The Ides of April

XLII

I could have stayed the night with my folks, as Postumus had slyly suggested, but I was not in the mood for company-theirs or anyone else's.

Andronicus did return to Fountain Court. It was almost as if he knew I preferred not to see him. I felt he was trying to impose his will, never a good trick for a man who wanted to impress me. I was in my apartment, the one on the second floor. I had not even undressed, but was lying on my bed as if I expected more to happen that night.

In Rome there would be other women lying in the centres of beds alone while men in separate rooms cursed them for it. One of the rites of the Cerialia required that as a gesture to chastity, women should preserve themselves from any male touch; to make sure, men had to sleep elsewhere. Of course this was a rite for the rich. The poor did not own enough beds.

I had heard that ladies who stayed celibate for Ceres drank a concoction of barley and pennyroyal to suppress their sexual appetite. Rumour had it, drugs were incorporated too, since grains and simple hedgerow herbs were not enough, supposedly, to overcome female lust. I needed neither herbs nor drugs. Nothing beats seeing a man in a new light to kill your passion.

Did you know, even in low doses, the oil of pennyroyal is poisonous? People happily cook with it, or make infusions, yet midwives are said to use it to bring about abortions. And it can kill. Was the mystery killer using some similar, readily available household poison? Or was he in a position to access something more specialised?

So, true to his promise, Andronicus returned. I wasn't surprised.

How many times do women lie awake, longing for a lover to appear, only to be disappointed? I had done it. This requires a degree of excitement about a relationship that I knew I had abruptly lost. Somewhere on the road out to Aricia, or returning home today, the Via Appia had claimed all my joy in the archivist. Tonight, I genuinely wanted to be chaste. It had nothing to do with religious observance, but reflected a cold drench of sense. I had lost the urge. Our rift was permanent. I would never again want Andronicus to touch me.

Did he know? Would he accept it? Was he a man who would let a disaffected lover go?

I heard him banging and shouting to be admitted, then Rodan growled in answer. I crept to the door, opening it quietly and not making my presence known. If the archivist gained entrance to the building, I was ready to press the door closed quickly and bolt it, then tremble on the inside, hiding from him.

It is odd how it happens: that subtle slither from being entirely wrapped up with a man, into not wanting him.

"Orders is orders," Rodan was maintaining, like some officious clerk. That was a change, and utter hypocrisy. With him, orders were for forgetting or ignoring. "The owners of this building are very particular. Once I lock up the grille, I can't let anybody in."

"What if I lived here?"

"But you don't, do you?" Sometimes I forgot how Rodan had spent many years as a landlord's enforcer. He knew how to remain unmoved, and indeed do it with a low-level threat of violence that would drain anyone's courage.

"I'm sick of this!" Even Andronicus sounded ready for a fight. I was against that happening. Rodan might be a failed gladiator, but he was still big enough to inflict damage; in pain, the archivist would probably turn vicious. Being selfish, I did not want to have to find a new porter, if Andronicus managed to hurt Rodan. He was cheap, too stupid to rob us, and had been known to the family for many years; who likes change?

Andronicus was still ranting. "First the woman is continually missing, then she thinks she can run rings around me-I'd like to kill that pestilential brat she had with her."

"Better not try it." That must have been the tone Rodan once used for putting frighteners on slow-paying tenants. With the grille safely between them, he was happy to play tough. It was a slow, easy offer to hook someone's organs out of them via an unusual orifice. Like an Egyptian embalmer-but with you still alive-at least you would be when Rodan started.

"I am not being made a fool of-somebody will pay for the inconvenience!"

"Send your bill!" jeered Rodan.

"You or her! It's all the same to me who suffers." Andronicus' Parthian shot was intended to chill. I could not help wondering if he guessed I might be listening.

When I was sure he had gone, I emerged from the shadows. In the entrance lobby, after I walked down, a couple of crude oil lamps at floor level shed a sickly glow in feeble patches. It was enough for me to make out Rodan as he stood, looking out through the grille, ox-like but flabby in his ragged one-armed tunic. He heard me and turned, showing no surprise.

We exchanged a long look.

"Thank you, Rodan. Do not let him in," I said quietly. "If ever he comes looking for me, say I am not here. Make any excuse."

Rodan said nothing; he just nodded.

I went back to my rooms. I made sure all the doors were barred. I was not frightened exactly, yet my heart was hammering.

It might be a difficult task to free myself from this situation safely. But I would have to do it.