‘I know,’ Claudia said quietly. From her upright, hard-backed chair behind the desk, she swivelled her eyes to meet his, but her head didn’t move, and today he could forgive the lack of courtesy.
On account of the knife which pressed against the artery in her neck.
*
Orbilio felt himself stumble. For the first time in his life, he knew what failure meant. Total, abject failure. He had seen death in all its forms, had killed in war and self-defence. There were occasions, he recalled, where men had died when they need not have, and he had been powerless to help. Partly that was why he joined the Security Police. To rectify those errors, and avenge.
‘Let her go,’ he said, edging through the doorway. ‘Untie her and take me instead.’
A hand slid under Claudia’s chin and jerked it upwards, stretching her neck like a sacrificial beast’s. ‘Suppose I give Nemesis his rein and slit her throat, right here and now? What would you do then?’
He watched, transfixed with horror, as the flat of the blade travelled slowly, almost sensuously, up and down, up and down Claudia’s throat.
Orbilio heard the tremble in his voice. ‘I’d kill you.’ Claudia had closed her eyes, he noticed. Otherwise, there was no trace of fear upon her face. His gut turned over.
‘You might lock me away, like poor Shannu was locked away, an embarrassment to the family—’ the blade reverted to a point and pressed against the throbbing artery ‘—but my dear Marcus, you will never harm Penelope’s beloved baby.’
Annia turned the full force of her beautiful, treacherous smile upon the man she called her cousin. ‘That I’m sure of.’
XXXIV
Marcus was right, Claudia thought. Annia had played him like a sucker from the start.
Three murders so gruesome, so bizarre they would automatically attract the attention of the Security Police, though it was Marcus in particular she needed to hook, hence the encounter with Daphne. Heaven knows how long she’d been trailing the poor woman, waiting for the moment when her path would cross with Orbilio’s, but Annia—as ever—had played her part to perfection. There was no way, after hearing Penelope’s history, that he could remain on the sidelines.
Not that he was the only mug. Claudia, too, had allowed logic and emotion to outweigh her natural instinct, and now she was about to pay the price. How strange, she thought. Despite Nemesis pressing at her throat, her mind drifted high above it, clear and calm. As though all this was happening to someone else and she was merely a spectator, watching from afar. Nothing seemed real. Not this warren of a house, unnaturally silenced. Not Marcus, unbuckling his sword belt with reluctance. And especially not sweet little Annia with her shiny, scrubbed face and glistening fair hair which she
washed every
day and tied back with a clean cerise ribbon. The same ribbon, incidentally, which bound Claudia’s wrists.
‘Take these.’ Annia tossed across a pair of handcuffs. ‘Back up slowly,’ she instructed Marcus. ‘Kneel beside that column, put your arms around it and clip on the manacles.’
‘Annia—’
He advanced half a pace and Claudia felt a warm trickle run down her neck. The blade was so sharp, she hadn’t felt it puncture her skin.
‘All right, Annia.’ Marcus held up a placatory hand. ‘Anything you say.’
His tone was conciliatory, yet even as he chained himself to the pillar, Claudia could see in his eyes that, by complying, Marcus Cornelius Orbilio had sealed his own death warrant.
Like a shattered pot, the dream burst.
Suddenly, the tiniest of details sprang to life. On the wall, Claudia could almost hear the leopard purring through its spots as Orpheus strummed his lyre. That tessellated peacock might strut off at any second, and Claudia could all but taste the ripened apricots and medlars drawn in paint. This is real, she thought. It’s not a dream, a play to be applauded. Her heart was thumping, her hands had turned to ice. The ivory inlays glinting in the sunlight, the aromatic herbs burning in the brazier, the monkey’s gouge marks in the satinwood and maple. They are real. As is Marcus. As is Annia.
And so, goddammit, as am I!
She bit deep into her lower lip to stop it trembling and for a moment, everything went dark and out of focus. Deep breaths, deep breaths. For gods’ sake, don’t pass out. Deep breaths. Her eye picked out a flax plant painted on the wall. Blue, like the peacock on the floor. Concentrate, concentrate. In Greece, whole hillsides would be covered in it. Atta girl, concentrate, concentrate. Think of how the stems are steeped to separate the fibres. Then bleached out in the sun before they can be woven into linen. That’s the stuff, well done. Once panic had subsided and cold beads of sweat ran hot again, Claudia could almost smile. As triumphs went, it might look small, but victory was relative.
For Claudia, knowing that her mind was no longer held captive by Annia was akin to subduing Gaul.
