Jail Bait

XIV

The origins of the Agonalia, like so many rustic festivals, had become blurred with the passage of time. Undoubtedly its roots were entrenched in some ancient thanksgiving ceremony for flocks which had not only survived, but procreated to boot, therefore what better time to display newly shorn wool and for priests to bless lambs-but quite why a ram, the bringer of said good fortune, should fall to the sacrificial knife, no one was sure. Indeed, until recently, the festival had been confined to private rituals conducted by smallholders clubbing together to propitiate their local deity…in the old days, before that arch revivalist Augustus stepped in.

He had conquered Rome’s enemies without and within, the dark days of war and civil war were now over for good. He had disbanded his part-time peasant army in favour of hand-picked professionals and since that meant the land was no longer abandoned for months on end, agriculture prospered with a vengeance, inspiring Augustus to resurrect firstly the old celebration of May Day and then raise the profile of the Agonalia, thus doubling the number of jollies in an otherwise dull and unlucky month. Romans throughout the Empire embraced the addition of two more state holidays, and Spesium was right at the fore. Flowers decorated walls, balconies, statues and columns, they were woven into chaplets and garlands and wreaths. Tumblers in gem-bright tunics entertained swelling crowds to a backdrop of flutes and castanets, rope walkers drew gasps, beggars drew alms, artists drew scenes on the pavements-of shipwrecks they had seen off the coast of Achaea, of a three-legged dwarf in Damascus.

Claudia’s audience with Lavinia meant that although she missed the sacrifice itself, her arrival coincided with the point where the haruspex was examining the ram’s vital organs in order to pronounce good or bad auspices. Because the area around Lake Plasimene had been deserted for two hundred years, there were no obvious indications as to who should receive this noble offering, so the obvious candidate was Spes, Goddess of Hope, after whom the town was named. And as befitted her status, Spes had a temple approached by fifteen marble steps, two rows of Corinthian columns at the front, and a storehouse of gold and silverware inside. As Claudia inched her way into the crowd, a hush had descended and even the dancers and acrobats broke off their shows to await the announcement.

‘Hmmm,’ said the gut-gazer. Men with their hair garlanded and women with theirs streaming free shuffled forward. ‘Hmmm,’ he said again, nodding with practised ambiguity. ‘Hm, hm.’ Solemnly he picked up the dripping liver and weighed it in his hands from left to right. He peered, he prodded, he even smelled the wretched thing, then he harrumphed a little more, re-examined the heart and kidneys, and muttered dolefully, ‘This bodes well. Spes has favoured us.’

Heaven knows what the man was like when he encountered a bout of the miseries, but the proclamation was enough for the crowd. Roars broke out, cheering and clapping, and the music started up again, with a trumpet thrown in for good measure, and then the lambs were set loose, scores of bleating, silly, bright-eyed creatures skipping down the street, unaware their dad was being roasted on the fire. Ropes had been stretched across the upper storeys of buildings along the main thoroughfares from which sheets of every hue were hung to provide rainbows of shade ‘If you suffer from insomnia,’ Kamar whispered, chomping on a piece of sacrificial mutton, ‘I can prescribe a poppy draught.’

Claudia looked up at him, his turtle face as lugubrious as ever. Was it her imagination, or was there steel inside that silky offer? Beside him stood a mouse of a woman, his wife, whose badly disfigured face, rumour had it, resulted from falling into the fire as a child. One rather had the impression that the burns had been the first, rather than the last, of this woman’s burdens. ‘Insomnia?’ Claudia asked.

‘Chronic sleeplessness,’ he said. ‘The inability to fall asleep; waking and being unable to get back to sleep.’

I know what it means, you sour-faced oaf.

‘Only one couldn’t help noting you do not siesta and were abroad in the early hours of the morning,’ he explained.

Claudia pictured Kamar again whispering behind the statue with old Stonypuss. ‘Does it bother you I keep late hours? Has-’ she tilted her head towards Pylades, conferring with Mosul and the temple warden ‘-someone complained about my activities?’

