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  When Publius could breathe again he said, “I’m having all my staff thoroughly questioned, sir. Just to make absolutely sure of what happened.”

  He was clearly attempting to do the right thing, which was bad news for his slaves. They would not be able to pretend that they hadn’t been there: the usual desperate claim of frightened staff now the Emperor had ruled that only slaves who were likely to know something about a case should be tortured for evidence.

  “I’ll let you know if I find out anything of interest, sir.”

  Somewhere over in the yard, a man was shouting. Alarm or anger: it was hard to tell. Sabinus gazed at his dead son. “Will the questions bring Titus back?”

  Publius was clenching his fist behind his back again. “May I ask, sir—what’s to happen to the driver?”

  “Young Verax should never have been driving in the first place.” Sabinus reached forward to shoo a fly from his son’s cheek, and sighed. “But, once a dog has bitten, it has to be destroyed.”

  Ruso swallowed. He had hoped Sabinus might show his illegitimate son some mercy.

  Publius said, “Maybe one of my staff will—”

  “I thank the gods neither of their mothers is around to see this.”

  “I don’t think our kitchen maid actually saw the blow being struck, sir.”

  Sabinus did not reply, and Publius had the sense to let the music fill the silence. No words could offer comfort for the terrible betrayal Sabinus had suffered: one son killing the other.

  The pause was interrupted by more shouting from beyond the garden wall. A farm slave was racing down the main path towards the house.

  Publius began to gather up the folds of his toga. “I can see you’re busy, sir,” he said. “I’ll let you know if my staff have anything useful to say. Perhaps one of them can help to explain what happened.”

  But Sabinus wasn’t listening. Ruso heard the secretary murmur, “The master really isn’t himself at the moment, sir,” as he ushered Publius and his man back into the house and presumably away through another exit.

  One of the waiting staff detached himself from the wall and hurried down the steps to meet the breathless man in the garden, then came back and whispered something to Sabinus, whose head jerked up. “Are you sure?”

  More whispering.

  “Well he can’t have got far.” Sabinus raised a hand, and the music fell silent. “We need to carry out a search.”

  “Everyone!” announced the secretary, beckoning to the staff stationed around the walls. The musician joined the other slaves in hurrying towards him. A couple of them glanced at the body and then at their master, but Ruso assured Sabinus he would stay with the bier, and they left to join the group already being given orders down in the garden.

  After a hasty conversation three slaves trotted back to the house and disappeared through various doors. The others headed for the farmyard with Sabinus shooing them ahead and limping in their wake.

  Ruso wandered across to the wooden railing that overlooked the garden. His heart began to beat faster as Sabinus disappeared through the archway to the yard. He should not do what he was about to do, but there would never be another chance like this. Tilla would have told him it was a gift from the gods.

  A swift glance around told him the entrance hall was empty. Wishing he had his own toga to hide behind, he strolled across to the bier and stationed himself with his back to the garden, facing one of the doors through which someone might emerge at any moment.

  This was disrespectful.

  This was necessary.

  He shifted the finely-woven wool of Titus’s toga with one forefinger. The visible surfaces of the lad’s slender hands and wrists were unmarked. There was no sign that he had made any effort to defend himself.

  A blow to the head, the doorkeeper had said.

  There was no obvious damage to the face or the crown of the head. Ruso glanced up to make sure the house door was still shut, then gently raised the wreath of roses three or four inches with both hands, afraid it might spring apart in his fingers.

  There was nothing to see.

  From inside the house he could hear running footsteps, the calling-out of orders, doors banging and the scrape of furniture being shifted.

  Ruso leaned forward, murmured, “Forgive me,” and slid a hand behind the wreath and under the head of young Titus.

  “Gaius Petreius!”

  Ruso spun round, his heart racing. How had Sabinus reached the foot of the garden steps without making a sound? How long had he been standing there? Long enough to see Ruso repositioning the wreath? Long enough, even, to see him palpating the depressed fracture at the back of Titus’s skull?

  He tried to get his breathing under control. “Sir?”

  “Did you have something to do with this?”

  As his mind fumbled for an explanation of why he had been touching the corpse, Ruso became aware that Sabinus was asking the wrong question. “Sir?”

  Sabinus scowled. “At least have the decency not to treat me like a fool. Verax. He isn’t where we left him. He’s escaped.”

  “Sir?”

  Sabinus sighed. “You and that sister of yours. Is that what you were up to?”

  “Not at all, sir,” Ruso assured him, realizing with a rush of relief that he had got away with it. He added truthfully, “I know nothing about it,” and then with less conviction, “Nor does my sister.”

  “You’d better not be lying to me.”

  In other circumstances Ruso might have cared that Sabinus didn’t trust him. As things stood, he was delighted to be accused of the wrong thing. “I have no idea where he is, sir. Or where he was.” With luck, Flora’s bad choice of boyfriend had run away and would never be seen again.

  “Hmph.” Sabinus began to work his way up, pausing on each step to bring the second foot up to join the first before setting off again.

  “Sir, is it possible Verax is innocent?”

