’t exactly broadcasting the ritual.’

Orbilio leaned back, head against the wall, and gave it some thought. ‘I suppose if his father was against it, he might resort to secrecy, but it doesn’t seem likely. Not from what I know of the man.’

There was an even longer silence as he stared at the painted peacocks on the wall opposite, then he said, ‘The real issue is whether a man would—
could
a man—rape and mutilate his own daughter. I don’t think so, somehow.’

‘Me neither.’

A light flickered in his eyes. ‘I beg your pardon? Did you actually agree with me for once?’

The look she gave him could have stripped summer leaves from a willow.

Suddenly he sat up. ‘Hang on,’ he said. ‘What day is it today?’

Claudia had lost count. ‘Let me think. Yesterday was Lustration Day, so that means we’re into the early hours
of…’
she totted them up on her fingers, ‘the twentieth of October.’

‘Well, there you are!’ Orbilio snapped his fingers. ‘Today would have been Sabina’s thirty-seventh birthday.’ Another fine theory washed out to sea.

‘Besides, I’ve told you often enough, it’s Diomedes.’

‘What about Fabius? Maybe it was a little trick he picked up in Outer Pannonia or wherever it was he went legioning.’ Triumphantly, she told him about the sprig of bay he was sporting.

‘Sorry,’ Orbilio said cheerfully, topping up the glass. ‘You said it yourself, yesterday was Lustration Day. Soldiers all over the Empire wear bay to cleanse themselves of the blood they have spilled, whenever they spilled it. Even retired army veterans.’

Bugger, yes. She’d forgotten that.

‘Linus is capable.’ She told him about Corinna. He told her that was just wishful thinking. Which it was.

‘All right, then, how about Senbi?’ Claudia described the look on his face as he chopped the slave boy’s thumbs off, and how he enjoyed beating the slaves, needing only the smallest excuse to reach for the bullwhip. ‘Or Antefa.’ Like father, like son.

‘Claudia, stop. I’m not saying these men are paragons incapable of violence, but you have to weigh up facts.’

‘You don’t.’

Indignation flooded his face. ‘I beg your pardon—’

‘Right from the start, you’ve had it in for the Greek, just because he’s a smoothie. What about Piso?’

‘Anyone else?’ he asked patiently.

He wasn’t taking this seriously, dammit. ‘No.’ Why did that sound sulky?

Orbilio grinned. ‘Well, thank goodness you’ve let poor old Dexippus off the hook.’

‘Marcus Cornelius, must I do your job for you?’

His grin broadened. ‘Is that an application for the post of my assistant? In which case, please be advised that interviews will be held next Tuesday, although female applicants stand a better chance if they attend the sleeping couch preliminaries on the Monday.’

‘In your dreams, Marcus. In your dreams.’

‘I’m not proud,’ he said. ‘Wherever you like. My only condition is you tell me about Dexippus first.’

The flirtatious smile dropped from his lips when Claudia told him how Eugenius’s secretary was partial to a spot of puppy crucifixion and dismembering cats while they were still alive. Why else, she said, would she have uprooted Drusilla and her kittens for what was originally to be a day’s outing to the theatre? Leave them at Dex’s mercy? No bloody fear! Rumour also had it he’d blinded a newborn lamb once, although it was never proved or he’d have lost his job, but she knew for certain he was prone to snaring small animals for his ‘experiments’.

A greyish light had begun to infiltrate the darkness, and a cockerel crowed. It was a damned silly time to be drinking wine, it went straight to your knees.