Second Act (34 page)

As dawn turned to daylight, birdsong filled the woods. Erinna had no plan. She didn’t know which direction she was headed, only that she must get away. Hitch a lift on a cart, anything, to put distance between this terrible place and herself. Juno be praised, there was only one other person on the road this early. A young woman with a cloak of dark hair and shabby clothes, whose face was a picture of burning resentment. The girl stopped when she saw Erinna.

‘What’s wrong, love?’ she asked, and Erinna hadn’t realized she’d been crying until the woman pointed it out.

Even now, she didn’t know what possessed her to go babbling off to a stranger. Stress, she supposed. The desperate need to confide after the horrendous few days. Oh, she didn’t let on about Cotta’s secret, of course, that would go with her to the grave. But Erinna couldn’t halt the sudden outpouring of emotion, and it all came gushing out. How urgently she needed to reach the coast. Book a passage on a ship. Any ship. To Athens, Massilia, anywhere.

At what point had the stranger’s concern twisted into something darker? It was only afterwards that Erinna remembered the scowl, the expression of burning resentment that had been on her face when she first saw her walking towards her on the road. Compassion, she discovered later, had been instinctive—but fleeting.

‘How will you pay for your passage?’ the stranger had asked, and there had been a shrewd look in her eye. Again, something Erinna paid no heed to at the time. Vulnerable and afraid, the desire to trust and be trusted was overwhelming. She showed the woman the gold statuette and the carving under her cloak.

‘Then I think I can help you,’ the dark-haired woman said, brightening. ‘Come with me.’

Taking Erinna’s arm in sisterly solidarity, she had led her up past the post house, and Erinna barely noticed the spade leaning against the wall at the time. She had heard only the snicker of horses, reminding her that any minute, Cotta’s men would come charging through the dawn mist towards her. She felt sick to her stomach, yet safe. Safe in the hands of this woman, this sister who understood and who
cared.

When she looked back over her shoulder to check on possible pursuers, she did notice that the spade had gone, although there was still no sign of the ostler.

‘I’m an actress,’ the stranger explained. ‘With a few tricks of the trade and the aid of cosmetics, I can change your appearance to the point where your own mother wouldn’t recognize you.’ And as she led Erinna down into the woods, where this miraculous transformation would take place, she explained how the group of strolling players she had been with had split up. The very bitterness and venom in her voice should have alerted Erinna, but she was too bound up in her own sorrows. Still grieving for her dead master, for herself, for the predicament for which—hallelujah!—she had found a solution, but heavy with the knowledge that Cotta would stop at nothing to find her. Down the hill, near a stream, her companion paused. Set down her bundle and covered it carefully with her cloak. Erinna caught the clang of something metallic, but yet again paid no attention. To give yourself up to someone else’s ministrations was a luxury she’d never experienced before.

‘Look at those beautiful butterflies,’ the actress gasped, using both hands to point to the profusion of painted ladies heading south through the canopy. ‘Don’t they take your breath away, the way they dance through the trees?’ Erinna looked up and saw hope dancing among the profusion of painted ladies. ‘They’re beautif—’

Her breath was cut off. Two hands clasped round her neck and began squeezing, and suddenly the dance of the butterflies had turned into a macabre dance of death. Even as they fought, Erinna knew she was losing the battle. The actress had the advantage of surprise and her hands, strong from hauling scenery, pressed deeper into Erinna’s throat. She fell to her knees, heard a hideous gurgling sound and knew it was her last breath.

Why fight? Give in, you’re dead anyway, a little voice said. Let go, Erinna.

But the need to survive was stronger than the voice in her head. Erinna desperately wanted to live and, as she twisted and writhed, a red mist closing over her eyes, she saw the spade. The cloak, which had been kicked aside in the struggle, exposed its shiny, deadly metallic blade. In that second, that single split second, Erinna turned into a killer.

A transformation, she realized belatedly, that was far worse than death at the hands of a stranger.