Not—she struggled with the bonds which tied her hands behind the chair—that it would necessarily be wise to let Annia in on the secret. Her sanity remained stable only so long as the Puppet Master’s stage was undisturbed. Ritual was all. She fed upon defencelessness and fear. Indeed, Claudia suspected that it was because Zygia had
not
crumpled that Annia lost her temper, and slit her throat in anger. How she must have despised that lack of self-control! She’d have blamed Zygia, of course. The girl provoked her, had it coming, she deserved to die like that, the bitch. But inside, her intemperance would have gnawed away. Next time, they would play by her rules—and thus had Severina come to grief, taunted to the end.
Annia snatched the string of corals from around Claudia’s neck and began to assess their size and weight and value. She preferred the deeper red, herself, although other women swore by… Buttressed by her inner strength, Claudia blocked her out.
What happened the day Zygia died? Did she really set out early, or had Severina covered up for, say, an illicit shopping spree or perhaps a long lie-in? Claudia imagined dark-haired Zygia pacing up and down the Cattle Market, stabbing her spiky curls with her fingers and wondering how best to make her approach to Annia. It was raining, but Zygia would not have noticed as she chewed her knuckle along the street beside the Circus. Claudia pictured her climbing the steep and slippery Cacian Steps, maybe pausing at the Lupercal to catch her breath. She would have approached the Temple of Apollo from the east, glad the library porticoes were deserted because the light was far too poor to read by. She would not have noticed droplets running down the marble columns, or dogs lapping water from the gutter. Wide-eyed and squeaky clean, Annia would have heard her out and doubts would have begun to form long before Annia spun some frilly tale to exonerate herself. ‘Come with me,’ she would have said. ‘I’ll prove it.’ And feeling foolish, Zygia would have backtracked down the Palatine with Annia, little knowing that this time when she approached the Lupercal, she would stare straight into Hell.
During the time Claudia had been re-living Zygia’s nightmare, Annia had been tormenting Marcus the way a cat torments a mouse, pressing Nemesis flat to Claudia’s windpipe, or pointing the knife as though to slice her cheek, and emitting squeaks of satisfaction every time he flinched. But Claudia sensed a subtle change. Annia was preparing to move on.
Time.
Claudia needed to buy time—
I mean, it’s all very well having your mind set free to roam, but let’s face it, legs would be much better. Shackled to the pillar in the hall, Orbilio was every bit as helpless as herself, but sooner or later someone—surely—had to visit the house. Maybe a launderess would come home with a toothache? Or a messenger arrive with a letter? Goddammit, there wasn’t even the possibility of Magic’s filthy missives interrupting.
‘Is—’ Claudia cleared her throat and started again. ‘Is this your objective?’ she enquired. ‘The aristocracy at your feet upon their knees?’
Whose bright idea was it to reward the servants with an afternoon off? And guess which silly bitch agreed! Down on the Field of Mars, the musical farce would not yet have begun. Just as Annia had contrived.
‘Revenge appears in many forms,’ the sprite trilled, pocketing the corals. ‘With each level guaranteeing satisfaction.’ She leaned forward to thrust her speedwell blue eyes close to Claudia’s. ‘You do know what I mean by satisfaction?’
With one hand she pressed Nemesis flat against Claudia’s throbbing artery.
‘You see how sweet it is, don’t you, Marcus?’
Keeping Nemesis primed for action, Annia moved behind the high-backed chair to make eye-contact with her cousin. Claudia could smell the freshness of her pleated tunic and the catmint rinse which had passed through the flaxen locks which brushed against her shoulder. Under a brightly coloured canvas awning, the audience would be roaring at the risqué jokes and bold political ad-libs. But the temperature, she thought, could not compare to this.
‘Together, you and I, we shall watch Claudia’s life blood slip away. Slowly, because I want you to savour the experience with me, Marcus.’ She pressed her warm cheek to Claudia’s. ‘There will be pain,’ she whispered, stroking the blade up and down Claudia’s throat. ‘Excruciating pain. But you see, each strike of Nemesis will be an arrow in his heart. It has to be this way. It is our mission.’
‘Mission?’ croaked Claudia.
A stair creaked, and for a fleeting moment she felt salvation was to hand. Instead, it proved only the settling of wood and as though to mock her hope, a flock of chattering sparrows chased one another through the peristyle. Idly Claudia wondered whether, like Severina, that would be her last view of life. Or whether it would be locked in the gaze of a wavy-haired policeman… Unable to control herself, tears trickled down her cheek.
Annia licked the salty flow and, repulsed, the flow dried up. ‘We are charged with a mission, Nemesis and I, and like this sapphire in your jewel box’—she flashed Claudia’s ring from her middle finger—‘it has many facets.’
