Marilyn Todd - Second Act

The sneering allegation of his boss that Orbilio knew the victims had cut no ice. Whether he knew the girls directly, indirectly or not at all was irrelevant, but that was something he could sort out later, this vicious attempt to smear his reputation and character. Right now, all he cared about was that four young women had been brutalized. Four more young women violated because of him.

‘Bloody fuck, mate!’ Dymas had snorted with derision when Orbilio confided to him how he felt. ‘You did everything you could, didn’t you? Confession. Identification. Evidence. You got the bugger bang to rights, he paid the price, now quit beating yourself up. This is the work of a sick bastard copycat and don’t you forget it.’

‘What made you keep the records of this case, Dymas?’ They were almost at the herbalist’s door. ‘I mean, if you didn’t have reservations about the rapist yourself, then why bother?’

‘Same reason I keep all the others,’ the Greek said dryly. ‘Insurance, mate.’

‘Insurance?’

Dymas glanced up from his feet. ‘Oh, fine for you. Midwife removed the silver spoon before she cut the umbilical bloody chord, didn’t she?’ The eyes dropped again. ‘Me, I’m a foreigner. What you Romans very nicely call an alien, and a low-born blacksmith’s son at that. If anything goes arse-over-tip, I don’t have no poncy family to fall back on, do I? I’m in no position to bribe my way out of the shit, like some I might mention. Them case notes are my insurance policy.’

There it was, the old chip on the shoulder revealing itself to be half a pine tree. Another reason Marcus despised the surly Greek.

The herbalist opened the door to his knock and his eyes narrowed when he recognized his visitors.

‘Have you caught him?’

Orbilio shook his head sadly. ‘How’s Deva?’ he asked.

‘How do you think?’ the herbalist rasped back. Deep purple hollows surrounded his eyes and the skin on his face hung slack, like a person newly bereaved.

The house consisted of three tiny chambers. His workroom, the main room which served as living-area-cum-kitchen with wood-burning stove, plain, wooden furniture and functional clay plates and pots. And the sleeping chamber above, masked off by a makeshift screen that the herbalist had hastily thrown up and behind which Deva lay curled like a foetus, clutching her red Damascan shawl. The cottage smelled of balsam and fennel, horehound and sulphur, and sprigs of herbs hung from the joists on the ceiling. Thyme, hyssop, licebane and borage.

‘We need to ask a few questions,’ Marcus told the distraught herbalist under his breath. ‘Any detail, no matter how small, how trivial it might seem, brings us one step closer towards putting this bastard where he belongs.’

‘She hasn’t uttered a word since it happened,’ the man replied, ‘and I haven’t forced her. But- Well, if it’s important, I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Of course it’s bloody important,’ Dymas snapped, making no effort to keep his voice low. ‘If this is a repeat of last year’s shenanigans, we’re looking at ten more girls getting buggered and beaten, and if we don’t nail the sick bastard this time, it’ll be fourteen more next year, as well.’

The makeshift curtain was suddenly pulled back. Three heads jerked upwards in surprise. Her face battered and swollen, the skin beneath white as parchment, Deva stood looking down at the men. Her fingers clenched over the wooden rail.

‘Deva! Darling-’

But before the herbalist could form one more word, the Damascan girl had launched herself into space.

*

It was late, nearly midnight, when Marcus retraced his steps. He was alone this time. His knock was soft. At first he did not think the herbalist had heard it, then the door opened. Without a word, he motioned Orbilio inside.

‘I gave her a dose of poppy juice. Too much, probably, but…’ His voice trailed off, crushed by horror, exhaustion and grief.

Indeed, the opiate dominated the other scents inside the small dwelling which the chill river air could not seem to penetrate. A single candle burned in the corner and Orbilio wondered if the herbalist had eaten since Deva had been brought home yesterday. Somehow he doubted it.

‘You saved her life,’ the herbalist said thickly. ‘You can’t imagine how grateful I am to you, Marcus.’

‘I did not save her life.’ Orbilio patted him reassuringly on the shoulder. ‘I saved her from breaking an arm or a leg, that was all.’

When he saw Deva’s fingers unclench from the rail, caught the look of hopelessness and utter despair in her eyes, the hairs on his neck had started to prickle. Almost before her feet had left the landing, he had flung himself forward to catch her.

The other man almost smiled. ‘You’re still a hero to me.’

‘If I was a hero,’ Orbilio replied wearily, ‘Deva would have gone to her mother’s house yesterday, sold her honey at market, then come home the same bubbly young woman she was when she left.’

‘Hm.’ The herbalist led him into his workroom, lit an oil lamp and reached for a jar on the shelf. ‘I think we both need some of this,’ he said, pouring a thin, pale yellow liquid into two cups.

The liquid was fire. It made Orbilio’s eyes water, scalded his throat, burned a hole from his stomach down to his toes. Once he’d stopped coughing, he held his cup out for a refill. ‘What is that?’

‘In the mountainous regions of eastern Gaul, along the Helvetican border, the natives brew up the yellow gentians which grow wild on the hills and distil the juice. This, my friend, is the result.’

‘Then here’s to barbarians everywhere,’ Orbilio croaked.

He let the fire in his belly settle and used the time to study the herbalist. Late-thirties, his red hair receding from the temples and with the beginnings of a slight paunch, he was not an obvious catch for a vibrant young woman with a preference for bodices that showed off her midriff and fringed skirts that swayed with her hips. But he could see what had attracted Deva to him. His goodness, his gentleness, his wanting to help those in need of it most. Orbilio was wrong, he realized. The people who had trickled up to this house for their potions and pills had not handed over vast sums for their remedies. Deva and her man would not be living in such humble conditions if he had charged them the going rate.

‘I have a confession to make,’ he said, twisting the cup in his hands. ‘This is not an official call.’

Of all the times to seek a personal consultation, he could hardly have picked a worse one. The man was already a widower once, his first wife killed by falling masonry from one of the hundreds of renovation projects. Now Deva had been subjected to an ordeal that had driven her to the brink of suicide and the helplessness of it all was tearing the poor bugger to shreds. Yet here he was, in the early hours, being asked for his professional advice.

‘Please don’t feel obliged,’ Orbilio said. ‘I quite understand if you-’

‘Marcus.’ The herbalist motioned his visitor to sit. ‘Other men would pick up a sword and go charging round the city to hunt down this beast. To my shame, I’m not other men. I do not know how to avenge her, I can only mend the wounds on her body.’ His mouth twisted in self-revulsion. ‘I do not even possess the ability to heal the wounds in her head.’

Orbilio wasn’t sure about that, and he said so. He’d seen many victims of rape. Had seen how their ordeal was viewed as bringing disgrace on their families, seen their husbands reject them, even though the women were blameless. What all victims of rape needed was tenderness, patience and love. Qualities the herbalist possessed in abundance.

For several moments, the herbalist was unable to speak. Then he tossed down a third shot of the pale yellow liquor, grimaced, and his tortured eyes softened. ‘That, if it’s true-’