Second Act

Ten

O ut in the Alban Hills, a few miles from the bustling town of Frascati, a woodsman paused for lunch. The meal was humble-a hunk of cheese and a sweet chestnut scone-but he was glad to rest his weary bones, he’d been on the hoof since dawn. There was quite a nip in the air, but the woodsman was warm enough in his soft hide jerkin and leggings to brave untying the stout thongs of his leather cloak while he ate.

‘Xerxes!’ He whistled his dog. ‘Here, boy!’

Daft mutt. Gone lolloping off on a scent. The woodsman shrugged. All the more for him. He broke off a chunk of the cheese, hand-churned by the best cheese maker in the Alban Hills, his own wife. Aye, she knew how to make cheese, did his missus. One denarius of lamb’s rennet to every pail of milk, then she’d toss in a few wild thistle flowers and leave nature to take its course. Once it had thickened, she’d transfer the curds into a wicker basket to be moulded and pressed, salted then pressed again, before she added yet more salt and left it to mature under weights. This particular specimen had been hardened in brine and left smoking over the hearth through the summer until the rind had turned a rich, oaky brown, but his wife turned out everything from soft pungent goat’s cheese to fresh curds to ewe’s cheese which she made only in March when milk was at its most plentiful.

She sold many of her cheeses in the market in town and was a treasure house of gossip when she got back. Sited at the junction of no fewer than three main routes in and out of Rome, Frascati saw everyone from bone workers to horse breakers, soothsayers to purveyors of fine linen towels for the nobility. Musicians passed through, auctioneers, freaks, tax collectors, viper tamers, midwives, wagoners, you name it, and each with a tale to tell. The evenings were never dull when his wife had been into market.

There was that slave who had run away from Senator Cotta’s estate, what had been recaptured half a mile out of town. What a fight she put up, according to his missus. Kicking, biting, screaming as they carried her back to the house.

Then there was that kerfuffle with the strolling players last autumn, when half of them (no, more than half) stormed off, leaving the original troupe well and truly in the doodah and taking on anyone stupid enough to sign up and not being too fussed about who they hired, either, because Saturnalia was coming up fast.

The woodsman smiled as he chomped on his scone. All good fun, those stories, but none of them was a patch on the one where Senator Cotta’s old man blew himself up.

What a hoot that was! For more years than anyone could remember, the old boy had been babbling on about the Elixir of Immortality, bragging to anyone who’d listen that he’d toured the world to track down the ingredients, listing everything from iron pyrites to cinnabar to realgar. Lord alive, half the town was expecting him to die writhing in agony from his experiment, because realgar was a form of arsenic, but no. Give the old man his due, he mightn’t have gained everlasting life, but he certainly went out with a bang.

The whole of Senator Cotta’s west wing went up like a thunderbolt.

Laugh? The town of Frascati nearly wet itself. They were sorry about the old man, of course. Harmless old duffer, but at least he didn’t suffer. (Not like the wife’s mother, poor cow.) No, what was so funny was the Senator’s reaction. Talk about odd.

‘Xerxes!’ The woodsman called louder this time. ‘Come on, boy. Dinner.’

Still no response, so he polished off the piece of cheese that he had saved for the dog and sank his teeth into the last of the scone. Aye, and she baked a bloody fine loaf as well, his old lady. Chestnut bread was her speciality, and these scones fair melted in the mouth.

Maybe it was the suddenness of the old man’s death or just the stupid bloody manner of his dying, blowing the house up like that, that made the Senator react so oddly. But whatever the reason, he’d driven straight from the old man’s funeral to Cumae, outside of Naples. He had to consult with the Oracle, he had said. Urgent. And when he came back, someone up at the big house overheard him telling someone else that he’d visited Hades, ridden with the Ferryman across the River Styx, heard the bark of Cerberus, the three-headed hound of hell, the whole lot. Apparently while he was down there, he’d also met with the ghost of his father, if you can believe that.

Which the woodsman could not.

‘Xerxes?’

Stupid mutt. He could hear him snaffling in the undergrowth over the way, too, his paws rootling through the cold, crisp leaves which lay scattered across the woodland floor.

‘Ah, there you are, boy. Wondered what you was up to, you daft bugger.’

The dog was thumping his tail so energetically that his whole body waggled. Amber eyes shone black with excitement.

‘Wrrrf.’

As the woodsman leaned down to pat his ears, a human hand plopped at his feet.

‘Wrf-wrf.’

Amiable as ever, Xerxes was more than willing to share his find. With a sour taste in the back of his throat, the woodsman followed the dog to where some creature, a fox in all probability, had already unearthed the remains. He could see gnaw marks on some of the bones. But one thing was clear.

‘This ain’t no barbarian burial.’

The grave was too shallow for one thing. Too far off the road for another. Also, he knew of no pagan ritual where loved ones were despatched to the afterlife naked. And another thing he couldn’t help noticing.

‘Death weren’t from natural causes, neither.’

The skull had been caved in at the temple, most likely by the spade whose wooden handle protruded from under a thin layer of litter.

‘Poor little bitch,’ he said over the grave, as he made the sign of the horns to avert the evil eye. ‘Didn’t deserve to end up like this, did she?’

He wondered what had lured her into the woods. Sex? Was she some prostitute who’d ended up taking her last walk with a pervert disguised as a punter? Or was he looking at the outcome of an execution, the body stripped to prevent identification? Had she suffered? Was she scared? Whatever the circumstances of her murder, she must have been a bonny lass, the woodsman thought. Her long black hair still streamed round her shoulders.