Virgin Territory (33 page)

‘There aren’t any marriageable daughters here,’ Claudia protested, and then remembered Sabina. ‘What about the widowed oil merchant, who was lined up in pole position?’

‘I think the plan was to make Sabina fall sick and work back from there. Probably couldn’t believe his luck when the retiring Vestal came home with a full suitcase but only half her wits, and when Diomedes saw she’d brought along a wealthy young widow, well! Two bites at the cherry.’

Claudia’s nose wrinkled in scepticism. ‘As much as I am tempted by your theories, especially as they dovetail with previous theories of my own and you know how I hate to be wrong, it doesn’t explain why he’s done a runner.’

Orbilio looked away. ‘You remember your conversation with Urgulania in Agrigentum?’ He began to pleat the bedsheet. ‘Let’s just say, I’ve evened the score.’

‘Do you mean to tell me that you, Marcus Cornelius Orbilio, the pillar of every Roman community, actually
lied
!’

‘I’m sure my account to Dreamboat was as truthful as yours to the good matron.’

Claudia had learned her manners from her mother, who, when sober and not prone to suicide attempts, had quite a repertoire, having once served as a rich man’s courtesan until he dumped her for a younger model. It was therefore from her mother she had learned that snorting was vulgar. On the other hand, there are times when vulgarity is vital to a girl’s well-being. Claudia let rip the kind of snort your average hippo would be proud to own.

‘I didn’t know you did warthogs as well as wounded elephants,’ Orbilio said mildly, and received a slap on his arm for his pains.

‘The invalid is so tired he’s starting to hallucinate.’ Claudia stepped daintily over the figs. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot.’ Liar. ‘The reason for my gracious visit to the sickroom was to let you know I’m leaving this afternoon.’

All things being equal, his expression should have changed—fallen, ideally—and he should have asked what time, how was she travelling, what were her plans. In fact, any number of possibilities presented themselves except the question: ‘Before the funeral?’

Damn you to hell. ‘The quicker I get away from this place, the better, but first I have a call to make.’ Her hand was on the door when she asked, ‘Incidentally, you haven’t seen Kleon, have you?’

‘He’s not in here with me,’ Orbilio said, pretending to search the bedcovers, ‘although you’re welcome to check for yourself.’

‘I’d prefer to sit through a swarm of gadflies.’ The hell she would.

The air hung heavy between them. She waited for him to speak but nothing happened.

‘See you around, then.’ For some ridiculous reason her throat was tight. Of course, there was still time to call her back. She’d be across that room like oiled lightning…

‘Right.’ She was halfway across the threshold when he whispered under his breath, ‘By the gods, Claudia, you are beautiful.’

She daren’t turn round, her eyes were cloudy. ‘What was that?’

‘I
—I
said, “By the gods, Claudia, do be careful.”’ He smiled wanly. ‘Later. When you go out.’

XXX

The climb was no less steep than she remembered it, the terrain no less rugged, the path no less slippery, and yet it was difficult to reconcile the fact that she’d made this climb a mere eight days previously. Reality seemed to have been bounced on its head and made to turn somersaults. Was it really only four weeks since she left Rome?

Claudia leaned against a limestone crag jutting into the pathway to catch her breath. The sea shimmered and sparkled below, and on a day like this you felt you could almost reach across and trickle the sands of Africa through your fingers. It was warm, but not too warm, breezy without being windy, enough puffs of white cloud to break the brilliant monotony of the sky. Probably as close to perfect as you could get on this island. And Claudia was thoroughly glad to be going home.

In four weeks, little progress would have been made on the emperor’s massive restoration programme, the building and renovation of temples and libraries and lawcourts and gateways, even less at her villa and vineyard now the harvest was in and the wine busy fermenting. But suddenly it seemed imperative she return—to settle the kittens, catch up on the gossip, witness the grand finale of the Victory Games, employ a few more prevarication tactics on unsuspecting creditors. How she had become embroiled in a murder mystery on this superstitious island was beyond her. In a few short weeks she’d been practically shipwrecked, dumped on a family of mealy-mouthed misers with a pea-brained fruitcake posing as a Vestal Virgin. Two women had been murdered, an innocent man had taken the rap, there was a child molester on the loose and because of him, a grief-stricken mother had committed suicide. The man who wanted her wasn’t the man she wanted, and the man she wanted wasn’t interested. Let us also not forget that behind all this was cast the long shadow of a money-grubbing scumbag called Varius, claiming to be her husband’s bastard.