‘Of course not,’ Turtleface said quickly. ‘Not at all. Certainly not. My concern is purely for the residents’ welfare.’

‘Then you must have had a busy night,’ she said silkily.

‘Busy?’ he growled. Beside him, the dormouse pulled nervously at the hem of her sleeve.

‘Yes, I-’ Claudia loaded sympathy into her voice ‘-thought I heard screaming.’

The big Etruscan’s mouth pinched even further inwards so that now no lips were showing. ‘It’s the midwife’s job to deliver babies,’ he snarled, ‘not mine. By the time they called me in, it was over bar the shouting, the woman had haemorrhaged too long.’

Claudia felt a punch in the pit of her stomach. Those screams were a young mother dying?

Kamar sniffed. ‘I daresay you’ll find she’d not taken sufficient care to preserve the seed during the early stages of gestation. In my professional opinion, haemorrhaging at birth occurs because some women are foolish enough and irresponsible enough to imagine they can live a normal life when they carry a child in their womb.’

Is that a fact? ‘Then how do you account for so many healthy births among women in the fields?’ Or don’t the poor count, in your fine professional opinion?

‘What’s that you say?’ Kamar stooped closer to hear. ‘I didn’t catch that.’

You couldn’t catch crabs in your loin cloth, you coldblooded rodent. ‘I was merely enquiring after the health of the infant,’ Claudia replied, accepting a sliver of roast from the sacrificial platter.

‘The child?’ Kamar jumped backwards as though burned. ‘My dear girl, the child was the least of my worries. When I saw the state of the mother, I simply hooked the foetus out and got on with the job I was paid for.’

The mutton in her mouth turned to lard. He what? Claudia fought against the rising nausea in her stomach. This callous son-of-a-bitch killed a child at the moment of its birth, simply because he’d been paid to attend the mother, not her baby? For a second, she feared she might throw up all over him, but Claudia was a past master at the concealment of feelings. She merely prayed to Jupiter, god of justice, that Kamar was the one who’d snapped Cal’s neck, she wanted to see this man trampled by elephants, torn apart by wild asses, flayed alive. Preferably all at once.

‘I’m wondering whether that cross-eyed little pedlar didn’t have a point, dear,’ piped up Kamar’s little peahen of a wife. ‘He,’ she gave a wan smile, ‘said he’d rather take his bonework back to Rome and take his chances with the plague. He…well, implied there was a jinx on this place.’

‘I’ve warned you before about mixing with the common rabble,’ Kamar snapped. ‘One day you’ll pick up something more than malicious gossip, which medicines might not be able to cure.’

Was that a threat?

‘Honestly,’ he tutted, rolling his eyes as, with reddened cheeks, his wife mumbled an apology. Then he pulled his lips back into what Claudia supposed was a smile as Pylades strolled up to join the party.

‘Enjoying the festival?’ he beamed, his gaze roaming over the curves of Claudia’s figure, and again it flashed through her mind. Three men. One objective. One dead. ‘This year’s Agonalia is the best to date,’ the stocky hillsman was saying, ‘but then the town grows stronger by the month. Down there.’ A richly embroidered sleeve pointed towards a group of merchants milling around their terracotta vats, though his gaze was fixed on the swell of Claudia’s breasts. ‘Down there you can buy olive oil of every quality and colour-local produce, Spanish, African, even,’ he bowed modestly, ‘Greek. Another year and Spesium, I’ll wager, will boast its own oil market like any other fine and prospering town.’

‘A commendable rate of expansion,’ murmured Claudia, her eyes alighting on his loins.

A rumble came from deep within the Greek’s throat and colour suffused his cheeks as he clasped his hands across his body.

‘I notice another hulking great warehouse is nearly complete,’ she continued, because this town, this strange town, had sharpened its interest for her. Look at it! There were few signs that the town was built on anything other than private investment and only the arena, still in its foundation stages, and the half-built theatre smacked of imperial backing.

