Virgin Territory (26 page)

But before he could go to her, he must avenge her. How could he face her otherwise? He had made his vow on her deathbed and by Janus, he would keep it. It were this oath what drove his body, lending him the strength and cunning to leap aboard the wagon of an itinerant pitch seller, a Corsican, bound for Agrigentum from Henna. The strong resinous smell of his cargo disguised the presence of the stowaway and after just three days the wagon was rumbling through the high arches of the Gela Gate.

Within minutes, almost, the Corsican were descended upon by hordes of farmers, desperate to melt his pitch into tar to preserve their timber and put in their sheep-wash, mark their corn sacks and smear on their wine corks. Unseen, Melinno slipped into the crush. Agrigentum. Half a day from the Villa Collatinus. Cough or no cough, he were within an ace of his quest. Retribution would be his.

He reached down to pat his knife. It were gone. He spun round, losing his balance. His knife, his cloak, his pack, his canteen! He’d left them on the wagon! Oblivious to the blood coursing from his knee, he hauled himself up from the gutter and pushed through the crowds, first this way, then that, until all hope of finding the Corsican was lost. He fell against the stone wall of a spice dealer, too tired, too spent to swear. Not that he’d sworn much of late. Sulpica didn’t like it, and he wanted to be more the man she loved and remembered when they met up.

‘Oi, you! Clear off!’ The spice merchant prodded him with a cattle goad. ‘You’re bad for trade.’

Melinno reeled round the corner. In his confusion, he realized now, he’d been blundering in the wrong direction, He was back at the Gela Gate, which was closing for the night. Now what? He tried begging, and received only clouts. Being neither blind nor lame nor deformed, people mistook him for a common drunk, shivering and delirious with the DTs. Turning right, where the wall fell away so many hundreds of cubits it made him dizzy, Melinno chanced upon a flight of steps cut deep into the rock. He slipped and slithered, hoping to find a roost for the night, and found instead they led to a narrow chamber, which in turn led to two great caverns lit by torches. This were a shrine, most likely Ceres judging from the offerings, but if he kept to the shadows he could pass the night here and maybe get healed a bit. There were springs in the caves, springs of sweet, fresh water which fed the basins in the little courtyard, and some of the pilgrims had left bread for the corn goddess.

At first light, before he could drink the water or eat the bread, the priests had found him and thrown him out by the scruff of his neck, splitting open the cut on his knee. Now, well clear of the city and shambling along the Sullium road, he found the local traffic had thinned and his ears picked up the sound he’d been waiting for. The sound of hooves clip-clopping along the paving blocks. Turning, his weak eyes nearly blinded by the sun, he saw he were right. Two mules, a covered wagon for long distance travel. Stepping into the middle of the road, he flagged it down.

‘I need a ride,’ he pleaded. ‘To Sullium.’

It were gentry on the wagon. A young noblewoman, tall and beautiful, surrounded by slaves and a girl with red hair.

‘It’s a matter of life and death.’ He were stuttering, only he couldn’t help it, it were the fever.

The noblewoman stood up. ‘It would be for us, you walking pestilence factory. Out of the way.’

Melinno held out the only treasure he had left. Sulpica’s betrothal ring. ‘I can pay.’

The young woman’s nose wrinkled. ‘I don’t want your trinket, you verminous little man.’

Their eyes met momentarily and hers looked away first. When she spoke, her voice was softer. ‘You can take this, if you like.’ She nodded to one of the slaves, a black man, who offered a water flask by its leather strap held at arm’s length.

Melinno’s eyes blinked his understanding. He were a fool to think gentry’d have him, and were grateful beyond words for the water. As he leaned forward to take the canteen, the mules already being chivvied, he heard a cat snarl and a soothing voice saying:

‘It’s all right, poppet, our kittens won’t catch anything nasty from him.’

*

Claudia yawned and massaged her ankle where her left foot had gone to sleep. Junius was riding on the buckboard with the driver, an extra pair of eyes to watch for bandits, leaving Claudia with the other three bodyguards in the back. Safety was not a problem. She yawned again and rubbed her eyes. Dammit, she hadn’t slept a wink all night. Not that she was jealous of Tanaquil bunking up with Orbilio. Good heavens, no. Those images of writhing limbs and sweat-soaked bodies which kept her awake were mere irritants, nothing else. Who cared what they got up to?