‘Of which wealth is one, presumably?’
‘With the contents of your caskets, Claudia, plus’—she smiled her deceptive smile at Marcus—‘my cousin’s particularly generous stash of gold and silver, I am a very wealthy woman. Uh-uh-uh.’ She wagged a cautionary finger towards Orbilio. ‘I told you before—not a word, Marcus, or I shall slice her cheek off. I’m in charge, remember. I’ll let you know when you can speak.’
One by one, Annia began to unclip the butterfly brooches which, held Claudia’s tunic together at the shoulder.
‘So, yes, that’s one skin of the onion. Riches.’ With tantalizing slowness, she released the final pin and the delicate cotton cascaded over Claudia’s naked breast. ‘Then we have revenge on Granny Daphne, and that’s where you come in, Marcus. Oh, I know what you’re thinking. That this has nothing to do with you, you were only seven when my mother died and you worshipped her. You said.’
Nemesis passed to her other hand, and she began to work on the butterflies on Claudia’s right shoulder.
‘Unfortunately, there are casualties in every war. I watch your pain as you watch Claudia’s, and then when you are dead yourself, Daphne can be told—then let’s see how strong these patrician bitches really are.’
Well, we know how strong you are. Claudia remembered (how trivial it seemed) when Annia dropped a ring up in the bedroom. How she’d pulled the heavy chest away from the wall, shouldering it back in place without a puff. The same strength that had been used to drag five women backwards—
From the hall came the frantic scrape of metal against marble as Orbilio fought to free his hands. He looks so white, she thought. It makes his hair look as though it belongs to someone else. Or dyed. Blood was pooling on the floor from where the manacles had bitten. Her own wrists, she knew, were in little better shape.
‘There.’ Annia released the final butterfly and the remainder of Claudia’s tunic slipped to her waist. With difficulty, she suppressed a shudder. So long as Annia talked, it bought more time.
‘Why me, Annia? I don’t have a blue tattoo.’
‘Killing Severina was revenge on an entirely different level.’ She checked the binding on Claudia’s wrists and tutted. ‘Don’t fight it, Claudia. Don’t run to meet your pain.’
She planted a kiss between her squirming victim’s shoulderblades, then Claudia felt a wet tongue run down her backbone. This time, she dare not look at Marcus. The tongue moved round to lick her upper arm.
‘If you bore Marduk’s sign upon your perfect, unflawed flesh, it would be here.’ Annia’s teeth nipped and broke the skin. ‘Which would make things very different between us, Claudia, because then I would have to remind you of the way you treated me at Arbil’s place.’ She straightened up and smiled. ‘Instead we can be friends, you and I, because you didn’t treat me as a dog, fetch this, go for that, pick-up-this-I-dropped-it-under-my-chair, even though you’d be sitting in it at the time.’
‘The whistle,’ Claudia exclaimed, more to Marcus than to Annia.
‘Exactly.’ Annia put her pretty lips together. Whit-whit-whit. ‘It’s how they summoned me, can you believe that? And can you imagine how if felt, knowing you’re patrician through and through, yet still you’re whistled like a dog?’
Lots of girls get bullied, Annia. They don’t all slice up their tormentors for revenge. Then, as though the sun had broken through a fog, Claudia understood.
Wasn’t ‘touched’ the word Daphne had used to describe Penelope? Claudia glanced at Annia, and something revolved in her stomach as she wished now she’d paid more attention to Marcus’ story. Who better placed, she realized, than a mother to recognize the disturbance inside her own child? Small boys being unable to differentiate between ages, Marcus would have seen nothing odd in a girl singing and dancing and playing with dolls—that’s what girls did—but the duped husband knew straightaway. Small wonder he volunteered for active service, he wanted as much distance between himself and his batty wife as possible, and too late Claudia understood that Penelope’s promiscuity was not about grief. His death merely upped the dangerous stakes—and Daphne Lovernius understood, too. Understood, and repressed it, and Claudia felt a sharp pang of compassion for the old dame. She bit deep into her lower lip. If she’d only listened to the story objectively, and not through the grieving eyes of a seven-year-old. Then she would have seen that any mother worth her salt would have defied Daphne and retrieved the infant Annia straight away. But such was the disturbance inside her head Penelope had gone to Old Man Tiber, instead of Arbil. A tough and proud old bird, what torment must Daphne have suffered all these years, from the moment her daughter came home heavy with child? She would have known, as Claudia knew, how mental illness was often hereditary and now, sweet Jupiter, her worst nightmare had become terrifying reality.