*

And the body in the grave screamed, ‘You bitch! You killed me, you bitch, caved my bloody head in. Don’t you see that with that statuette and the carving, I could have done so
well
for myself! I could have bought fine clothes and jewels and secured myself the protection of a man who would demand only my body in payment—and what did you do? You wasted those treasures! Instead of selling them and making a comfortable life for yourself, you climbed into my old threadbare clothes, put my pack on your back and hooked up with a troupe of losers! Caspar threw me out, did you know that? Said the company was fed up with my carping, that it undermined their morale, and even the splinter group wouldn’t take me.
Bitch.
With that gold, I could have been happy. Really happy. I hope you rot in hell for what you’ve done!’

*

The curse was more successful than she could have predicted.

Not a day passed when the Digger didn’t regret swinging that shovel. The more she bonded with the Spectaculars, and the more they accepted her without question, the more accute the pain.

And then there was Skyles—

She should have listened to that little voice inside her head, the one which told her to give in, stop fighting, let go. But she’d fought back and survived to dance solo among the butterflies in the woods, and now there was only one solution to ending the torment that locked her in eternal autumn.

Once Saturnalia was over and she had discharged her obligations to perform, there would be one final spilling of blood.

Erinna’s own.

Thirty-Six

Despite her head pounding like thunder and the bitter cold chilling her bones, Claudia picked up most of the situation. What Erinna glossed over, Cotta filled in, and frankly she wondered why he bothered. He didn’t seem a particularly vain man, who enjoyed speaking just to hear the sound of his own cultured voice. Then she realized.

He was explaining for the same reason that he hadn’t just let her go.

You could forgive his heavies for snatching both women back in that alley. In the dark, in a hurry, in a crowd, time was not on their side. They could decide later which of the women was which. So why hadn’t the Arch-Hawk let Claudia go? If he’d had Erinna followed, then he obviously
kn
ew who Claudia was, and it would have been a simple matter to have his ‘boys’ dump her somewhere while she was still unconscious. She would never have known then who had taken Erinna, much less where or, more importantly, why. Instead, he was dotting the Is and crossing the Ts, briefing his captive in true military style. He had even explained to Claudia how he came to locate the last missing piece of his puzzle.

‘Jupiter alone knows how hard my men tried to find her,’ he said. ‘It was as though Erinna had disappeared from the face of the earth.’

He had expected to trace her through the stolen objects, he added, but inexplicably none of the missing objects turned up. She had simply vanished into thin air, taking with her his plans for the expansion of Rome.

‘How,’ he asked, smiling, ‘could I hope to blow up the Senate House now? With a plentiful supply of the Poseidon Powder, I could have experimented to my heart’s content, but
one pouch
?’

Claudia didn’t understand. Blow up the Senate? What was he talking about? Blitzing one building would hardly change the course of the Empire. With a rush of freezing ice to her veins, she knew there was only one way history could be altered with one blast. Sweet Janus! Three hundred men would be packed inside, debating, laughing, jeering. With no idea they had minutes to live— No, wait. Cotta would want more. He would be wanting three hundred and one. History could not be changed without changing the Emperor.

She thought of his own history. General to Senator to Emperor in three simple steps.

‘You’re crazy,’ she said, but even as she spoke the words, she knew it wasn’t true. Sextus Valerius Cotta was sane. Excruciatingly sane, in fact. He merely saw the Senate as a dam to be breached. An obstacle to be erased in the name of progress.

‘Then a letter arrived from Frascati,’ Cotta said, as though accusations of psychosis were hurled at him three times a day. ‘A woodsman reported that he’d found the body of my runaway slave and he thought I should know.’

Tactics was one key to winning a battle. Thoroughness another, he added.

‘I had no reason to doubt the woodsman’s account, but felt it sensible to send my steward to verify the discovery. Confirm once and for all that the corpse was Erinna’s.’

Once again, the Arch-Hawk’s celebrated attention to detail had paid off.