All the same, if Fancypants was such a hot-shot lover, how come Tanaquil had been uncharacteristically silent all day? She, who wouldn’t talk for five minutes when half an hour would do, had done nothing but hold her head in her hands since boarding the wagon. Orbilio, of course, true to his word, had set off at daybreak on Tanaquil’s horse, so Claudia got no clues from that quarter.

Her own progress, meanwhile, consisted of one delay after another. First came the legion on the march, clanking six abreast, bronze greaves dazzling in the morning sunshine and there was a slight argument in which the wagon drive put the case for pulling off at the approaching post station and Claudia put the case against, followed by a full-blown argument when Claudia put the case for skinning the wagon driver and he put the case against.

The cavalry, protecting the baggage, led the van followed by the legates and the tribunes and the prefects and the escorts, a myriad of scarlet cloaks swinging in unison. Then came the eagle bearer and the standard bearers wearing their animal skins, wolf and lion and leopard, followed by ten thousand crunching hobnail boots. Finally the doctors, the secretaries, the blacksmiths and the orderlies brought up the rear. Somewhere, too, were the musicians—horn blowers, drummers, trumpeters.

The sound was not dissimilar to a million bronze sieves and saucepans being repeatedly dropped from a great height, yet in years to come, the master of this particular post station would swear, hand on heart, that he had witnessed a miracle. The 8th Legion had filed past in silence, he swore. All anyone could hear was the heated argument between one young noblewoman and her driver.

To Claudia’s disgust, the sun had moved considerably across the heavens before the last orderly had jangled off and Tanaquil still had her face buried in her handkerchief. Well, let’s be accurate here, it wasn’t
her
handkerchief, was it? It was a patrician handkerchief, and one could only hope he had something infectious to pass on.

Clambering back on board, she thought of that dungbeetle Varius. Attractive as it seemed, it was no use having him turn up in the river with a blade between his ribs, she’d be prime suspect—and anyway, who could she trust? Junius, she knew, would give his life for her. Which was not the same thing as taking one for her.

For some strange reason, instead of staying in Agrigentum to sort the problem out, here she was, trotting back to Sullium and making as much headway as a sleepy slug on an oiled pole. Shortly after the cohorts had marched past, they were delayed by some filthy tramp with a bleeding knee trying to cadge a ride, if you please. On the face of it, she ought to have sent him away with a flea in his ear (although he probably had a whole nestful of them there already), yet there was that momentary flicker when his eyes held hers and she saw, not the drunken beggar, but the young artisan he once was—straight of spine and keen of eye—and in that brief flash of communication, she had wondered what circumstances had reduced him to this pathetic level.

Claudia had encountered many beggars in her time. They clotted round city gates like flies on a sore and sometimes you dropped copper and sometimes you didn’t. But they never expected you to look in their eyes, and thankfully you never were tempted.

That, though, was mid-morning—yet here, two hours on and the far side of Sullium, the wagon was once more at a standstill! Goddamit, was there no justice?

Claudia nudged the canvas aside, more for air than the view, yet it was the view which startled her. They were on the western highway, less than a mile from where the road to the Villa Collatinus branched off, giving a fine view of Eugenius’s estate.

Had she really been gone only three days? It had changed out of all recognition!

The blue of the African Sea was as bright as ever and sparkling like glass, and the red tiles and white walls of the villa itself still shone like gemstones on a granite slab. You could even see the tops of the birch grove where Acte had met her fate, and the serpentine trail that was the short-cut she had taken the day she found Sabina. Then it had been the epitome of solitude and rural tranquillity. Today it swarmed with life.

Sheep, hundreds of them, had been brought down from the hills and packed into hastily erected pens. Shepherds who, for most of the year, were tough, self-sufficient, solitary creatures, clustered together with their fellow shepherds and the sea breeze carried the bleating and the pan pipes and the gossip and the laughter, even at this distance. Closer to the building, and more curiously still, half a dozen cows were gathered in a smaller pen, gormless creatures with dewlaps flapping, horns glinting, brushing away flies with a desultory swish of the tail. The occasional low filtered up, a baritone among the bleating sopranos.

