Wolf Whistle

That Orbilio had sensed the start of the riot and steered her so quickly to safety was a credit to him. But it would only make him big-headed to mention the fact…

Behind the high walls, shouts and screams mingled with the smashing of wood and the clashing of swords upon stone, which, like young bucks locking horns, was more for effect than anything else. However, the fact that there were soldiers outside said much for the flashpoint at which the Empire stood at the moment. The din of the rioting attracted crowds, Claudia and Marcus had to push their way down to the river, where marketplaces and wharves stood deserted apart from a handful of porters left guarding the goods. Sacks and crates, amphorae and bales sprawled in eerie confusion. An oar slipped out of its rowlock and disappeared quietly under the water, and a bemused mule brayed to its harnessed companion.

‘You have to leave Rome,’ he said, leading the way across the Fabrician Bridge. ‘It’s not safe.’

‘Rubbish. There’s a fray every month in this city, people need to let off steam now and then-’

‘I’m talking about the danger from Magic,’ he said firmly. ‘You can see what state the Empire’s in. How precariously it’s balanced.’

Standing beside the Healing Temple in the middle of the Tiber, watching its turbulent currents slam against the honey-coloured piers of the bridge and hearing its yellow, muddy waters slap against the strong retaining wall around the island, Claudia understood perfectly. Augustus would have no trouble calming down the riot, he was probably already showering the crowds with lottery tickets, and some will win a sticky bun, some a jug of wine and one jammy devil will walk home the owner of a brand new house and villa. Then the augur will backtrack, the races will continue-but the unrest? The unrest will still be there, and the veil of anarchy was growing thinner by the day. Until the crisis was past, and for however long that took, Marcus Cornelius Orbilio would be on call and on duty twenty-four hours a day. By necessity, his interests in stalkers, serial killers and indeed anything else, must come second.

‘Rome needs heroes,’ she said, plucking a blossom from the tree. ‘Go and do your duty, Marcus. I can look after myself.’

Always have, always will.

‘My solution,’ he said, idly examining the donations left by grateful patients, the wooden cups, the garlands, the cakes, ‘is for you and Annia to visit Arbil’s ranch-’

‘Who’s Arbil? And why on earth should I visit a farm? I despise the countryside-’

She didn’t think he’d heard her protests. ‘It’s a very short ride,’ he was saying, resting his elbows on the wall. ‘If you set off at first light-’

‘Orbilio, are you completely off your chump?’ Claudia flung up her arms in exasperation. ‘Leave the trout farm just like that?’ The man’s barmy. A solid gold fruitcake.

He lifted his head and there seemed to be a sparkle in his eyes. Unless it was reflection off the water. ‘Yes,’ he said simply. ‘ Just like that, and your old trouts won’t suspect a thing, and you know why?’

She didn’t dare ask.

‘I, too, have a foolproof plan,’ he continued, and the maddening twinkle did not abate. ‘Which, funnily enough, also takes a little while to work.’

XXIII

Not always does the obvious attract the seasoned gambler. True, he will not turn up his nose at a healthy game of knucklebones, nor thumb the same appendage should a pair of gladiators be slogging it out on the sand. But he’ll remain on the lookout for more exciting methods to satisfy his craving. Thus, for Claudia Seferius, the chance to cock a snook at her greedy, snobby in-laws, knowing that if just one of the old dragons found her out, there’d be sufficient grounds for Larentia to drag her into court-well, the temptation was simply too great to resist. As the water swirled round Tiber Island and more and more soldiers rushed from their practice grounds on the Field of Mars towards the great Circus Maximus, Claudia felt the fire burning in her belly.

‘I’m listening.’

A thin, young woman holding a limp baby in her arms, her face blotched and swollen with tears, negotiated the piles of clay body parts which littered the steps of the Healing Temple to advertise its potency. Because while it was round the interior columns that pilgrims left terracotta organs, limbs, or what have you, then prayed to the god Aesculapius to heal the afflicted part, it was outside, when they’d been cured, that they removed their models to decorate the steps as encouragement for others. In the cool shade of the porch, the priest eased the child from its careworn mother’s arms and led them gently inside.

‘Then watch this,’ Marcus said, and cast around amongst the vast array of donations for cosmetic jars, watched by a suspicious temple warden whose job it was to prevent thieving.