‘You can see how the woodsman was mistaken. The body in the grave had long hair, but it was black. Jet black.’ Cotta prised himself away from the soft, bulging sacks and strolled nonchalantly over towards the two women. Wooden boards reverberated dully under his tread, but Claudia could not hear for the drumming inside her head. ‘Erinna’s hair, as you can see,’ he said, stroking it, ‘is pure chestnut.’

Erinna did not flinch when he touched her. She just continued to stare at him, her white face quite without expression. Cotta, on the other hand, looked faintly amused. It took a couple of seconds for Claudia to realize that his overriding emotion was satisfaction. Immense satisfaction. Like his father before him, he was on the point of realizing his dream. And Claudia, goddammit, was the catalyst.

‘I recognized you from the Temple of Janus,’ he told Erinna, lifting her chin with his finger. ‘Oh, not at the time. Unfortunately.’

He’d been minding his own business, dutifully attending the Festival of the Lambs, he explained, when boredom was suddenly alleviated by a group of strolling players launching into an impromptu performance. Fortune had smiled on the Arch-Hawk that day. Had he not attended (and let’s be frank, he only went because the ceremony was less boring than his dear wife), but had he not attended, he would not have been able to put the pieces together.

‘It was, in fact, this magnificent cloak of chestnut hair that triggered my memory. The way you always eschewed fashion in favour of coiling it into a bun.’

Even though the girl outside the Temple of Janus had been veiled, when her tunic came away in Ion’s hands, Cotta had glimpsed the bun. At the time, it hadn’t registered as significant, but his memory was trained to recall details. Reading the result of his steward’s investigation, another snippet of gossip came back. About the troupe of strolling players who had been hiring in Frascati last October. At which point, everything fell into place.

‘Caspar’s Spectaculars,’ he said silkily. ‘Sponsored by one Claudia Seferius.’

‘Let her go,’ Erinna pleaded. ‘Please, Senator. Let her go.’

Claudia swallowed. ‘He can’t,’ she said thickly. Why the hell did Erinna think he was telling Claudia this?

‘She doesn’t know anything about the experiments,’ Erinna continued. ‘I’m the only one who knows the secret.’

Claudia’s teeth began to chatter, and not from the cold. Erinna still didn’t get it, did she? Sextus Valerius Cotta, that handsome Arch-Hawk of the Senate, had tried every trick in the book to make her disclose the formula that would blow the Senate House into three thousand pieces. In his storeroom back in Frascati, he’d tried bribing her, he’d made threats, and although he hadn’t tortured her, he had little hope that she would actually impart the knowledge he so desperately sought.

But there was a way. There was always a way. The solution was in front of him now.

From the depths of his toga he drew out a candle, lit the wick from the solitary oil lamp. Oh, god. Panic filled Claudia’s veins. Not burns. Oh, please. Anything but that. Please.
Not burns.

Slowly, with the flame flickering like a yellow demonic tongue, Cotta advanced towards her. She tried to wriggle out of his range, just as Erinna, seeing what was about to happen, squirmed backwards as fast as she could. Cotta didn’t bother with his ex-slave girl. A strong hand reached out and grabbed Claudia’s hair, jerked her spine so hard against his thigh that she cried out. With his prisoner bound hand and foot, Cotta was still taking no chances. The boot pressing down on her calves was implacable.

Like a hare petrified into immobility by a night torch, Erinna stared open-mouthed at the tableau of horror. ‘D-don’t. I beg you, Senator. Don’t do this.’

He had, at last, found her weak point. Out of stubbornness, honour, who
kn
ows what, Erinna might hold out against whatever he threw at her. But few people can stand by while an innocent third party is tortured.

Cotta ripped away the cloth from Claudia’s shoulder.

‘Master, please. I beg you.’ Tears coursed down Erinna’s cheek. ‘She’s done nothing, let her go.’

‘If you give me the formula, you have my word, Erinna, that Claudia will go free.’

Meeting Erinna’s terrified eye, Claudia shook her head as far as Cotta’s grip would allow. His word meant nothing. He was going to kill them both anyway. No point in letting him take three hundred more lives. Or rather, three hundred and one.