Orbilio topped up the glass from the wine jug and waited until half the dark red liquid had warmed him inside. ‘The official line is, no,’ he said slowly. ‘True, they argue, the victim had a blue tattoo, but she was killed by a single cut to the throat, in broad daylight, and not on a market day.’ He threw back the rest of the wine. ‘Her limbs were not bound, nor had her hair been cut off.’ Lavender from the linen in the chest filtered upwards to mingle with the dried herbs in the air. Leonides would be serving absinthe with the omelettes and oysters very shortly, and Claudia realized with a start that she was hungry. Why
didn’t
she leave?
‘But?’ she asked.
Marcus Cornelius stretched himself lengthwise on her bed, tossing aside her bolster and folding his hands beneath his head. His eyes traced the painted flowers on the ceiling, and the lines of the rafters.
‘But.’ Orbilio propped himself up on one elbow and turned to face her. ‘It was raining. There were few people abroad, even fewer taking time off to go exploring the Lupercal.’ He flopped back down on the bed and chewed his lower lip. ‘Those folk who
were
around, however, reported hearing a man whistle his dog. Three short, sharp consecutive notes.’ He put his lips together. ‘Whit-whit-whit.’
‘Like Zosi the speech seller described?’
‘Identical.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Which begs the question, why would Zygia’s killer replicate the one detail we’d kept secret, moreover one which might not even be noticed, yet disregard the more bizarre aspects?’
The smell of roast meat squeezed through the floorboards—wild boar and venison, hazel hens and goose. They would be served up with pastries moulded like artichokes and coarse brown bread to mop up the juices. Then, while the meat course settled, a group of fire-eaters would come in, and there would be blond-haired, blue-eyed Porsenna on call to pay her court and compliments. Claudia picked up a gold bangle and turned it slowly, like a wheel, between her two outstretched index fingers.
‘Yesterday you talked about this being, what was the phrase—ritual murder? Bodies arranged in certain positions, the symbolism of the hair in the lap—’
Orbilio stroked his hand along Claudia’s damasked sheet. ‘Call it a hunch, call it instinct, call it pig-headed stubbornness,’ he said. ‘But this is the work of the same man, I can smell it.’
Claudia studied the investigator as he lay on the counterpane, eyes closed and his wavy hair tousled. In stark contrast to the gales of laughter rising from below, his voice sounded drained to the marrow and she noticed the first smudge of stubble on his jaw and dark circles beneath his long lashes.
‘I’ve missed something,’ he added wearily. ‘Somewhere along the line, I’ve missed a clue, but for the life of me, I can’t think where.’
Claudia felt a pounding in her ribcage, a tightness in her throat. He had no right to be here. No right to be lying white with fatigue on her bed, scenting her room with his sandalwood.
‘Then perhaps you should not spread yourself so thinly,’ she replied tartly, clipping on ear studs fashioned like seahorses. It was definitely time to join Porsenna and the aunts. ‘Decide which case needs priority and concentrate on solving one of them properly instead of three not at all.’ She shook out the flounces on her brightly coloured gown. ‘Orbilio, are you listening to me?’
Soft snores rising from the bed answered for him.
XX
Can you see it? There, in the shadows of the great striding aqueduct which ferries water from the Arno, that low brick building which looks like a cattle shed? Inside it reeks of cheap wine, stale sweat and the blood of thousands of fighting cocks who have laid down their lives in that deep central pit, yet despite the lateness of the hour, its walls are still threatening to burst. Coins change hands swifter than lightning, tempers flare faster and should proof be needed that Rome is a melting pot, look around. Dark-skinned Numidians, hook-nosed Parthians, moustachioed Celts, the blond men of Belgica. One night you’ll see Teutonic tribesmen with horns sticking out of their helmets; another, Lycians snuggled deep inside fur-collared coats. There’ll be masons, paviors, magistrates and tax collectors, Cypriots, Indians, Jews.
Dinocrates pushed his way to the front, where Sargon seemed to be having difficulty getting his point across.
‘The black fucker, you moron,’ he shouted, then turned to his friend. ‘I gave that arsehole fifty sesterces, and with only two birds to bet on, he still put our money on the wrong bloody one.’
The bookie in question, a squat Cappadocian with four chins but precious little
Latin,
was shrugging
and
pointing to the larger of the two cockerels, which had pheasant-type plumage and a much thinner neck.
