Wolf Whistle

‘Discretion?’ She didn’t dare look at him. ‘The entire plumed cavalry corps racing into battle would have been quieter than your clodhopping.’

‘I’ve had a lot to contend with,’ he said stiffly. ‘Pacing helps.’ A long silence followed, and the next time he spoke, his voice carried its normal inflection. ‘When do the aunts leave?’

‘When do barnacles drop off?’

He turned his face to hers. ‘They’re staying? What changed their minds?’

Her mouth soured. ‘Have you ever heard the expression, generosity killed the cat?’

‘You mean curiosity.’

You kill cats your way. I’ll kill them mine. ‘I tell you, Larentia will die at sea to stop me dancing on her grave,’ she said. ‘And in the meantime, I’m suffocating in a nightmare of domestic trivia.’ Turning on her heel, Claudia returned to the gentle warmth of the braziers and slammed the shutters on the acidic night air.

‘That,’ he gasped, diving through the gap, ‘was nearly as athletic as the Bull Dancers.’

Sooner or later, I just knew you’d get around to flaunting your conquests. Claudia picked up her handmirror. ‘I’m afraid,’ she said, licking her finger and running it over her finely arched brow, ‘that I was far too entranced by Porsenna to notice.’

‘So that’s the dormouse farmer?’

‘I can’t imagine what you find so amusing. He’s handsome, romantic, chivalrous-and waiting for me downstairs,’ she added pointedly. ‘He said my face is pure poetry-’

‘Did he say which lines he liked best? Ouch. That caught me right in the solar plexus.’

‘Pity. I was aiming at your head.’

Marcus picked up the mirror and with a polite bow tossed it back. ‘My head’s in enough trouble,’ he grinned, lifting up the offending footstool and stuffing its horsehair back into the gaping upholstery. ‘Although my backside, I confess, is in worse.’

‘You mean your boss found out you’d diverted troops from protecting the Emperor to question passers-by on the Argiletum?’

‘Exactly.’ He set down the stool and rested one foot on it. ‘And a fat lot of use that turned out to be. It’s hardly the Esquiline where cohorts of slaves take Milady’s lapdogs for walkies last thing at night. Few booksellers want perfumed poodles at their feet.’

‘Cobblers,’ she said prettily. ‘The street’s packed with them, too, don’t forget.’

He shot her a sharp amused glanced. ‘As it happens, shoemakers aren’t much at pet-keeping, either. Two fighting tomcats, a pack of feral dogs, one scavenging fox and a ferret.’ His mouth twisted down at one side. ‘The sum total of a whole night’s work. No witnesses, no whistles-and no gold stars for Marcus. Aren’t you keeping the mouse man waiting?’

‘Patience is but one of Porsenna’s endless virtues.’

‘Is that a fact.’ Orbilio shifted his weight on to the other foot. ‘It’s not that I don’t sympathize with the Emperor’s predicament, it’s just-’ Passion flooded his vocal chords. ‘Claudia, I can’t stand idle while some butcher slices up Ann-’ He broke off suddenly.

‘Ann?’ she probed, perching against the edge of her maplewood clothes chest.

‘Ann-other young slave girl,’ he improvised quickly.

‘I see.’ Down below, a round of applause ended the lyre player’s first session, which meant the acrobats were due on. Claudia wondered why she made no move to join in the fun. ‘So the killing in the Wolf Grotto this afternoon was the work of the Market Day Murderer?’

Orbilio topped up the glass from the wine jug and waited until half the dark red liquid had warmed him inside. ‘The official line is, no,’ he said slowly. ‘True, they argue, the victim had a blue tattoo, but she was killed by a single cut to the throat, in broad daylight, and not on a market day.’ He threw back the rest of the wine. ‘Her limbs were not bound, nor had her hair been cut off.’ Lavender from the linen in the chest filtered upwards to mingle with the dried herbs in the air. Leonides would be serving absinthe with the omelettes and oysters very shortly, and Claudia realized with a start that she was hungry. Why didn’t she leave?

‘But?’ she asked.

Marcus Cornelius stretched himself lengthwise on her bed, tossing aside her bolster and folding his hands beneath his head. His eyes traced the painted flowers on the ceiling, and the lines of the rafters.

‘But.’ Orbilio propped himself up on one elbow and turned to face her. ‘It was raining. There were few people abroad, even fewer taking time off to go exploring the Lupercal.’ He flopped back down on the bed and chewed his lower lip. ‘Those folk who were around, however, reported hearing a man whistle his dog. Three short, sharp consecutive notes.’ He put his lips together. ‘Whit-whit-whit.’

‘Like Zosi the speech seller described?’

‘Identical.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Which begs the question, why would Zygia’s killer replicate the one detail we’d kept secret, moreover one which might not even be noticed, yet disregard the more bizarre aspects?’