Many people had seen the corpse in its raw and shocking state, not only himself and Claudia, but when the news was out, the entire family clambered up here to gawk.
Yet there was something very wrong about Sabina’s corpse.
Diomedes wondered who else had noticed the discrepancy.
XVII
The ceremony of the Penates was an annual event, a sacrifice to the gods of the household store-cupboards who watch over and protect the stocks for the winter. In Rome this took the form of a morning ceremony up on the Velia, after which families gathered for private celebrations. A quick check of the kitchen, a generous toast; on to the grain stocks, a generous toast; down to the cellar, a generous toast. By the time it came to making the actual sacrifice, everyone was pretty well oiled and it ended up a wonderfully festive occasion hugely enjoyed by one and all, if the hangovers were anything to go by.
Claudia had no idea why, in the Collatinus house, it should be celebrated at dusk. If celebrated was the word, and she had her doubts here.
She tapped her foot impatiently. There was still a half-hour to kill, and she categorically refused to spend more time with these people than was necessary. Dear Diana, a girl daren’t set foot outside her own room these days for fear of tripping over hovering physicians. Then there was Portius poncing on about ‘his’ poetry, Matidia banging on about those bloody cushions for the banqueting hall or else it was a summons to Eugenius.
Eugenius! Any more stories about that damned war and she’d scream. All right, so the island had been in decline for the last quarter century and maybe its towns and villages had decayed into nothingness, but you couldn’t blame Sextus for every crumbling ruin or every bankrupt landowner.
‘He incited the slaves to rise up,’ Eugenius had argued. ‘Without that, we’d all have remained prosperous.’
Whinge, whinge, whinge. Good life in Illyria, the man was as rich as Midas, what more did he want? He’d come through the war unscathed, which is more than many could boast. Penalties for supporting the wrong side were harsh-in many cases, whole towns were razed-and as for the slaves, could you blame them for fighting for freedom? They had prayed to Feronia, goddess of liberty, and believing she’d sent divine help in the form of Sextus’s rebellion, they flocked in their droves to Sicily. But, Juno, how wrong could you be? When Augustus clawed his province back, some thirty thousand fugitives from the mainland were rounded up and returned to their owners, leaving a staggering six thousand unclaimed. Six thousand souls on whom Feronia turned her back.
They had been impaled, every last one of them.
And Eugenius Collatinus had watched.
In fact, he’d turned it into a right bloody picnic and taken the whole damned family along.
A gong clanged in the atrium outside her door, frightening the kittens and alarming their mother. Claudia spent twice as long soothing them as was necessary, indeed anything to postpone the time when she would have to stand among these ghouls and smile and be polite and witty and charming. When, finally, she could no longer put off the evil moment, she found the whole family assembled on the far side of the pool. Lamps flickered, bringing the farming friezes to life. Lambs gambolled, bees swarmed, corn was threshed. Rich unguents scented the room, herbs were strewn on the floor.
There was Linus, his distinctive forehead shining in the artificial light, looking bored. Portius, weighed down with jewels, nibbled a broken nail. Matidia, in yellow wig and crimson stola, looked like a candle and you could hardly see Corinna for cloth-it was draped up her neck, down her arms, over her head, presumably to hide the bruises from children who showed no interest in her whatsoever. Paulus amused himself by pulling Popillia’s hair out of its clips. Marius stood proudly to attention beside his uncle Fabius, who today wore a scowl to match Popillia’s.
Eugenius was apparently unwell and couldn’t attend, so it was Aulus who clapped his hands, took one majestic step forward-and stumbled. His eyes were glazed, his jaw loose. Claudia reckoned he must have been drinking solidly since daybreak.
Behind him, the slaves, factory as well as household, hung back in the shadows. They stood stiffly, exchanging the occasional glance, biting the occasional lip. Considering Sabina had been murdered on Tuesday and buried on Wednesday, it was hardly surprising they were still jittery on Saturday. Gossip was rife enough-a maniac lurking in mountainous crevices, waiting to pounce on helpless women-without Marius pitching in with tales dear old Uncle Fabius had told him. Like how in one battle the centurion had thrust his sword deep into a barbarian’s throat, up through the top of his skull and blood had gushed out of his eyes…dear me, who wouldn’t have dropped the sacrifice?
It was only a tray of corn and lentils, spelt and honey and, yes, she had to admit that it made one hell of a sticky mess, but Aulus went ape. The slave had done it on purpose, he insisted. A slur on himself, his family, his ancestors and his household gods. Deliberate sabotage of this most solemn of occasions.
The boy shot a haunted glance towards Eugenius’s quarters. ‘But the Master-’
That, although he couldn’t have guessed, was his undoing. Whether it was the drink or the build-up of years of frustration from constantly deferring to Eugenius, Claudia would never know, but Aulus exploded.
‘I am the Master!’ he roared. ‘Do you hear me? I’m the Master, and I’ll teach you to fuck up my ceremony, you clumsy bastard. Everybody! Outside! I’ll have no blood spilled on my floor.’
Blood?
Aulus clapped his hands. ‘Antefa, take this piece of filth out of my sight. You, fetch some torches and light up the yard.’
The boy’s face had gone white. ‘Wh-what are you going to d-do?’
Aulus mimicked his slave’s quivering. ‘I’m going to chop your bloody thumbs off, boy, that’s what I’m going to der-der-do!’
A gasp rose from the slaves before they filed silently towards the rear of the building and into the square. Aulus barked an order to his steward. Claudia glanced round the rest of the assembly. Dexippus had a strange light in his eye. Acte looked sick. Diomedes was pushing his way towards another exit, presumably to fetch his case. Linus had a hand on his eldest son’s shoulders, propelling him towards the orchard. Fabius whispered something in Marius’s ear. Finally, only Claudia and Aulus remained in the atrium. Senbi passed by, weighing an axe in his hand, wearing the sort of grin that a man wears when he particularly enjoys his work. The splash of the fountain made her feel queasy, but Claudia kept her face expressionless.
‘What’s your problem?’ The contempt in Aulus’s bellow could be heard in Sullium. ‘Think it’s too harsh, do you?’
‘I do, yes,’ she replied slowly, ‘but more importantly I think if a man feels the need to establish his supremacy in such a brutal manner, then he’s totally failed to hit his target.’
The point was further emphasized when the boy watched his thumbs fall from his hands without so much as flinching-though whether Aulus realized his servant had retained moral superiority Claudia very much doubted.
XVIII
‘Who are you writing to?’
Claudia surveyed the small round face which thrust itself in front of her. Marius might well be nine going on ten, but he had yet to add character to his features, which remained typical of rich boys everywhere who have been given everything they want in terms of toys, education, attention and flattery. Everything, that is, except the one thing they truly need. The love and attention of their parents. Perhaps it was no bad thing he’d latched on to Fabius with a single-minded obsession. It might yet be his salvation from a world of sycophants and sybarites, which was where his other uncle, Portius, was heading.