‘I know that’s the favourite,’ Sargon mouthed. ‘Just back the black bugger, will you!’
‘
Our
money?’ queried Dino, retrieving his embroidered cuff from the gesticulating fingers of a Spaniard beside him.
‘The praetor’s wife finally dropped her calf,’ his friend grinned. ‘So while the Captain plays nursemaid, I set about doubling our remuneration.’
‘Call me short-sighted, but your purse seems a trifle unfurnished.’
‘My accumulator went down in that last fight, but we still have fifty sesterces.’
‘Which rides on that scrawny bag of feathers over there?’
Sargon laughed. ‘Your face won’t be so sour when we pick up our winnings, Dino, we’ll need a handcart to carry them home in. Look at that spur, sharp as a dagger. How come you’re so late?’
‘Things.’ He shrugged. ‘Nothing special.’
The young Babylonian pushed his rich, red cloak back from his shoulders as the black cock was shown its opponent at close quarters. A vicious beak lashed out, but the trainer pulled the bird back, a ritual which would be repeated several more times, to wind the cockerels into a frenzy. ‘Everything’s all right, isn’t it?’ he asked slowly. ‘I mean, you’d say if it wasn’t?’
Dinocrates bridled. ‘Everything’s fine. Why shouldn’t it be?’
‘No reason.’ Sargon’s eyes remained fixed on the fighting cocks as they lunged at one other in their owners’ strong grip. ‘Only you absent yourself rather a lot when we come into Rome these days.’
The two angry birds were released into the pit. The roar from the punters was deafening.
‘Can you blame me,’ Dino said at length. ‘Seeing your ugly mug all the time—and anyway, you’re a fine one to talk. Where do you sneak off to, may I ask?’
‘That,’ Sargon pulled one eyelid down with his finger, ‘would be telling. Oh, is my black cockerel a winner or not?
Come on, boy! Get him
!
’
Whistles and stamping and roars of encouragement nearly shook the gutterspouts loose from the roof as the birds attacked in murderous frenzy. Arcs of blood spurted as they dived, pecking and gouging and spearing with deadly sharpened spurs. Flaps of comb and wattle spat across the pit as they screamed and tore and stabbed, the men around them hoarse from bawling. For several minutes the contest remained equal, then slowly the squall of feathers subsided as the weaker of the two moved on to a defence that was merely a question of time.
‘I tell you him de best, Sargon. I tell you, not de black one!’ The Cappadocian’s downturned mouth disappeared into copious rolls of flesh. ‘I pick you bird for next bout, yes?’
‘Fucking loser.’ Sargon kicked the pit rail, where, below, the carcass of the black cockerel had been removed and fresh sand thrown over the carnage.
‘You or the chicken?’ laughed Dino.
‘Ha, ha, very funny.’ The long-haired Babylonian aimed a mock punch.
‘Never mind,’ Dino gave him a consolatory pat on the back. ‘I reckon we can still run to a wineskin between us.’
Outside, Sargon let out three short whistles and Silverstreak trotted over, nuzzling the palm of his master’s hand. A long pink tongue rasped against the skin and the three of them set off down the hill, where ghostly figures loomed in and out of the mist, reeling, stumbling, skulking in doorways. The air here was sour from the tanner’s yard, and an owl hooted from an arch in the aqueduct. As they passed, a chink of light revealed a soot-blackened tavern, mine host’s customers slumped over their goblets as a one-eyed mongrel lapped at the dregs of spilled liquor. Silverstreak sniffed twice and loped on.
‘Know what I think?’ Sargon clapped his arm round Dinocrates’ shoulder. ‘I think we ought to rear our own bloody fighting cocks. Breed ourselves tough little bastards who could make us a fortune.’
‘We’re hardly on the skids,’ Dino said drily. ‘Tonight excepting, my friend, these upper-class by-blows thread gold through our tunics, set precious stones in our cloak-pins—’
‘Lesson one, Dino. A man can never have too much hair or too much money.’ Still grinning, Sargon rapped at a lion’s head knocker, where they were swallowed up by a throng of music and dancing, lamplight and laughter. Scantily clad girls came to pat Silverstreak, who rolled on to his back in delight.