‘Ah, well-’ Happy to be back on firm ground, Pylades launched into a great discourse on commerce and the value of attracting trade guilds, but it was those tortoise eyes which bothered Claudia. As the founding father of this town pontificated on the merits of private investment, Kamar’s gaze flickered back and forth in the direction of the sacrificial fire at the steps of the temple. Strange. Shifting her position for a better view, Claudia saw his scrutiny was directed at Pul, adopting the usual stance, and idly she wondered whether he ever peeled that leather vest off, and if not, what he and it must stink like.

‘Now if you’ll excuse me,’ Pylades said, ‘duty calls.’ A smug look descended on his swarthy face. ‘Atlantis, I’m pleased to say, has never been busier.’

‘So the plague isn’t all bad, then?’ Claudia said sweetly. Grunting, he offered a stiff arm to the doormat, who, at a nod from her husband, accepted with yet another watery smile.

Leaving just Kamar and Claudia under the cold, almond eyes of big Pul.

*

‘I thought I caught the smell of hokum in the air.’

Dorcan looked up from placing an Argonaut’s oar on the counter. ‘Bless my chilblains! Marcus Cornelius! My, it’s been a while.’

‘Are you surprised?’ Orbilio asked. ‘After the way you dosed my uncle?’

‘He was constipated, poor sod. I was only trying to help.’

‘Whatever you put in that pessary,’ Orbilio fought to keep his face straight, ‘he missed a vital vote in the Senate.’

‘I never made no promises,’ protested Dorcan, his massive shoulders starting to heave.

‘I know, but when you said he’d be well enough to take his seat, my uncle thought you meant in the Senate House, not a marble one in the latrines. So, what brings you so far north, big fellow?’

Dorcan showed his full set of false teeth. ‘This…’ he said, ‘and that…’

‘With you, Dorcan, it’s usually the other. Who was she this time?’

The giant clenched his fists in excitement. ‘Oh, Marcus, you should’ve seen her, the sweetest little whore that ever plied her trade in Rome.’ He held one flattened hand up to his armpit. ‘Tiny little thing, only come up to here, she did.’ He made a circle with his hands. ‘Waist this thin.’ He spread his fingers and rounded them. ‘Tits-’

‘Thank you, Dorcan, I’ve got the message. What went wrong?’

‘What ever goes wrong with women? As soon as you gets cosy, they wants you to marry them.’

Orbilio examined a desiccated two-headed tortoise. ‘Why didn’t you?’

‘Cos I’ve already got three wives, I can’t keep tally as it is,’ the giant bellowed, and in his mirth Orbilio dropped the dead freak, which promptly shattered into pieces. He kicked the pottery shards under the stall as Dorcan leaned over. ‘Do you good, lad, to get yourself wedded and bedded again. Can’t be much fun since your wife up and left-ran off with a rich merchant, didn’t she? To Alexandria?’

‘Lusitania,’ Orbilio corrected, ‘with an impecunious sea captain.’

The bristly bear dismissed it with a slicing motion of his hand. ‘The point is, son, that bloke she run off with puts a smile on her face every bloody night while you ain’t getting any. A man needs his comforts, Marcus, my lad, take my word for it, and it’s a funny thing, but I have-’

‘No way.’ Orbilio took a step backwards. ‘You’re not palming me off with your pseudo-magic potions. I’ll be impotent for years.’

‘No, no, no,’ Dorcan bellowed. ‘I’m talking about marriage, boy, marriage. That exquisite meeting of two minds that feeds a man’s soul, nourishes his inner core and gives him a chance to get his leg over morning, noon and night. Now it happens, I know just the girl for you, sparky piece of goods-hey, don’t look at me like that. You’d like this one, I swear.’

‘Forget it.’ Marcus laughed. ‘Marriage is like liquor, Dorcan. First you lose your head, then you lose your senses, and finally you lose your fortune, only with women it goes on frocks and fripperies and ghastly figurines. I tell you, big man, I’m done with playing harpy families.’