Claudia decided the delay had gone on long enough. Small clouds of dust rose from her feet as she walked round the cart. There was a strong smell of wild celery in the air, and rosemary and spurge. She stretched her arms, stiffened after the journey. ‘What’s the problem?’

Junius pointed. ‘The old man,’ he said. ‘Said he was here first, he’s too old to shift, and the driver can’t move over because of the camber.’

Typical, she thought. He gives way to a couple of soldiers and then refuses to help an old man.

‘I’m going uphill, I’ve got right of way.’

‘You’ve got no rights, you stubborn old sod, shove off.’

Seven donkeys, laden with baskets bursting with seaweed the old man had collected to enrich his exhausted patch of soil, stood mournfully in the middle of the road, while pack-man and driver traded insults. They had just reached the stage where their mothers’ sexual proclivities were being aired when Claudia tossed a denarius into the seaweedy air. Instantly the old man’s eyes homed in on the silver and a claw swooped down. Faster than you could say ‘That’ll buy one week’s meat and grain for a month’, the denarius had disappeared and five of the donkeys were already treading grass. Not so difficult, was it?

Claudia had hardly got herself comfortable when she heard the driver shout, ‘Whoa!’ and felt the mules slow down.

‘
Now what
?’ She jumped from the wagon and marched to the front. She would have a word with Eugenius, really she would, leaving a man like this in charge of a vehicle. He was incompetent. Downright dangerous in fact, and she was in the middle of telling him how she would have him roasted on a spit with artichokes and lovage when Junius butted in.

‘I think he’s trying to tell you the rider has signalled us to stop.’

‘What rider?’

‘You can’t see him from down there,’ the driver replied with no small amount of satisfaction, and magnanimously offered her a hand up.

Tempted to snatch the whip out of his hand and beat him to a pulp with it, Claudia refrained. The buckboard was narrow and uncomfortable, but you sure could see well. A rider was pushing his horse hard up the incline, head bent forward, as the hooves kicked up swirls of umber. She could only surmise, because the driver seemed to understand it, that his frantic arm-waving was some sort of recognized signal to halt. Reining in his horse, as handsome a grey as you got on this island, the rider became visible through the subsiding dust clouds.

‘Good grief, it’s the cavalry.’

Marcus Cornelius Orbilio gave a mock salute and shook the hair out of his eyes. A small, powdery halo formed and was quickly dispersed by the salt air. A second rider was hard on his heels, and Orbilio greeted him with surprise:

‘Linus?’

‘Marcus.’ As an afterthought, Linus turned to acknowledge Claudia. ‘Have you told her yet?’ His eyes, shining, were back on Orbilio.

‘No. Look, I’d be obliged—’

‘But it’s great news,’ Linus said, his face splitting into a grin. ‘We’ve caught him.’

‘Who?’ Claudia asked, aware that Tanaquil had left the wagon and was standing wringing her hands. Was this for Orbilio’s benefit or for Linus?

‘My sister’s murderer,’ Linus said, attempting to cover his baldness with his gingery hair. ‘We’ve got him, it’s all over.’ He manoeuvred his horse into a victory circle. ‘Isn’t that great?’

She glanced at Orbilio. He clearly didn’t think great was the word, and she could see what had happened. Collatinus was holding Utti prisoner and proud of it, a scapegoat to hold up to the world, and until he brought down higher authority, Eugenius was milking it to the full. He would know, as Orbilio would know (and indeed had probably told him till he turned purple), that it would never get to trial without evidence, and this wouldn’t bother Collatinus. He’d be getting enough publicity to last his great-grandchildren’s lifetimes. The Security Police had got nowhere, the local magistrates not even as far as that. He would be a hero, and when the real killer was caught, he could hold his hands up and cry, well, he was an old man, what do you expect, and Utti would…

Aha! Yes, Utti would also be a hero. Claudia began to see Tanaquil’s angle. Cunning little bitch, she’d been planning this all along. Those powers of hers, off-key and infrequent as they were, had served her well here, because when Utti walked free, everyone on the island would want to watch him wrestle. Coins would change hands, his fame would spread, they would move to Rome, where greater denominations would change hands. Claudia took her hat off to the redhead. She
did
know how to make a packet out of the Collatinuses—and without them coughing up one single copper quadran of their own. She looked at Tanaquil out of the corner of her eye, face hidden behind a white, linen blob. A white, patrician, linen blob.