‘I’m trying to picture Arbil’s face,’ said Dino, yanking off his fringed boots, ‘when he hears you propose to farm chickens.’
A Nubian slave, naked and shaved, washed their feet in scented water while another thrust goblets of wine into their hands. The wolf followed his nose to the kitchens, knowing he’d be slipped titbits of goose and mutton before stretching out in front of an open log fire on which a whole pig would be roasting.
‘By Marduk,’ said Sargon, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘This is an improvement on my father’s gnat’s pee.’
Dino spluttered, laughing, into his glass. ‘Arbil will have you strung up by your balls, insulting his ale. But I have to confess, I’m with you on this, my friend. I much prefer the Roman ways.’ He smiled into the middle distance. ‘Much prefer,’ he repeated softly.
The crooking of one Babylonian finger brought two lissom young girls running over. One had gold dust painted on her naked nipples, the other wore a transparent tunic and only perfume underneath.
‘The attractions are more readily available, that’s for sure.’ A blind balladeer began to strum a haunting lovesong as Sargon ran his hand absently up and down a shapely oiled thigh. ‘Tell me, Dino.’ He paused. ‘Seeing as how you and I are so attached to the city, how do you feel about transferring here permanently?’
The Greek’s head came up sharply. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Perfectly.’ Sargon moved the girl on to his knee, where she proceeded to run expert hands through his long, jet-black hair.
‘What about Arbil? He’ll—’
‘Uh-uh. I’m talking about you and me, Dino. We set our headquarters in Rome and run the whole shooting match from here. What do you say?’
‘Go behind Arbil’s back?’ hissed Dinocrates. ‘Croesus, man, we’ll end up staked out as jackal meat, the crows pecking our eyes and our livers.’
Sargon slipped his hand under the whore’s flimsy tunic. ‘I’m not talking about going into opposition, I’m talking about when I take over.’ He leaned closer towards Dino. ‘You’ve seen him these past few weeks. Can’t remember his own fucking name half the time, babbles to himself, I tell you, the old man’s falling apart. Angel says he can’t even get it up any more.’
A youth on the pan pipes took over from the blind balladeer, more wine was brought round, and on a nod from the management, the second girl rippled her fingers over Dinocrates’ chest. Without thinking, he pushed her away and a flutter of gold dust danced through the air.
‘Yes, piss off, you two.’ Sargon unceremoniously dumped his girl on to the floor, where she promptly demanded her money. The Babylonian ignored her. ‘Whichever way you look at it,’ he said to Dino, ‘my father is not a well man.’ He grabbed the whingeing whore by her arm and thrust his face into hers. ‘You’ve earned nowt, you’ll get nowt,’ he snarled. ‘So shut the fuck up.’
‘I let you have a feel, didn’t I?’
Exasperated, Sargon fished into his purse. ‘Yes, madam, you did. Here’s what it was worth.’ He spun a copper quadran, the lowest denomination, into her lap. ‘Now sod off and leave us alone.’
Humiliated and outraged, she flounced away to complain to the management. The management laughed.
‘We’d better go,’ Dino said, pointing out that it was time to link up with Tryphon. ‘It’s already past midnight.’ Neither he nor Sargon had enquired what the Captain planned to do with his day off, he was quite an enigma, was Tryphon, he’d only have growled that it was none of their business. Which was true. So long as he was back in time to collect the child of the praetor’s wife (which he had been), what he did in his own time was his affair. Yet it was strange, Dinocrates thought, that he never mentioned the one subject which had set the city alight this afternoon. The girl they’d found up in the Lupercal. They weaved their way through the convoluted maze of lanes towards the Collina Gate. Maybe he and Sargon ought to have a word with the Captain? Make sure they got their stories straight before reporting to Arbil? Yes, indeed, a quiet word would do no harm. He was always reliable, was Tryphon.
‘That’s another thing,’ Sargon said, stepping aside to let a wagon piled with bales and fleeces lumber past. Silverstreak, grumpy at leaving the fire, bared his fangs at the mules. ‘When I’m in charge, we’ll send some other bugger to go searching the middens. It’s no job for you and me.’
‘We’re the only ones your father trusts to do it properly, you know that, but we’re slipping from the point, are we not? Granted your father’s had a bad run of late, but he’s hardly dying, Sargon. There’s nothing wrong with his…his physical health.’