Marilyn Todd - Wolf Whistle

The thought was an ignoble one, but he was glad it was Severina last night…

‘I only did what you told me.’ The strain showed clear upon Annia’s pale and scrubbed face as she brushed the birdseed from her hands. ‘Go home and stay there, you said.’

Weary to the bone, Marcus had no defence. He did not recall using the word home, but, he admitted to himself, that was precisely how it felt. Whenever he was with Claudia, wherever they might be and whatever the circumstances, it bloody well felt like home.

‘You look awful,’ Annia tutted, straightening his crumpled clothes and smoothing the nap. ‘You look like a man who hasn’t slept, you need a shave, and really, Marcus, if you’re going to make an impression on the Emperor, you ought to have a haircut. How is Augustus? Have you spoken with him personally? What’s he like?’

She was relentless. What’s the latest on the crisis? Has the Emperor appointed an heir? What about his stepson, Tiberius, is he in the running? She questioned him about the coup, how did he feel, he a proud aristocrat, mixing among the lowlife of informants? And then, as he caved in to the demands his growling stomach insisted upon, Annia broached the subject which he’d so far managed to skirt.

‘Did…did anything happen yesterday?’

He drank the wine she poured him. Should he tell her? Would not telling her be protecting her? Having overstretched himself these past few days, he could hide under the umbrella of exhaustion without a conscience. But then she’d find out somehow, either from the servants or from gossip at the baths, and in any case she’d require an explanation for being shipped off to the country, which was the best (and possibly only) way he could guarantee her safety for the moment.

He broke a steaming roll in half and formed a ball of dough between his fingers. ‘As a matter of fact…’ With only the barest of encouragement, he recounted the facts, and by doing so clarified them in his mind.

‘Oh, Marcus!’ Annia buried her head in her hands. ‘What am I going to do? I’ll never be safe!’

Marcus was seven years old when Penelope knelt on the parapet of the Aemilian Bridge one heavy, thundery night. As the lightning crackled and thunderbolts rumbled, she knotted a lump of masonry round her waist and then calmly pushed it over the side. Passers-by had rushed to the spot, but Penelope had timed her moment well. In the dark, churning waters there were no discerning ripples and no splashes. Then the rain began to fall in buckets.

The blonde head emerged from its burial place and pushed the hair from her face. ‘It was selfish of me, wasn’t it? Not going to Arbil’s with Claudia?’

He tossed an apple from hand to hand. ‘Being frightened is nothing to be ashamed of,’ he said slowly.

One shoulder rose and fell. ‘You say that, because you’re brave. When those thugs attacked you last week, you said yourself you weren’t scared.’

‘Angry,’ he said. ‘I was bloody angry, mainly for allowing myself to be cornered so easily, but that’s different. The blood’s up, emotions are running hot and they’re running high. But inside, we’re all frightened of something.’

She twisted her head on one side. ‘What scares you, then?’

‘Me?’ He bit into the apple. ‘Losing people I care about.’ Passion deepened his voice. ‘That scares the hell out of me.’

Annia brightened. ‘Then you’d better tell me what Claudia found out at the ranch. Maybe together we can come up with some answers!’

Even as Orbilio relayed the information Claudia had passed on, his mind travelled to an altogether different plane. With so much going on, he’d overstretched himself of late. Well, he wasn’t the only one under pressure. Suppose the killer, too, had overstretched himself? Suppose that by staging the last murder in Claudia’s garden, he’d tried just that bit too hard to be clever?

‘I have to get some sleep,’ he told Annia, because he needed to be alone with his thoughts. Break the problem into segments then deal with them one at a time, that was the rule that he worked by, and right now he was paying the price for ignoring his own advice. By juggling three demanding cases, he’d not been true to any.

He splashed cold water over his face. Segment one, the Magic problem seemed to have sorted itself out-no more letters, packets or ripped dolls had been delivered and Orbilio’s theory was that, unable to frighten Claudia, he’d moved on to terrorize another, weaker victim. In a way, he was relieved. The pressure was off, Claudia was safe-but now what excuse did he have to hang around?

As for segment two, the plotting merchants, that was easy. Had a coup been imminent, he would know about it.

Which left the maniac who preyed on the Children of Arbil.

In a fresh linen tunic, with his hair combed and a glass of chilled wine under his belt, Orbilio decided that, having deposited all the facts in his investigative cauldron, it was time to let them stew for a while. In his experience, it was through exercise that his thought processes honed themselves, and that was precisely what he intended to do now. He smiled to himself as Annia’s high-pitched trilling instructed his steward on the merits of employing women rather than men to clean the silver, their hands are every bit as strong but far more flexible, and really, in an atrium of this class, more lampstands were in order, didn’t he think, plus extra gilding on the ceiling. Making no attempt to rescue the poor man, Orbilio made his exit through the back.

The athletics yard was packed, a battleground where young blades showed their muscle tone and old men overreached. Orbilio cut a straight line through the grunting and the wheezing, through the javelins and wrestling towards the gymnasium where, oiled and naked, he gathered together a team to play small ball. It was the only game he knew which exercised every single muscle of the body and while his body worked out, his mind could rest. Afterwards, while his flesh was pummelled by a masseur, his refreshed brain would begin a workout of its own.

The traffic on the Via Lata was light as Claudia cut across from the Quirinal. What had she hoped to achieve from her visit to Kaeso? A confession? Hardly. On the other hand, do men who slice their victims into twenty-seven pieces dash home for a spot of vigorous sex? She did not think so.

The girls’ terror, their blood, an absolute domination, these were the triggers for a ritual murderer, that’s how these freaks get their kicks.

But then Kaeso was an esoteric individual…

Always, on the Field of Mars, you’d find schoolboys running races, jousters on horseback, wig sellers displaying their curly wares on the marble heads of statues (at least until the wardens found out). The baths were free, the lake invariably jammed with rowboats, so take a deep breath, forget about little Severina, just take time out and relax.

Claudia bought a cinnamon bun from a vendor and inhaled its warmth and spiciness.

Counting today, she reflected, ambling down the Portico of a Hundred Pillars, the Megalesian Games still had three days to run and praise be to Bacchus, whose humble wine dregs had sabotaged Larentia, she could enjoy these Games in peace. Tomorrow, in the Theatre of Pompey over there, already flooded and floating proper warships, they were staging a mock naval battle and on Monday the festivities culminate in The Procession of the Gods and more races at the Circus. Today, however, the Theatre of Marcellus was putting on a riproaring musical farce.

Around Pillar Nineteen, the heel of her sandal snagged in the hem of her gown and as she released it, Claudia thought she caught a movement. Shadows, of course. With its alley of plantains, its frescoes and bronze statues, what do you expect?