‘Don’t you mean happy families?’

‘That’s a contradiction in terms.’

The giant scratched his thick, black mop. ‘You’re making a mistake, lad,’ he said sadly. ‘A man needs to settle- here!’ His mood changed instantly and his voice became a harsh whisper. ‘You ain’t in Spesium on official business, are you, lad?’

‘Why?’ Professional eyes followed salt sellers, tumbling acrobats and shepherds rounding up lambs.

‘If you is, you’d best tread careful. It’s a funny situation here and no mistake.’

The bleating flock was instantly forgotten. ‘In what way?’ Marcus asked sharply.

‘Well,’ Dorcan tapped the side of his nose, ‘it all depends on whether you’re prepared to pay for information.’

‘Aren’t I always?’

‘Then let’s meet after dark behind Tuder’s tomb. You can’t miss a monument that size and I tell you what. Tomorrow I’ll introduce you to that sprightly filly-and tell me then you don’t fancy bouncing on her swansdown mattress till you’re both too old to romp.’

*

In the necropolis beyond the triple-arch gateway, only a patch of scorched grass lay testimony to Cal’s cremation. Was it really only yesterday? Remus, his ashes wouldn’t be home yet! Settling herself on the step of one of the tombs, Claudia watched soldiers and townsmen guzzling wine which flowed straight from a fountain, clapping their hands to the rhythm of girls dancing to the beat of their own tambourines, and in the short while since Claudia arrived, the men grew drunker and the music grew louder and the girls whirled faster and streamers twirled passed her, until the whole scene became blurred. So much revelry. So early in the day…

Turning away, she realized with a start that this square, capacious tomb faced with fine travertine boasted a frieze depicting a man sitting beside a pair of balances. Tuder! Claudia sprang up and with her finger traced the life of the banker which had been so painstakingly cast in stone, pausing at the section where a tall angular man betrothed himself to a tall angular woman. Further round the frieze, three small sons played with their father under their mother’s watchful eye, but by the time Claudia reached the part which celebrated Tuder’s achievements, the children had gone and only Lais remained at the banker’s side. There was no mention of what might have brought about his death.

Let alone how it might be possible for an ex-slave to become master of Tuder’s island.

Unfortunately, the sight of the banker’s balances had conjured another, this time invisible, scene. Claudia, stuffing coins into her satchel. A key rattling in the lock. The look of utter stupefaction on Tullus’ face. A centurion pacing her garden, casually pointing out that part of the property in the strongroom belonged to a person who was related by marriage to a second cousin of the Emperor’s wife…

Didn’t that pea-brained footslogger also happen to slip in the word ‘treason’ somewhere between the rose bush and the laurel?

Jupiter, Juno and Mars, if the prospect of being thrown penniless into exile wasn’t bad enough, it paled into insignificance compared with her falling for that old friend-of-the-husband trick. Good move, Claudia. Put yourself right in the spotlight of the law. Never mind lying low, you embroil yourself in a murder case while you’re about it, draw even more attention to yourself!

She glanced across at the blackened patch of grass. For the price of a kiss, Cal, I’d let you show me a way out of this mess, that’s for sure!

Yet, as the townspeople roared with manic laughter, a germ of a motive behind his murder began to take hold. By his own mouth, Cal admitted to looking up her registration-in which case, he must have discovered neither she, or the mythical friend of her husband’s, had paid for her stay. Was it also recorded in Pylades’ accounts that Marcus Cornelius Orbilio was attached to the Security Police? Logically, then, it was not beyond the realms of possibility that Cal had rooted out a criminal secret and was threatening to turn that person over to the authorities unless Unless what? Claudia slumped back against Tuder’s memorial and watched a family of jackdaws in the triple arch gateway. I need more than a wild supposition to worm my way into the army’s good books. I need something I believe they call proof…

‘Mead,’ a voice bellowed. ‘Nectar of Olympus!’