  But Sabinus did not seem to be listening. “Should have sent him away years ago,” he said. “Too soft with him. Made the mistake of listening to his mother.” He raised the stick, a thin stripe against the blue sky. It swung down and hit the wooden railing with a crack. “Women! They’re a weakness.”

  “Sir—”

  “I never dreamed it would come to this. Both my boys! The gods have had their revenge.”

  “Sir, Verax may not—”

  “Don’t torment me!”

  “Sir, let me make some enquiries. It can’t make things any worse. I can say I’m doing it for my sister.”

  Sabinus shrugged. “Do what you like. I want nothing to do with it.” He eased his way across to the bier and gazed down at his lost son. “I’ve got a funeral to arrange.”

  6

  Tilla waited until she and Flora were well clear of the estate and jolting along the main road before asking, “Who would want to hurt this Titus?”

  Flora shrugged. “Who wouldn’t? I couldn’t tell you back at his house, but everybody hates him. He’s a creep.”

  “A creep?”

  “When people first meet him—I mean, met him—they thought he was really friendly,” she said. “But he wasn’t like that underneath. He was always bragging to his friends about the rich girls he’d done it with. And he thought it was funny to play to tricks on people. Like when my friend was up in the high seats watching the gladiators, and he sneaked up behind her and put a live mouse down the back of her dress.”

  Tilla shuddered, imagining the horror of something furry scurrying around inside her clothing.

  “She jumped up and fell onto the people in the next row down and some old lady got hurt and there was lots of trouble and they all got thrown out. Titus told everyone it was her own fault for making such a fuss.”

  “That is bad,” Tilla agreed, reining back the mules as the ox wagon in front slowed to a crawl on the long incline.

  “Then once they were all out drinking and Titus waited till the serving-man went to the latrine and he put a s
corpion under a cup on the bar.”

  Tilla was too busy sizing up the speed of the carriage approaching in the distance to reply.

  “And then they all laughed when the man got stung.”

  She urged the mules into a trot and steered them out past the lumbering cart.

  Flora said, “Are you not afraid the beasts will run away?”

  “No,” Tilla assured her, hoping they were as well trained as they seemed to be, and squinting at the approaching carriage.

  She could see the flying manes of the horses galloping towards her. Her own vehicle was still parallel with the cart. Flora was still talking. The approaching driver was frantically hauling on the reins. Tilla could see his mouth moving. She cried out to urge the mules on, and just managed to bring them back in before the carriage thundered past, its wheels missing their own by inches. Whatever the driver yelled at them was lost in the noise, as was Flora’s retort of, “You should learn to drive!” and then when the carriage was gone, “Stupid man! Does he think he’s at the races?”

  Tilla, suspecting the near miss had been her own fault, wiped the perspiration off her forehead and decided she liked her sister-in-law more than she had realized.

  “Anyway,” Flora continued, “Titus.”

  “Titus,” said Tilla, speaking more kind words to the animals and glad her husband’s family drove mules and not horses, which would have been much harder to settle after the excitement.

  “Everyone says he’s worse since he went to Rome,” said Flora. “I don’t know why Marcia wants to go to Rome if they’re all like that. Thinking they’re so superior and they know everything and out here in the provinces we’re practically barbarians—oh, sorry.”

  “That must be very annoying,” Tilla told her, ignoring the insult to her British ancestors.

  “Verax heard he got sent home early because he got into trouble all the time. All the estate staff were praying for the day he went off to join the Legions. I expect his real driver was just pretending to be ill so he didn’t have to put up with him.”

  “Somebody liked him enough to invite him to a party,” Tilla pointed out.

  “I told you, he could be nice when he wanted something. Or when he had to talk his way out of trouble.”

  “He sounds very annoying,” Tilla agreed. “But was he so bad that people would want to kill him?”

  “He was horrible.”

  Something about her tone prompted Tilla to ask, “Did he do something to you?”

  The cart had trundled on for a good few paces before Flora said, “It wasn’t anything much. It’s got nothing to do with what happened to him.”

  “Tell me.”

  “It was nothing,” Flora insisted. “I told you, he was like that with everybody.”

  “Like what?”

  Another pause. “Promise me you won’t tell my brother.”

  Tilla shook her head. “He must know everything if he is to help. But you don’t have to tell him yourself if you don’t want to. I will do it.”

  Flora was silent as they passed a crossroads where a little shrine was decked with wilting flowers. Finally she said, “It was when I went with my other brother to deliver something to the estate. Verax was busy working and Lucius went off to talk to the steward, and Titus got me in a room on my own.”

  “Oh, Flora!” Tilla glanced at her. “I am sorry.”

  “Oh, no, it wasn’t that bad!” Flora shifted beside her on the bench. “It was just talk. I can’t even remember what he said. It was the way he said it. And the way he looked at me. Sort of… so he knew I knew what he meant. It made me go all squirmy inside. I didn’t know what to say so I just pretended not to understand. And afterwards I felt really…” She stopped, searching for a word. “Stupid. Angry with myself.”

  “Did Verax know?”

  “I never told Verax he did anything. Truly I didn’t. And they sorted it out between them at the time.”

  “How did they sort it out?”

