Wolf Whistle

The last person Orbilio expected to see when he returned to his own house was Annia, and several emotions hit him at once. Relief, of course, that she was safe. Anger, aimed at himself for not keeping proper tabs, and at her, for being irresponsible. And other, less rational feelings. Irritation, compassion and, it has to be said, pride. Watching her feeding the caged birds in the courtyard with seed from the palm of her hand, her long, fair hair tumbling down her back just like her mother’s, he felt a constriction in his breast, which he could not explain. So slight, he thought. So fragile. He followed the liquid pleats of her tunic down to the hem. How could Daphne have been so callous?

The thought was an ignoble one, but he was glad it was Severina last night…

‘I only did what you told me.’ The strain showed clear upon Annia’s pale and scrubbed face as she brushed the birdseed from her hands. ‘Go home and stay there, you said.’

Weary to the bone, Marcus had no defence. He did not recall using the word home, but, he admitted to himself, that was precisely how it felt. Whenever he was with Claudia, wherever they might be and whatever the circumstances, it bloody well felt like home.

‘You look awful,’ Annia tutted, straightening his crumpled clothes and smoothing the nap. ‘You look like a man who hasn’t slept, you need a shave, and really, Marcus, if you’re going to make an impression on the Emperor, you ought to have a haircut. How is Augustus? Have you spoken with him personally? What’s he like?’

She was relentless. What’s the latest on the crisis? Has the Emperor appointed an heir? What about his stepson, Tiberius, is he in the running? She questioned him about the coup, how did he feel, he a proud aristocrat, mixing among the lowlife of informants? And then, as he caved in to the demands his growling stomach insisted upon, Annia broached the subject which he’d so far managed to skirt.

‘Did…did anything happen yesterday?’

He drank the wine she poured him. Should he tell her? Would not telling her be protecting her? Having overstretched himself these past few days, he could hide under the umbrella of exhaustion without a conscience. But then she’d find out somehow, either from the servants or from gossip at the baths, and in any case she’d require an explanation for being shipped off to the country, which was the best (and possibly only) way he could guarantee her safety for the moment.

He broke a steaming roll in half and formed a ball of dough between his fingers. ‘As a matter of fact…’ With only the barest of encouragement, he recounted the facts, and by doing so clarified them in his mind.

‘Oh, Marcus!’ Annia buried her head in her hands. ‘What am I going to do? I’ll never be safe!’

Marcus was seven years old when Penelope knelt on the parapet of the Aemilian Bridge one heavy, thundery night. As the lightning crackled and thunderbolts rumbled, she knotted a lump of masonry round her waist and then calmly pushed it over the side. Passers-by had rushed to the spot, but Penelope had timed her moment well. In the dark, churning waters there were no discerning ripples and no splashes. Then the rain began to fall in buckets.

The blonde head emerged from its burial place and pushed the hair from her face. ‘It was selfish of me, wasn’t it? Not going to Arbil’s with Claudia?’

He tossed an apple from hand to hand. ‘Being frightened is nothing to be ashamed of,’ he said slowly.

One shoulder rose and fell. ‘You say that, because you’re brave. When those thugs attacked you last week, you said yourself you weren’t scared.’

‘Angry,’ he said. ‘I was bloody angry, mainly for allowing myself to be cornered so easily, but that’s different. The blood’s up, emotions are running hot and they’re running high. But inside, we’re all frightened of something.’

She twisted her head on one side. ‘What scares you, then?’

‘Me?’ He bit into the apple. ‘Losing people I care about.’ Passion deepened his voice. ‘That scares the hell out of me.’

Annia brightened. ‘Then you’d better tell me what Claudia found out at the ranch. Maybe together we can come up with some answers!’

Even as Orbilio relayed the information Claudia had passed on, his mind travelled to an altogether different plane. With so much going on, he’d overstretched himself of late. Well, he wasn’t the only one under pressure. Suppose the killer, too, had overstretched himself? Suppose that by staging the last murder in Claudia’s garden, he’d tried just that bit too hard to be clever?

‘I have to get some sleep,’ he told Annia, because he needed to be alone with his thoughts. Break the problem into segments then deal with them one at a time, that was the rule that he worked by, and right now he was paying the price for ignoring his own advice. By juggling three demanding cases, he’d not been true to any.