I, Claudia (22 page)

Five? Six? Paternus pursed his lips. Why not take a chance? Good heavens, the man was hardly likely to pull out a dagger and kill him in his own office, was he? He smiled to himself. Ridiculous, he thought. Utterly ridiculous. Yet it was a sad reflection that a man grows wary of venturing out alone and has to think twice before being left with a stranger. It was all very well Callisunus giving assurances that it was only a matter of time. What consolation was that to the banker’s widow, or indeed the hundreds of law-abiding Romans holding down responsible posts who were unable to sleep at night for fear of a maniac? Overreaction was becoming the norm.

‘There are some papers to collect from old man Roscius,’ he said to his scribe, finding a certain pleasure in watching the fellow’s face fall. He glanced at the messenger. He can wait, he thought. Let him sweat. Paternus himself waited until his scribe had not only left the room but crossed the Forum and passed under the Arch of Augustus before turning to the Cretan.

‘Very well, then,’ he said wearily. ‘Let’s have the message.’

Milo was used to waiting, it was part of his routine. The fact that this snotty-nosed lawyer was trying it on didn’t bother him one bit. He was only one of the equestrian order, after all, and although Milo himself could never hope to aspire to the ranks, nor in all probability his son, his grandson—the third generation freeborn—might manage it. So this clever dick didn’t bother him one iota.

‘First, your brother said to give you this.’

Slowly—almost insolently—he reached into his pouch, drew out a seal and passed it across to Paternus. When the lawyer realized what he was holding he sat up straight and looked the messenger in the eye.

‘You know what this is?’

Milo nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

Paternus wiped his bony hand across his mouth. Remus, this was the sphinx. The seal of the Emperor himself! My, it must be a serious matter indeed for Caius to be involved at this exalted level. And just what was the extent of his brother’s involvement? As an aedile, he organized some of the games. Had Augustus approached him that way? Or could Caius, out of charity and brotherly love, have dropped his name into the Emperor’s ear? Paternus nodded slowly. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad time to bridge the divide. After all, they were kith and kin, weren’t they? And to be honest, when Caius accused him of pocketing half the damages on that wretched slander case, one couldn’t say he was totally wide of the mark.

‘And the message, Milo?’

Oh, attentive now, are we? When the Emperor’s involved! Suddenly the name Milo isn’t so offensive to your fastidious tongue.

‘The message, sir, is could an envoy
of…
the owner of the seal meet you in your house at noon? You will understand the sensitivity of the issue, your brother said. Would you please dismiss your slaves and leave the side door unlocked for the envoy to slip in.’

Paternus glanced at the seal. No doubts concerning its authenticity. Only Augustus used the sphinx and the penalty for forgery
was…
death.

‘Naturally. Anything else?’

Poor weedy sod was actually licking his lips. ‘Yes, sir. You must be certain not to speak of this to anyone, even your family, and I am to deliver your assurance back to your brother forthwith by returning the seal to him.’

‘Then, Milo, you must give him that assurance.’ Paternus passed the seal back, watching it disappear into the messenger’s pouch. ‘Tell him—oh, tell him my lips are
sealed.
It’s a joke, man. Sealed? Seal?’ Remus, these Cretans had no sense of humour. ‘Great heavens, it’s nearly noon now.’

He stood up and reached for his toga.

‘Yes, sir. Will that be all, sir?’

Damn the fellow, he was hinting for a tip!

‘Yes, Milo, that will be all.’

Bloody money-grabbing Cretans, all the bloody same.

‘No, wait.’ Paternus pressed a silver denarius into the man’s palm. If, as he suspected, the Emperor needed legal assistance outside his usual sphere—and this implied fraud (or worse) within his own household—then the name of Paternus would be on everybody’s lips and he didn’t want to acquire a reputation for being a skinflint. A denarius was excessive, he knew that, but the alternative was a measly couple of asses, it was all he carried.

‘Help me on with this, will you?’

‘Of course, sir. Thank you, sir.’

Milo’s estimation of the man hadn’t altered, he still found the lawyer an arrogant, pompous snob, but a denarius was a denarius. He could still afford to help this little worm with his toga before delivering the necessary assurance to the man’s brother with time to spare, and hopefully—you never know—generosity might be a family trait.