Well, well, well. We may have an opening…

‘Drink this, sir, for Jupiter’s virility and the stamina of Mars. Madam, after just two glassfuls, you’ll possess the beauty of Venus herself as well as the wisdom of Minerva. Mead! Nectar of the gods! Who’s next?’

‘Dorcan,’ Claudia slipped her arm through the giant’s, ‘I’d like a quiet word with you.’

She felt his muscles stiffen. ‘I meant no harm,’ he protested. ‘The pay was good-’

Talk about a guilty conscience. ‘Actually, I want to ask you about Spesium. There’s something distinctly odd about this town.’

‘Odd?’ he asked, handing out goblets filled not so much with divine liquor as honey mixed with milk and cinnamon.

‘Don’t pretend with me, Dorcan. There’s an almost manic quality about the way they’ve thrown themselves into this festival, and yesterday, market day, there was a dogged, one might say obsessive, air about the way they conducted business, and that is eccentric by any standards.’

‘When you’ve been run out of as many towns as I have, nothing strikes you as odd any more,’ the giant replied, but the laugh in his voice was forced.

‘Dorcan, the townspeople are interacting like strangers, rather than-’

‘Look.’ The charlatan swung round and led her under the shade of a lotus tree. ‘It’s the plague,’ he said gruffly. ‘Makes people act kind of funny, knowing death’s just down the road and that anyone might bring it in any moment. This-’ his arm embraced the Forum-‘is their way of coping.’

‘Right. And next they’ll put up six-foot-high fences to stop the pigs flying off.’

‘Hey,’ the giant called after her flouncing back. ‘You will be staying in Atlantis a while longer, won’t you?’

Claudia pulled up short and carefully masked the unease which fluttered inside her. ‘Of course,’ she said steadily. ‘Why?’ At least one issue was solved. The big man who had been keeping tabs on her by the lakeshore last night…

‘No reason.’ Dorcan shrugged, shuffling the glasses on his tray. ‘Just curious. That’s all.’

*

Pushing open the doors which led to the Athens Canal, Claudia could see now why it was famous. What a place. Open to the sky, it nevertheless formed a tranquil and private retreat, surrounded on all four sides by a colonnade of caryatids. Caryatids! What a masterstroke! In place of straight, fluted columns, sculptured water nymphs supported the entablature-and who had Pylades named his spring after? None other than Carya herself! Self-serving moneygrubber or not, you had to hand it to the stocky architect. Pylades knew what he was doing when he created Atlantis!

Out on the water, swans arched graceful necks and puffed their wings like clouds as water from the jugs of half a dozen marble nymphs cascaded into the clear blue basin.

‘Spring lamb not to your taste?’ a familiar voice asked, and Claudia spun round.

‘You’re an evil old witch, you know that, Lavinia?’

Blue eyes twinkled as brightly as the water in the pool. ‘I wish my hex would work on the two ugly sisters,’ she said. ‘Faced with the choice of sharing luxury with Fab and Sab or austerity at home, I’m starting to hanker after my old sagging mattress and a bedside lamp which perpetually splutters. Still,’ she made a moue with her mouth, ‘he means well, my lad.’

Does he? Or was the price small, compared with being rid of his wife and her echoing sister?

Claudia dragged a basketweave chair into the shade beside the wheeled daybed. ‘Is there a jinx on this place?’ she asked, frowning at a spot on the hem of her harebell-blue gown.

‘You’ve been talking to that skelly-eyed hawker, haven’t you?’ the old woman chuckled. ‘I bought a bone needle off him and before he’d even counted out my change, he was all gloom and doom about death and failed marriages, bankruptcy and so on.’ She tapped her temple with her forefinger. ‘Decent carver, but…’ Lavinia left the sentence hanging.

‘He knew about the pregnant mother who died in the night.’