Claudia sighed as a pair of blue rock doves passed by, wings whirring in flight. Junius had been a pain in the backside about this visit, insisting he accompanied her. Threats to mash his face like a turnip hadn’t worked, neither had her proposal to dangle his nutmegs from his ears like jewellery. In the end, she’d resorted to the age-old tactic of promising faithfully not to go anywhere without him, but meanwhile, would he mind just running an errand to Sullium? Yes, yes, of course she meant what she said, she had given her word, hadn’t she, now run along, there’s a good boy. Oh, before he went, though—had he seen Kleon lately? No matter, it wasn’t important.

Cypassis was almost as bad, although it was easier with her. Tell her you’re going to Sullium with Junius and she’s to get on with the packing and simple honest soul that she is, she falls for it.

Claudia continued up the steep path, wary of the small
rocks which crumbled and gave way beneath her feet, of the dust clouds raised on these deforested slopes, of the limestone crags jutting into the pathway. No longer could she hear the bleating from the sheep pens, only the single cry of a hovering eagle searching out snakes and frogs and lizards. The overpowering smell of prospective mutton cutlets had given way to fresher scents of juniper and furze and wild rosemary. Purple asters bloomed in the valleys, arbutes and hazels clung precariously to the crevices. She paused on the ridge.

So Diomedes turned out to be a lady-killer in the accepted sense of the word? Of course,
she
hadn’t been fooled by those measureless blue eyes, the devastating fall of his hair. His accent cut no ice with her. (I ate the pigeon, didn’t I?) With hindsight it occurred to her that if little Popillia had rumbled him, surely she should have done—especially when he’d used the same trick on Cypassis to get to her as he’d used on Matidia, who, heaven knows, had gone on long enough about his curing an illness she’d contracted virtually before he’d finished unpacking.

To his credit, though, Diomedes was a good doctor—got Melinno sorted out in no time. Pity he did his flit before he got a chance to look at Supersnoop. He’d have had him back on his feet in a twinkle.

Once over the rise, the canopy closed in like a hug from an old friend, cooling, comforting, refreshing. Flocks of finches—green, gold and haw—fluttered between the branches, enticed by the new season’s beech mast. A blackbird foraged noisily among the deep, decaying layers. Claudia felt the same strange feeling creep over her that had thrilled her the last time. This sweet, unsettling lack of reality. This sense of magic, of illusion, of fanciful notions. The sun cast a golden glow through golden leaves on to a soft golden floor as though the beechwood had become the Palace of Midas where everything you touch turns to gold. Her toe took careful aim at a puffball. Clouds of spoor shot high into the air, but they did not descend as gold dust.
Silly bitch.

From the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of white. A magpie? The rump of a deer? Different senses were suspended. She felt a thumping in her chest. There it was again, and one thing was sure, it wasn’t that damned pigeon come back to haunt her. This was linen.

She stood stock still, rueing her choice of iris blue cotton instead of the buttercup yellow which would have made her damn near invisible under this autumn canopy. She hardly dare breathe. Where is he? Has he gone? Damn the leaf litter! It was so deep, footfalls were muffled. Of course, there was no reason to suppose he’d even seen her…

‘Spying again?’

The breath caught in Claudia’s throat. ‘F- Fabius!’ The shock of seeing him was surpassed only by the sight of the narrow blade in his hand. The knuckles gripping it, she noticed, were white.

‘I wasn’t…’ Calm down, you’ve nothing to fear. Take it easy. She cleared her throat and drew herself up to her full height. ‘I was not spying.’

Even at her full height, he towered over her, his face dark with anger. ‘Interfering busybody, I’ve seen you creeping around, listening at keyholes. Watched you sneak into Diomedes’s room—’

‘You were supposed to be in Sullium.’

He leaned forward and so did the knife. ‘Think you
know everything, don’t you?’

