Marilyn Todd - Virgin Territory

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…