‘The fight she put up, everyone from Atlantis to Alexandria heard what happened to that poor cow. But,’ Lavinia’s thin shoulders shrugged, ‘what can you expect of a charlatan who doesn’t know a hernia from a heart attack? Like I told the pedlar, whenever you put men and women together under a roof, the one in loin cloths, the other in skimpy gowns, the two sets of garments are bound to end up on the same floor. It’s only natural. The same way that when sick people bunch together morbidity’s higher than average, but only because the statistics are out of proportion. You’d best help me eat these dates, before Fabella force-feeds me the bloody things!’

‘Only if you share that jug of wine.’

Slowly the pile of date stones grew higher and higher, and the level in the jar grew lower and lower, and as the swans and the nymphs cast white reflections in the water, the only sounds in the Athens Canal were the creaks of the basketweave chair when Claudia shifted position and the hypnotic gurgle of fountains.

‘Too many idle hours,’ Lavinia said out of nowhere, ‘are passed by individuals with narrow lives and with minds narrower still. Atlantis is like that game of Gaulish Whispers, where you say a few words to one child, they repeat what they think you said to another and by the time it’s gone down the chain, the meaning is totally changed.’

Slowly Claudia laid down her glass. ‘But there’s substance behind the stories, is that what you’re saying?’

‘Lavinia’s a crippled old olive grower with time on her hands, she likes to gossip,’ she cackled. ‘That is a very striking gown, if I may say so.’

‘I’m glad you approve. You were saying?’

‘I always approve the understated,’ Lavinia flashed back. ‘Is there something wrong with the hem, you keep rubbing it? Oh, Ruth. I told you to take the day off, enjoy the Agonalia.’

The young Judaean girl rolled her eyes to heaven. ‘There’s no pleasing the old bat,’ she laughed to Claudia. ‘One minute she’s desperate for company, the next she can’t wait to be rid of me. Here.’ She thrust a small copper beaker towards her mistress. ‘You forgot to take your medicine.’

‘Forget didn’t come into it,’ snapped Lavinia. ‘It stinks like death and is as bitter as bile. Now get to town, girl, before the ox that they’re roasting’s nothing but bones.’ She shooed her away with her hand. ‘And don’t come home before the stars are high, either.’

‘I don’t mind staying,’ Ruth offered. ‘Honestly.’

‘Tch. Think Lavinia can’t manage on her own for a couple of hours? Go and find Lalo, have a good time. Besides.’ One blue eye winked wickedly. ‘I’m gossiping.’

‘Not again.’ Ruth’s mouth twisted as she turned to Claudia. ‘Pay no attention,’ she said. ‘Half the time the old crow makes it up and the rest she embroiders-’

‘-as elaborately as a seamstress with gold thread,’ Lavinia finished. ‘You’re repeating yourself, Ruth, it’s a sign of old age.’

‘So’s forgetting your medicine.’ She thrust the beaker in the old woman’s wrinkled hand. ‘Don’t believe,’ Ruth told Claudia, ‘a word about the woman who kept cats.’

‘Nonsense, that was scandalous.’ Lavinia set the goblet down and leaned across to Claudia. ‘Just as well the poor woman’s heart gave out when it did, heaven knows what her reaction would have been when she found out her husband had all twelve moggies strangled.’

‘See what I mean?’ laughed Ruth, stuffing the beaker back into her mistress’s hands. ‘Makes it up as she goes along. Now will you drink this, you stubborn old bag, or do I have to pinch your nose?’

‘That-’ Lavinia threw the liquid over an undeserving fern ‘-solves both our dilemmas, so why don’t you join the Agonalia and leave me to tell Claudia about the silversmith?’

‘Lavinia, please! I insist you stop this tittletattle at once,’ Ruth wailed. ‘He was in tremendous pain, poor man, there was a canker eating at his belly from the inside, he could have gone at any time, and the same, I’m sure, was true of the woman who wore red, so don’t you bring that up, either.’

Lavinia pulled a face and said, ‘You wouldn’t think she was my servant, would you? Very well, Ruth, you win. I give you my solemn promise to stick to politics this afternoon and before you nag, no wine, either, you have my word. Now do stop fussing, child, and run along.’

