‘How you mean, exiles?’ persisted Taranis, but it was left to Sergius to explain. Behind him, rugs were being spread out on the grass.
‘He means folk have short memories. Three generations of civil war are quickly forgotten, they only remember being moved away from their own land to live in the city, and for some it’s still an alien culture.’
‘They choose to go, no? Is not forced upon them?’
‘This is the second generation we’re talking about. Men with time on their hands, men who see themselves at the mercy of state handouts.’
Yes, thought Claudia. It is never fathers, but sons, who grow restless.
The prospect of a fierce civil backlash did not seem to bother the Celt particularly, rather the opposite, in fact. She was watching Corbulo, red muffler round his bruised neck, carving away at a piece of wood, when Salvian appeared at her elbow and relieved her of her wrap. His face was set, and yet Claudia had a feeling this had little to do with the death of Agrippa.
‘Everything all right?’ she asked, with a significant nod in Tulola’s direction. All morning Tulola had been skewering him with her eyes, and twice Claudia heard her hiss ‘Pansy!’ at him.
‘She’s giving me a hard time,’ the Tribune confided, ‘because I wouldn’t come to her bed last night.’ No stammer? ‘Can’t imagine why,’ he added. ‘She knows I’m married.’
Claudia’s laugh nearly burst free, but she swallowed it just in time. No, no stammer. Salvian was fast becoming his own man. He’d overtake his uncle in no time, and neither Tulola nor Macer would understand why.
The clouds on his face passed away. ‘I know who the killer is,’ he whispered, and this time Claudia’s laugh was not restrainable. Growing up he might be, but not fast enough. The expression on his face was just like a six year old’s on his birthday.
‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ he said, without animosity. ‘It was something my uncle said, which put me on to it.’
Claudia made a brave stab at solemnity. ‘You mean that, like Macer, you think I dunnit?’
Salvian handed back her neatly folded palla. ‘Lord, no,’ he said seriously. ‘You have to make allowances for my uncle, Claudia, it’s-well, it’s understandable, I suppose. Not so long ago, he investigated a robbery, where the shopkeeper said he was raided but the injury to his head was nothing worse than a bruise. Later he confessed he’d staged the whole thing to stave off his creditors. I gave you chance to escape,’ he added, ‘and, to be honest, I was surprised you came back.’
You? You gave me that alibi? Claudia gawped at Salvian. ‘The innocent have nothing to hide,’ she said smoothly. But that won’t stop me pickling your uncle in vinegar.
Food was being spread on the gaily coloured blankets. A slave chilled wine in Sarpedon’s crystalline waters. Alis and Pallas chased their counters over a chequered board. Timoleon was telling an eager Barea about the preponderance of stud farms which were springing up all over southern Italy. She did not feel like joining them.
Despite the bridge having no balustrade, Claudia leaned at a perilous angle over the water. It was so clear, you could watch bubbles of air rise to the surface, hundreds of them, each sending out tightly packed ripples which ran into its neighbour, swirling the surface and giving the spring effervescence. Rooks cawed in the sycamore trees and gnats danced over the shallows. Now if we could only transfer this to Rome, she thought contentedly, life would be perfect.
In the city, of course, water was a perpetual headache. The Tiber stood no chance of meeting the needs of the people, and between them, the aqueducts pumped in a hundred million gallons a day. Yet still it wasn’t enough. Not that she was affected personally, the Seferius household had its water piped in, but for the poor it was a real problem. As part of the appeasement process, she suspected that Augustus would promise more aqueducts, just as surely as he’d promise bigger and better spectacles for his citizens. Which brought her back to Sergius.
For him, the death of Agrippa could not have come at a better time. She looked round, but he was absent from the group. Oh, there he is, back at the temple. With a casual glance over each shoulder, Sergius paused by the steps, then ducked into a chasm underneath. That he was able to do so was down to the geography of the land, because what was originally a simple shrine built into the hillside to honour Sarpedon, whose holy waters seeped from the rocks there, had been extended over the centuries until it was now a full-fledged temple. So instead of a solid block of rock leading up, a stone stairway had been tacked on, and it was beneath this stairway that Sergius disappeared. Fascinated, Claudia sauntered across. A grove of Apollo’s sacred bay offered her the excuse of shade, and she was ostensibly watching the priest collect the leaves when she caught sight of Euphemia darting between the cottony leaves of the poplars.
‘Can I pick some bay for you, madam?’ the priest asked, for the oracle would chew them to induce his trance and deliver his prophecies. This, though, he would do in the temple proper…not under its stairs.
In the time it took for Claudia to shake her head, Euphemia had disappeared-or had she? Claudia caught a flash of pink just before Euphemia’s tunic was completely swallowed by the chasm under the stairway. Well, well, well. Who’s a naughty boy, then?
She paused in the temple precincts to read the inscriptions engraved in the walls, some admirable, some sickly sweet, one or two comic. A flock of pigeons pecked among the cobbles, plump as only temple pigeons can be when they’re fed on caraway to ensure they never stray, and rows of hyssop waited patiently for when it was their turn to be gathered to purify Sarpedon’s altar. A fountain representing the river god sang praises in his own language, a woman wept with relief after consulting the oracle. On the surface, life was simple here, continuous and peaceful-right now, it was hard to imagine such beauty, such sanctity could be sullied by a murderer walking among its willows and its cypresses…
Back on the island the wine flowed freely, jokes and laughter with it. Only Marcus Cornelius and the trainer seemed impervious to the atmosphere-and one could be forgiven.
‘I shall have to look you up when I’m in Rome.’ Tulola directed one long finger towards Orbilio.
‘Do that,’ quipped Claudia. ‘His residence has something no other patrician family possesses.’
‘Oh, yes. What’s that?’ she asked.
‘Fleas.’
Even Miseryguts responded to that one.
As she tucked into cold salmon, chicken legs, and antelope studded with peppercorns, Claudia’s banter revealed nothing of the turmoil within. Her trial was barely three days away, now, yet she had heard nothing from the lawyer. Had the messenger delivered the letter? Would Symmachus shrug off the threat of exposure? Supposing he was ill, and couldn’t travel? Claudia had no doubts of her acquittal, but the scandal would completely ruin her wine business. That she was female was sufficient to knock sales on the head. That she was a female with a penchant for cold-blooded murder was the final straw.
Sipping the chilled red wine, she refused to acknowledge defeat. A lot could happen in three days… you only had to look at the last week to see that. But there was work to be done if she intended to rebuild the business. Realistically, she’d need to appoint an agent, someone clients could deal with on a daily basis without feeling this preposterous sense of emasculation. In no way would this affect her control over the business, but at the party the other night, Corbulo had given her one hell of an idea.