  Flora pulled at a crease in her dress. “Verax went to see him,” she said. “Titus was all slime and politeness and said he hadn’t meant to insult me, and he went on about what a lucky man Verax was.”

  “And then?”

  “And then nothing,” said Flora. “That was it. So it’s got nothing to do with last night, has it?”

  “I don’t expect so.”

  “Of course it hasn’t! I wish I hadn’t told you now. We need to go right here.”

  Tilla had already begun to make the turn onto the farm track. In just this short distance, she had learned much about Titus, she had changed her mind about Flora, and she had narrowly avoided a serious accident. Verax had been obliged to make a much longer journey in the sole company of a spoiled half-brother who had insulted his girl. Whatever had been going through his mind by the time they arrived at the party was not likely to have been friendly.

  Ahead, one of the slaves swung open the gate to let them through. There was a shriek of “Flora!” from the house.

  At the sight of her mother running towards her with arms wide, Flora gave a dramatic sigh and then cried, “It’s all right, Mother, I’m fine!”

  The slave was called to help Flora down from the cart while her mother demanded to know whether she was really fine. Was she quite sure? “We’ve all been so worried about you!”

  “We just nearly got crashed into by a mad driver,” Flora announced. “You should have seen him! Tilla only just got us out of the way in time.”

  “Did Gaius not go with you?” Arria peered into the cart as if Tilla might have tied him up and thrown him into the back with the logs. “What have you done with my stepson?”

  Tilla said, “He stayed behind to talk to someone.”

  “Gaius is going to see Verax and tell him not to worry and everything will be all right,” Flora explained. “Can somebody get me some water? I’m about to die of thirst.”

  Arria frowned. “But how will it be all right?”

  “Because Verax didn’t do it, of course,” said Flora.

  7

  The farm hands had finished work for the day and gone in for dinner. Ruso leaned on the study windowsill and thought of the times his father must have stood here while the stillness of the early evening settled on the vineyard. Watching the low sun dappling the leaves and gradually giving way to dusk. Hearing the last trills of the cicadas: the sound Tilla called “that screechy noise”. The sound that he always thought of as the music of home. Had this tranquil view given his father peace from his worries? Or had the voices of his creditors whispered to him even here?

  From deeper inside the house Ruso heard running footsteps. A door slammed, a child squealed, and another was shouting, “That’s mine! Give it back!”

  The words of the reply were unintelligible, but the tone was not.

  “You’re supposed to be in bed!” cried the outraged victim. “If Ma was here—”

  Another muffled reply.

  “Well when she gets back I’m going to tell her!”

  Another door banging, or possibly the same one. Then an adult voice, demanding to know what was going on.

  Ruso glanced over his shoulder to check that he had secured the latch. To be part of a large and healthy family was a great blessing, but sometimes that blessing was best appreciated from the privacy of a quiet study. A man with responsibilities needed somewhere to marshal his thoughts and—

  He leaned further out of the window, shading his eyes and peering between the gnarled trunks of the vines to where he had seen movement. It was too early in the year to worry about human thieves, but an animal left to wander could cause a lot of damage. A visit from a goat would be a disaster. Should he go to check? On the other hand, venturing out would mean being accosted by the rampaging nephews and nieces.

  He squinted out between the spindly rows for a long time, but nothing seemed to be moving now. He turned to the indoor gloom. He needed to concentrate his thoughts on the problem of Flora’s boyfriend.

  He w
ould have liked to talk the whole thing over with his brother while steaming pleasantly in the farm bathhouse with the door locked, but Lucius wasn’t here. The bathhouse might as well not have been here, either. As Marcia had explained over dinner, the bath boy had recently died of old age and Lucius had been too mean to buy a replacement. “So the whole place is useless. If we want to bathe properly we have to go into town.”

  “It’s not useless, dear,” her mother had intervened. “The other staff light the furnace for special occasions.”

  “But we never have any special occasions.”

  “Never mind,” Ruso told them, noting that his own arrival wasn’t deemed special enough to celebrate. “It’s too hot anyway.”

  His remark had been followed by a sudden clatter from across the dining room. Something—a chunk of bread?—skittered across the mosaic and vanished under a cupboard. “Why does it matter?” cried Flora, scrambling to her feet. “Poor Verax is all alone and he’s going to be tortured and killed and I’ll die an old maid and you’re all here discussing stupid bathhouses!”

  “But Flora dear, we can’t—”

  “And Gaius didn’t even talk to him when I asked him to!”

  “Please, dear—”

  “You all pretend you care but you don’t!” With that, Flora ran out of the room in tears and Tilla abandoned the meal to follow her.

  Ruso had seen neither of them since. He could have told Flora that Verax probably wasn’t being tortured, but for the moment he wanted to keep the escape a secret. This business was messy enough already.

  He hauled his father’s chair up to the desk. In a moment he would need to call for a light.

  The door rattled as someone tried to enter, but the latch held. “It’s me!” announced Marcia. After a moment there was a dull thud as if she had kicked the door. “I know you’re in there, Gaius.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m your sister. Do I have to want something?”

  When he released the latch she put her head around the door and said, “You don’t have to sit here in the dark, you know. Even Lucius lets us light the lamps once in a while.”