Numbly she stared at the point of the blade and shook her head. Words were useless. Fabius’s eyes blazed with manic fury, his mouth a thin, pitiless line.

‘I know your game.’ He spat the words at her, and she flinched at every one. ‘Drive a wedge into my family, marry me for my money—’

‘You’ve got it all wrong—’

‘You were after my vineyard.’

Those paltry acres? Claudia took a step back, and stumbled over a huge root. For gods’ sake, there was a warbler singing!

‘It was Eugenius,’ she babbled, ‘he wanted me to marry you, that’s why he sent for me, he wanted to get his hands on Gaius’s fortune—’

‘Lying bitch!’

Trembling, Claudia clambered to her feet. She put out her hands behind her back and inched backwards until they met resistance in the form of a towering beech. Bugger. She was trapped. ‘It’s true, I swear it. He drew up a marriage contract, wanted me to sign everything over to him—’

‘Shut up!’

Mighty Mars, help me. Help me now. ‘Fabius, please—’

‘I said, shut up.’

Lions snarl. Wolves snarl. Claudia had never before seen a man snarl—and what little strength was left in her legs blew away like the spoors of the puffball.

‘Got shot of two husbands and thought to make me the third, did you? You and that loony imposter.’

‘No!’ In panic, she cast around for a means of escape, but the steel was wavering, glinting, a mere hand span from her ribcage. One false move… ‘She was your sister, Fabius.’

‘Are you trying to be funny? There’s no insanity in
my
family.’ He shot her an odd look. ‘Claudia, seriously. Do we strike you as barmy?’

‘No.’ Titter, titter. ‘Of course not.’ The forced laughter was in danger of becoming hysterical.

‘Damn right. You’ll never convince me that woman was anything but an imposter.’

Claudia felt her strength seeping back. ‘Oh, but I can,’ she said evenly, wrenching her gaze from flashing blade to flashing eyes. ‘That woman really was Sabina Collatinus.’ A chill wind passed between them as, unhurriedly, she gave her reason.

She’d expected her revelation to unsettle him, disconcert him so she could run. But he stared at her. Just stared at her. Even then, there was the possibility he might relax—step aside—let her go…

His arm came up. ‘No!’ He buried the blade in the smooth, grey bark. ‘No-o-o-o-o!’ It was a howl of pain and anguish, of hopelessness and despair.

Claudia tried to dart forward.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ His hand, closing round her neck, flung her back against the tree. ‘Why didn’t you fucking tell me?’

In his fierce volcanic anger he was oblivious to her struggles, the kicks to his shins, the punches to his chest.

‘She’s not my sister,’ he raged, pinning her tight to the bark. ‘She’s not my fucking sister!’

Over and over he repeated it and with every roar, his grip tightened until her struggles became pitiful, reduced to the flutterings of a wounded bird. She heard a rasping sound, a rattle, and realized it came from her own throat.

There was a darkness, a fuzziness round the periphery of her vision, then suddenly her head was falling forward and the noise in her throat had stopped. Choking, she tried to make sense of what her eyes were telling her: Kleon and Fabius rolling in a cloud of dust and leaf litter, arms and legs flailing—and, lumbering down the embankment, the limp but recognizable figure of Marcus Cornelius Orbilio. She weighed up the protagonists. Fabius was fighting (appropriately enough) like a madman, thrashing and roaring and kicking, his workouts and route marches standing him in excellent stead. Orbilio, hollow-eyed and distinctly grey around the gills, didn’t look as though he had the strength to wrestle a fieldmouse, much less a seasoned campaigner. And as manful as Kleon’s effort was, this had every appearance of being Fabius’s game.

Orbilio paused to examine the bruising round her neck. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Are you?’ she croaked. He looked ghastly. Purple hollows under his eyes, deep crevices in his face. His breathing was shallow, his pallor grim.

He held up one hand, palm outstretched, which could have meant anything from yes to don’t ask, and shuffled across to pitch in. And in that instant, Claudia instinctively knew she was wrong. Diomedes
had
visited Supersnoop. Except the minute dose of poison he normally administered had been a tad stronger than
usual…

The rock that came crashing down on Fabius’s skull was intended for a blond Greek, but the soldier crumpled and lay still.