Once the Cretan had left, Paternus hurriedly tidied his office, rolling up his papers and locking them in his private chest. It was always possible, of course, the word envoy was a euphemism…? He toyed with the idea of leaving a note for his scribe but decided against it. What was an hour or two out of the office? The scribe could handle the next client, he’d probably begin work on the Roscius case without being told, anyway.

Paternus was whistling by the time he’d dismissed his slaves, going so far as to slip them a few quadrans each so they could pass the time shopping, because he could afford to be generous, this commission would set him up for life. He changed his tunic, slapped on some of his wife’s perfume—lightly, of course—and laid out wine and fruit in readiness. Simple pleasures for the Emperor, he remembered. Nothing fancy, nothing showy. Not that he expected Augustus to turn up in person, but it never hurt to be prepared for every contingency. He began to pace the atrium. The Emperor would approve, seeing that the decor was in keeping with the African campaign. Was it noon yet? Couldn’t be far off. He glanced out of the window. The street was teeming, as usual, nothing out of the ordinary. But then again, if the Emperor was planning a low-key visit, there wouldn’t be anything unusual, would there? He checked the bedroom. Ridiculous! As if his wife had crept back unannounced! Besides, she was always at the baths until one. He thought he heard a noise and darted back into the atrium. Nothing. Must be noon. Must be! Now, why did he need to check the boys’ room? They were both at school. Jupiter, he’d never seen the house so empty! A man can hear his own footsteps, hell, he can even hear his own breathing. Should he have worn a toga, as a mark of respect? It was customary for a man to dispense with the formality under his own roof, so might not Augustus think he was overdoing it? No, the clean tunic was fine. It was well after noon now, what had happened? He could feel the sweat on his palms, down his back, between his toes. Well, he’d just check there was no one left hanging around in the kitchen.

‘Jupiter, you made me jump!’

He hoped the flatness in his voice was attributed to nerves, rather than the disappointment that he felt on not seeing the Emperor in person. However an envoy was still an envoy, and—oh, for pity’s sake, what was the man’s name? He shouldn’t have let the fellow walk in without being greeted with the honour due to him, what was the matter with him? So absorbed in the Emperor and possible, reasons for the visit, he wasn’t paying attention.

‘Welcome, sir, to my humble—’

‘Ssshh!’

The visitor put a finger to his lips. Paternus had spoken to him often enough, he was a client, for heaven’s sake, albeit some time back, but for the life of him the name eluded him.

‘Ah!’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘You’ve come about
the…
delicate matter?’

The man nodded and glanced round. ‘Where can we talk?’

Paternus ushered him into the small dining room, the most opulent room in the house with its walls of pink marble and a hunting scene mosaic. He could feel his face flushing with pleasure at being picked for this most supreme honour. Just as well he’d followed the instructions to the letter. Had but one slave been in evidence, the Emperor would have written him off as indiscreet. Paternus rubbed his hands together. He always knew he’d make it big one day. How many times had he told that disbelieving wife of his that he’d make the big time soon?

‘So what is it?’ he asked, reaching for the yellow glass flagon. ‘Fraud? Theft? Adultery?’

Oh yes, adultery! Julia, the Emperor’s daughter, had been making such a spectacle of herself lately. That would be it. He’d be looking for someone with a low profile but a good track record to handle the case.

‘In a manner of speaking, yes.’ His illustrious visitor divested himself of his toga.

‘Julia’s?’

The man smiled. ‘No,’ he said, rolling an apple in the palm of his hand. ‘Yours, actually.’

Paternus had been too busy pouring wine to notice the flash of blade. He felt what seemed like a punch to his chest, felt his heels lift clean off the floor with the jolt. His mouth dropped open and only when he looked down did he see the handle of a dagger protruding from his breast. Stunned and helpless, he pitched forward on to his knees. Somewhere in the back of his mind it registered that the envoy had now divested himself of his tunic and was standing stark naked in front of him. Then the pain hit him, surging through his body like white lightning. Relentless, remorseless.

‘Not my eyes,’ he gasped. ‘Please, not my eyes.’

