Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 122, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 745 & 746, September/October 2003

Apart from the fact that frogs would grow wings before Volso came back early to check on his wife who had not been feeling well, had he not left Callista’s body sprawled on the bedroom floor, he might still have talked his way out of it. But what devoted husband wouldn’t have lifted the remains of his beloved onto the bed? Only a callous bastard of the highest order could think of leaving her in an ignominious and distorted heap for people to gawp at.

In death, Callista had had the last word after all.

The legionaries were gone, their prisoner with them. The tranquillity of the garden had returned, and there was no indication among the rose arbours and herbiaries of the tragedy that had taken place here. Not just one death, either, but three. Callista’s. The boy’s. And Volso’s to come in the arena.

He had planned the two murders like a military campaign. Coldly and ruthlessly, he chose the day when slaves everywhere, not just his own, would be out. No doubt he’d expected his neighbour to be out, too, as she usually was on the Festival of Diana, but it wouldn’t matter unduly.

He would climb into Claudia’s garden using the ladder, then kick it away after him. He would hide in the cellar, biding his time until he heard screams, and then whoever might have been in the house would certainly rush outside. He would give it a count of twenty before leaving the cellar, but then comes the daring part. He actually walks across the garden while everyone is clustered round the thief’s body! If challenged, of course, he can bluff it out by claiming he’d heard a scream as he was returning home and came to help. Then he would just nip over the garden wall to “check on his wife,” only to report back that she was dead.

As it happened, no one saw him. Up and over, throttle the missus, up and back again in no time — before calmly letting himself out of Claudia’s house and sauntering up to his own, whistling without a care in the world as the porter had testified.

And now they were gone. All of them. Volso. Callista. The otter.

“Do you think we’ll ever know his name?” she asked Marcus.

In reply, he pursed his lips and shrugged. “I doubt it,” he said. Urchins like him disappeared by the dozen every day. It was the unseen tragedy of the big city and so-called civilisation.

Across the garden, a chink of gold reflected from beneath the mint. A small child’s goblet with a double handle. And so the tragedy goes on, she thought...

She looked up into his eyes. Resisted the urge to brush that stupid fringe from where it had fallen down over his face and trace her finger down the worry lines round his eyes.

“I was here,” she said, “when I saw the reflection of the arrow in the pool.”

There was a pause. “Here?” he echoed, frowning.

“Right here.” She pointed to the spot with a determined finger. Sweet Jupiter in heaven, she would never forget it. “White as snow, I actually watched it arc through the air.”

Orbilio scratched his ear. “Not from here, you didn’t,” he replied. “If Labeo was standing on the ladder and the boy was near the gate, and if he kept on running like you said after he’d been hit, then the arrow travelled like so.”

He indicated the trajectory of the missile with his hand.

“As you can see, the path doesn’t curve as you describe it. Also, the arrow wasn’t white, it’s almost black. What’s more, if it was travelling at the speed, angle, and direction that you say, it would be you who was lying dead, not your little otter. Oh, and by the way, did I ever tell you that you’re stunning when you’re angry and you’re stunning when you’re not, and that you’re even more stunning when you’re breaking generals’ balls? I think a spring wedding would be rather fun, don’t you?”

“I’d marry an arena-full of Volsos before I married you,” she said, “but what I don’t understand is this. If it wasn’t Labeo’s arrow that I saw reflected in the pool, what was it?”

Orbilio thought of the suffocating heat that played strange tricks by bending light. He thought of the emotion of the moment, the reflection of a white dove overhead; in fact, he could think of any number of rational explanations. But then... But then... There was also the matter of a certain mischievous little cherub by the name of Cupid. So he said nothing.

He just pulled Claudia Seferius into his arms and kissed her.

Slayer Statute by Janet Dawson