With little light left to see by, he was forced to make his descent without even the goat track to guide him. Hey now, he weren’t no more superstitious than the next man, was he? Had he been scared by them fields of bubbling mud, them entrances to the underworld? Nah. And hadn’t he crossed the pastures where the Oxen of the Sun grazed without trouble? But let’s be reasonable. Them Cyclops do enjoy the succulent taste of human flesh, it made sense to steer clear of them.
Suddenly his foot slipped and he tumbled noisily down the mountain, thirty or forty paces before he righted himself, and when he did, his left foot was paining him.
‘Fuck!’
He dropped the pack and rubbed his ankle.
‘Fucking, fucking rocks!’
There was no way he could walk, he’d have to spend the night up here. He daren’t risk starting a fire in case it were seen and there wasn’t much by way of cover either. Great! No cover, no fire, and unless he was very much mistaken, it would rain within the hour. Winds were piling up the clouds at an alarming rate-he’d be drenched to the skin in no time.
‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’
By accident his good foot sent a boulder crashing down the hillside. Janus, would nothing go right for him? He limped painfully across to a hummock and hunched down as far as he could, back to the wind, his ears alert for the sound of the Cyclops. He opened his pack and found only a few hard biscuits and a bit of bacon. Better than nowt, he supposed. Better than nowt.
The rain began almost immediately, driving icy trickles down the back of his neck. His cloak was useless. Absolutely bleeding useless. Being wool, it soaked through in minutes, about as much use as a pen to a blind man. What he needed was a beaverskin cloak. Aye, like he’d seen in, where was it, Ostia? At the time, mind, it seemed bloody expensive. Another fucking mistake, and he was wrong about something else, too. The only water up here was bloody rainwater.
Shit, his ankle was throbbing. He ought to put a poultice of some sort on it, only he didn’t know what. Sulpica used to slap bonemeal on to bring out a bruise, but he’d never twisted a joint before. Not since he were a bairn, anyroad. Melinno looked at the biscuit in his hand. Aye. Well. Why not? He didn’t know how sodden it ought to be, but he softened two more, enough to make them pliable, and plastered them round his ankle. She used plantain, too, but he didn’t know where plantain grew and it was too dark to look. In this rain, with his weak ankle, he might end up down a ravine. But fennel was everywhere, so he wrapped that round the soggy mess and tied it in place with his handkerchief before hunkering down as low as he could, trying not to think of the shelter down in the valley. Or the fact that, had he taken that old whore’s advice, he’d have been halfway to Sullium by now.
‘Fuck!’
Oaths came easy of late. He knew why he did it, to spit in the eye of them three old crones, the Fates, because on the odd occasion when he swore at home, Sulpica would laugh and say, ‘Melinno, was that a swearie word I heard?’ and he’d remember where he was and beg a hug of forgiveness. Sometimes he’d swear just for that and oh, those hugs! He’d wrap her in his arms and she’d say, ‘You can squeeze me tight, pet. I won’t break, you know,’ and he’d squeeze and she’d squeeze until all the breath had come out of them both. Then they’d sit there by the fire, talking of all the things they wanted to do together, how many bairns they’d have, whether Melinno ought to open a bigger shop for his baskets-and then they’d catch each other’s eye. Sulpica would come over and sit on his lap and she’d whisper, ‘Why don’t you blow that candle out?’ and he’d reply, ‘I want to see what I’m getting’, so she’d inch up her tunic and ask, ‘Is that enough?’ and he’d say no, and this would go on till she had no clothes left and they’d both be rolling naked on the floor, and even when it was over, they’d be panting for more.
To Melinno’s surprise, although the rain had stopped, his face was streaming with water. He blew his nose with his fingers and blinked the rest of the tears back inside.
Now, because of some murdering bastard, Sulpica was cold and in her grave.
Melinno felt himself tense. Janus, that bastard would pay dear, mind. Slow and painful, if he could, but death for a death it would be. He owed her that.
He knew the killer’s name, knew he were an important man and that he moved around a lot, but he didn’t know where to look until an armourer told him the bloke had gone to Sullium. It had cost Melinno time, his basket-making business and every ass of his savings and even then, more often than not, he’d been reduced to stealing. Worst of all, when it got really bad, he turned to whores. Fat whores with huge hips and yellow hair. Older women who looked nothing like the girl with dark, springy curls and breasts like small, sweet figs who was his wife. Had been his wife.
Dawn had not broken when Melinno wrung out his cloak, broke his fast with the last of his bacon and biscuits and drained his canteen. He was not surprised, as he untied his handkerchief, that his ankle was fully recovered.
Sulpica never let him down in life. She’d certainly not let him down in death.
XII
The trouble with rain is that it’s so bloody depressing. You tend to take warmth and sunshine for granted, then suddenly the skies darken and before you know it, your boredom threshold is rising in direct proportion to the drip of the water clock.
Claudia pulled faces at herself in the mirror. There was only so much time a girl could spend on the essentials-the bath, the manicure, the hair-even though Pacquia had done a marvellous job on her legs, shaving them so gently with the hot walnut shells that Claudia hadn’t suffered one single burn.
But by mid-afternoon the minutes were starting to drag heavily. It was utterly impossible to venture into the hills in this weather, but Old Conky assured her it would be fine again tomorrow, ample time to tackle Aristaeus before catching the boat back to Rome.
Claudia had rummaged through her jewellery box until she found the right phial. Belladonna. Lace that pervert’s wine and the world would be a better place for everyone. Oh yes, everything was working out perfectly. Junius had returned from Agrigentum with good news, in fact, the very best. Claudia’s future was absolutely watertight. Which reminded her. Supersnoop had the hump.
‘You lied to me about Junius,’ he said. ‘You knew damn well he wasn’t due back when you said he would be.’
‘You knew damn well he wasn’t under suspicion,’ she had retorted. ‘That makes us even.’
Tut, tut. She really hadn’t taken Orbilio for a grudge-bearer.
‘How many times do I have to tell you, Claudia? Murder is not a game. Why do you take everything to the wire?’
Good question. One she’d often asked herself. But a gambler is a gambler. We take everything to the wire, Marcus.
But that was last night, when she’d had too much to drink and was feeling benevolent. Why else would she have mentioned seeing Utti at the funeral? Hell, he probably knew the whereabouts of those two deadbeats anyway.
‘You’re up to something,’ he’d said, totally ignoring the Utti thing. ‘I can smell it.’
Bully for you, she thought. But you’ll never know what, because it’s finished with. Over. Gone. Forgotten. Yessir, what I found in Gaius’s papers, what I chased halfway round the world for, hasn’t a shred of evidence to its name. And on the strength of that, she’d honoured Bacchus a little too heavily. The headache this morning had been a real blinder.
‘I’m warning you, Claudia. If I find you’re breaking the law, I’ll clap your fanny in irons, regardless of what’s between us. Do I make myself clear?’
There was only one response you could make to a sanctimonious statement like that and Claudia made it. She put her tongue between her lips and gave him the loudest raspberry this side of Mount Etna.