‘Fraid so, old chap,’ his murderer said pleasantly, smiling down at him. ‘You’ve seen her, you see. Can’t have that, can we?’

Paternus could feel the room spinning. Ineffectively he clawed at the dagger, felt a strange gurgling sensation in his throat, a ringing in his ears. The wine he’d been pouring had spilled over the mosaic, dribbling among the ridges of the tesselae. Soon, he realized, his blood would be mingling with it. How could he, Paternus, the lawyer of all people, have let himself be duped so easily?

‘Pity. Have pity!’

The room was growing dark. He could barely distinguish between the lion on the mosaic and the wine spill. Mighty Mars, take this life of mine as sacrifice and strike the bastard dead on the spot! Don’t let him take my eyes. Mars the Avenger, I implore you now. Take vengeance for me!

‘She’s only a wh-wh-whore.’

The envoy had to lean forward to catch the words. ‘Claudia Seferius? Oh, Paternus, that was a very foolish thing to say. You
can
hear me, can’t you?’

Paternus nodded. His sight might be failing, his strength almost gone, but his hearing was intact, and the pain no less excruciating.

‘Take…the…dagger…
out.’ It was his only hope now. Hasten his death, put an end to this agony. ‘P-please.’ Never before had he put so much of himself into one small word. The man would be inhuman to sit and watch him die like this! Paternus knew about the other murders. A quick thrust to the heart. Instant death. And if it wasn’t immediate—well, the moment the blade came out, it was all over and done with.

He heard the man suck his breath through his teeth. ‘Can’t do that, Paternus. Not when you’ve called the woman I love a whore.’

‘S-sorry. I’m s-sor-ry. D-didn’t m-mean it.’

The searing pain in his chest had spread to his head. ‘T-take the b-blade out. P-please!’

He could feel tears burning a path down his cheek. Surely no man, even this lunatic, could feel anything but pity now? A man crying and begging for his life? He realized he would never see his boys again. They’d grow to manhood and he wouldn’t be able to steer them through the pitfalls of adolescence, he wouldn’t be able to arrange decent marriages for them, he’d never know what it was like to play with his grandchildren.

‘See this, Paternus?’

In his closed dark world of pain, he managed to make out the glint of a blade. Mercy! He’d been released from his torture. Then his breath caught in his throat. This was a different, smaller blade. Used for cutting fruit.

‘Your heart’s in a different place from the others,’ the voice went on, calmly and pleasantly. ‘Divine intervention, don’t you see? You called her a whore, Paternus, and for that you must pay. Yes, indeed. You do know how, don’t you?’

Numbly the lawyer shook his head.

‘No? Come, come, think, man!’

But Paternus couldn’t think. Pain was searing every muscle, every sinew, every blood vessel. He squeezed his eyes tight with every agonizing wave—and then it dawned on him what this maniac meant to do.

‘
No!
For gods’ sakes, man, no!’

He didn’t think he had the strength left to scream. In fact, he didn’t realize he had strength left at all until he felt the ice-cold metal brush against his cheek and the sound of inhuman laughter echo in his ears.

XX

Callisunus was waiting for him in the underground temple of Consus, his florid cheeks redder than usual, the fury on his face etched deeper from the flickering torchlight. Orbilio wasn’t late for the appointment, far from it, yet he had a feeling that whatever was bothering Callisunus would be dumped upon his own shoulders as sure as the cock would crow in the morning and dogs would bark in the night. It was turning into that sort of a day.

His footsteps echoed in the dank, hollow chamber as the sacred attendants paused to scrutinize the intruder, resentment bouncing off them in waves. Who could blame them, he thought. Overhead a small army battled to prepare the Circus Maximus for the chariot races tomorrow, while below they were still eons away from digging out the altar. He wanted to shout at them, tell them to put their backs into the job, because they were shovelling soil as though they were a bunch of lovesick maidens mucking out pigshit, but he couldn’t, of course. Not in front of Callisunus. And especially not today. With a muted sigh Orbilio saw the little man was drumming his fingers against his thigh—always a bad sign—and wished the omens were more favourable for the extension of time he needed to ask for.