Wolf Whistle

He was on the point of speaking when a legionary appeared at his elbow. ‘There you are, sir.’ When he tried to salute, his arm was compressed in the crush. ‘There’s been an incident on the Palatine-’

‘Holy Jupiter! The Emperor?’

‘No, sir. Sorry, sir. Didn’t mean to alarm you. It’s another murder, sir.’

Claudia stood up and smoothed the folds of her gown as though the conversation meant nothing to her. Her eyes followed the convoluted movements of the acrobat. But her ears…

‘Well, I can’t come now, I’m-’ Even Supersleuth didn’t have the gall to say he was busy. Not when he’d been run to ground in a theatre. He glanced at the dark-eyed beauty in the front row clapping time to the lute player. Claudia bent down to check the clasp on her anklet, and refrained from sinking her teeth into his leg.

‘I think you ought to, sir. It looks like another Market Day Murder.’

‘Come, come, man, the market’s six days off.’

The legionary struggled to hang on to his helmet in the jostling throng. ‘I know, sir, but-’

‘Will you kindly stop sirring me, and relay the facts. And only the facts, please.’

‘Over in the Wolf Grotto, si- They found another body. Butchered, like the rest.’

Claudia watched the patrician age ten years in as many seconds. ‘What colour hair?’ he demanded.

The soldier looked confused. ‘Um-’

‘For gods’ sake, man, was she blonde? Yes or no?’ Orbilio shook the boy roughly by both shoulders.

‘N-no, sir. I believe she had dark hair.’

The years dropped away again. Claudia heard him exhale. ‘Then let’s go.’

From a discreet observation post beneath the royal box, a young woman in an apricot tunic watched a wavy-haired aristocrat bend over the bench and gesticulate towards the entrance. The dark-eyed beauty’s face dropped and as he twirled his toga out from underneath his seat, it half-concealed the kiss he’d leaned across to plant, and then he was gone, striding through the actors’ doorway as though he owned the place. Claudia moved across and sat beside her.

‘It’s Lucina, isn’t it?’

Miss Fancypants smiled tentatively. ‘Camilla, actually.’

‘That’s what I said. Marcus has told me so much about you. Never stops.’

Camilla’s exquisite features puckered. ‘You know Marcus?’

‘Intimately,’ she purred. ‘I’m his wife.’

Beautiful eyes widened in surprise. ‘But…I thought you were divorced. Weren’t you living in Lusitania? With a-’ Decorum stopped her.

‘Sea captain?’ Decorum never held Claudia back. ‘That’s what he likes to tell people. I think he’s ashamed of me, on account of the stink I kicked up at the time.’

‘Of the divorce?’ Camilla moved up so Claudia could get comfortable.

‘At the time of the scandal- Did you say divorce? Oh dear, I suppose the fiction makes him feel more comfortable about his, erWell, best not to speak of it.’

Lights danced off Miss Lovely’s multitude of gold. ‘I’m sorry, I…I don’t understand.’ Her voice softened. ‘Please tell me,’ she pleaded. ‘It is…very important to me.’

Claudia laid a sympathetic hand upon her arm. ‘It’s not a pretty story,’ she sighed. ‘In fact, I’m willing to bet he didn’t arrange to meet you here, that this was some chance meeting in the street.’

‘Why, yes. As a matter of fact, it was.’

Claudia tutted. ‘And was he coming out of the gym? He was? You know, I really hoped he’d change,’ she said sadly. ‘Was he alone, Camilla? Or was there a pretty boy holding his hand?’

‘Boy?’

‘Please. Camilla. Don’t distress yourself, it’s just the way Marcus is. For years,’ she dabbed at her eye, ‘I’ve resigned myself to being-’ she considered ‘celibate’ and said ‘-childless.’

Camilla looked aghast. ‘You’re not making this up, are you?’

Claudia’s eyes widened convincingly. ‘Next time you see him, ask him where he got those bruises. Or better still, ask that chap over there.’ She pointed to the gallery, to a kohl-eyed transvestite surrounded by a dozen powdered youths. ‘It was in his whorehouse, dear. And that’s the truth.’

*

Some distance from the Field of Mars, in a house untouched by the thunderous echo of hooves or the clouds of sand kicked up from the ring, more mundane pursuits were in progress. Silver was buffed up, torn seams mended, skillets scoured, chickens plucked. Outside, shops which had closed for siesta were starting to re-open with the inevitable clangs, drowning the background oaths of builders trying to lay the foundations of yet another splendid public building.

Nemesis, tucked beneath a couch and wrapped in a cloth stained with red, was aware of none of it.

When the street herald trumpeted the hour, the door to the bedroom creaked open and the weapon’s owner padded into the room. A deep, fulfilled sigh rippled the air.

‘This is good,’ the voice whispered. ‘Very good.’