She watched the girl out of sight before reaching behind a pillar to drag out another full jug. ‘Terrible thing about that little orphan boy,’ she chirruped, pouring the thick, vintage wine. ‘Ten years of age and he was killed in a hunting accident right-’ she pointed to the woods up on the hill ‘-there. Fortuitous for the kid’s cousin, mind. Inheriting his fortune.’

‘Are you suggesting-?’

‘Lavinia simply repeats what she’s heard, and she heard it was an accident, same as the woman in red that Ruth mentioned. Died in her honeymoon bed, poor cow, two doors along from me, as a matter of fact, and ho, did the tongues wag over that. Just because she was thirty years older than her man and had a few bob stashed by. But then they said the same about your young man, when his first wife died.’

‘Excuse me?’ Claudia rubbed at her temple. She must have drunk too much wine. ‘I don’t-’

‘Think I haven’t seen the two of you together?’ Lavinia shot her a shrewd look. ‘Noticed the way those dark eyes follow you around? Are you sure there’s nothing wrong with the hem of your robe?’

‘Lavinia,’ Claudia said carefully, ‘are we talking about Tarraco, by any chance?’

‘Married or not, that boy is keen on you, and I’m-’

‘Whoa.’ Claudia tried to hang on to Lavinia’s thread. ‘You did say married?’

Lavinia’s chuckle bordered on evil. ‘Forgot to mention his wife, eh? Well, Lais isn’t the first middle-aged woman he married, only let’s hope this doesn’t end in tragedy like his previous union.’

Lais?

Tarraco?

Suddenly it made sense. The slave who rose to riches…

‘Don’t tell me,’ Claudia said slowly. ‘Tuder bought a Spanish slave at auction, Lais was smitten-?’ She rose unsteadily to her feet and began to pace the colonnade. Wrong. Lais wasn’t smitten. Lais had been seduced in a cold and calculating campaign. Then when Tuder died, Tarraco had made his move- and now look who’s master of the island.

Hang on. ‘Did you say second wife? What do you mean, the first marriage ended in tragedy?’

But the effort of so much gossip on top of too much wine had exhausted the old woman. Slumped on her daybed, Lavinia snored softly beneath her coiffured wig, her wrinkled face turned up towards the sun and with an indigestible ball inside her stomach (the dates, what else?) Claudia retreated indoors.

No wonder Tarraco knew so much about women. Their sizes, their tastes, what gifts would make the most impact. Tarraco was not an artist at all.

Tarraco was a bloody gigolo.

His first wife was dead, Tuder was dead, and considerable wealth was involved. She recalled him strutting round the island. Marble come from high Pyrenees, cedar only from Lebanon. This bust? Pff, is nothing, wait till you see the colossus. What she had taken as pride in his possessions was nothing more than pompous boasting and the ball of dates (what else?) solidified further. In her bedchamber, Claudia jerked off the harebell gown and hurled it into a corner.

‘Bastard!’

He hadn’t got the robe made up, the bloody thing belonged to Lais. It wasn’t even clean, there were spots around the hem.

‘Dirty, double-dealing dago.’

With a fruit knife, Claudia hacked at the cotton until it hung in shreds, the sweat pouring down her forehead and leaving dark drips on the pale harebell blue. No wonder he’d dismissed the servants. With him still married to the master’s wife, he daren’t risk the scandal of adultery.

‘Bastard, bastard, bastard!’

Wait. Claudia leaned back on her knees and tapped her finger against her lower lip. Where exactly was Lais while all this was going on? With the plague in Rome, she’d hardly have headed for the capital. Claudia straightened up and stared across the shimmering lake, her face puckered in thought. For the question of Lais had raised another, more deadly, issue.

Because, if Claudia had rowed the Spaniard’s boat out to the island, Tarraco must have been ashore in Atlantis.

The afternoon Cal had been killed.