"The Mammoth Book of Locked-Room Mysteries And Impossible Crimes" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ashley Mike, Edwards Martin, Ellis Kate, Frazer Margaret, Carr John Dickson,...)

III

“To Claudia!”

“Hurrah for the lady!”

“A toast to Claudia Seferius!”

One cheer after another ran round the banqueting hall, drowning the flutes in the background. All this, she thought, because I was the one who put Max on to Soni at the slave auction – what would they have been like, had she suggested he purchase a whole string! Goblets chinked, roasts were carved, and plates of salmon and oysters and hazel hens were passed round as slaves continuously topped up the wine. Except. Claudia coaxed a scallop out of its shell. Except Max had only bought the one slave, and what a magnificent specimen he was, this Soni from Gaul.

As a Greek balladeer recounted Jason’s triumphant lifting of the Golden Fleece, Claudia leaned against the arm of her couch and thought back to her first meeting with Max. Was it really only three weeks ago? So much had changed in that short space of time. She popped the scallop into her mouth and reflected that, without that chance meeting at the slave auction, she would not be here tonight as… well, as “guest of honour”, shall we say, of the man on whom Rome’s wealthiest citizens descended with greater regularity than a double dose of prunes, and where small fortunes changed hands for the gamble of turning wives into widows…

“See this?” A portly marble merchant on the couch opposite lifted the hem of his tunic to show his fellow diners a livid red scar. “The puncture wound was so bloody deep, I’m left with a permanent limp, but he was a plucky bugger, I tell you. Game to the end.”

“Call that a scar?” The magistrate beside him yanked at his neckline to expose a long and jagged line, barely healed. “Compared to mine, yours is a scratch.”

Much to the balladeer’s confusion, all eight then began dismantling expensive clothing in a bid to compare injuries, each insisting theirs was the worst while swearing at the same time that their quarry was the bravest, the toughest, possessing by far the most guile – ever. The singer’s words became drowned in the melee and Max shot a slow, but happy wink at Claudia. He had noticed, then, the ring which she wore on her finger…

Perhaps not as rich as Midas, hunts which were famed the length and breadth of Italy had enabled Max to not only purchase this fabulous villa stuffed with antiques and fine art, but lands that stretched to every horizon. No, sir. Claudia impaled a prawn on her knife. Without that chance meeting in Rome, Claudia Seferius would not be sitting here tonight with the man around whom Great Plans revolved…

Sometimes, she reflected, the gods on Olympus do smile down on mortals. Her mind drifted back. She’d been crossing the Forum from the east and another man had been crossing the Forum from the west. Marcus Cornelius Orbilio, to be precise, but- But dammit the man’s name was not important! What mattered was that the sweetest of all goddesses, Fortune (may her name live for ever), Fortune arranged for the slave auction to be held smack in the middle of their crossing paths. And Marcus Cornelius, god bless him, knew Max…

Marcus.

Marcus Cornelius.

Marcus Cornelius Orbilio.

Something skittered inside her when she pictured his face and she gulped at her wine to settle the jitters. Pfft! So what if he was tall and dark and – all right – not exactly bad looking? Who cared that his hair was wavy, except where it sometimes fell over his forehead, and that he wore the long tunic of a patrician? Marcus Whatsisname Thingy meant nothing to her. Nothing whatsoever. Less than zilch. In fact, the only reason her pulse raced now was owing to the lack of legality of certain scrapes she’d been in, seeing as how Supersnoop was attached to the Security Police.

In fact, that’s what she’d been doing in the Forum, returning from some rather dodgy dealings, but hell, what other option is there, when merchants conspire to freeze a young widow out of the wine trade that she’d been thrust into after inheriting her late husband’s business? Goddammit she’d married the old goat for his money, the least others could do is allow her to spend it. But no. Supersnoop’s always there, sticking his investigative snout in her business, hoping to catch her red-handed. One day he’d cotton on that she was too damned smart for him, but in the meantime Marcus God-but-I’m-handsome Orbilio had, for once in his miserable life, come up trumps.

Until then, Claudia was stuck with relying on moneylenders, con-tricks and bluff to keep the creditors at bay, but Fortune was favouring more than the brave that day. She was favouring Claudia Seferius. It was obvious, from their frosty introductions, that the two men weren’t exactly bosom buddies and chances are the meeting would have come to nothing – had Max not then excused himself, saying he needed to purchase a slave from the block.

“Just the one?” Claudia had asked. Normally people picked up quite a number. “One is hardly worth coming to Rome for.”

Suddenly the opening was there for the blond hunter to score points over his aristocratic rival. “My lovely Claudia,” Max had rasped, his eyes stroking her curves. “For me, one person is always enough.” Arched eyebrows indicated the auction block. “Which of those slaves would you recommend?”

“It depends on what qualities you’re looking for,” she’d purred back, with barely a glance in Marcus’ direction.

“In men,” Max replied huskily, “it has got to be staying power. Don’t you agree?”

“I wouldn’t settle for anything less.” From the corner of her eye, she saw the flush rise on Marcus’ face and, noticing Junius jabbering away in his native tongue to a fellow Gaul beside the auction block, she found it delectably easy to add, “Personally, I’ve always found Gauls to have extremely strong backs…”

Marcus by that time was glaring daggers and Max, capitalizing on this sexual undercurrent, instantly bid for the Gaul, whose name, it transpired, was Soni. The same Soni who had done the hunt so proud today.

All in all, Claudia thought, things were going exceedingly well…

Especially that exquisite moment when, swallowing his pride, Orbilio enquired whether he might attend Max’s forthcoming hunt. Knowing these were extravaganzas to die for, Claudia watched his face turn to thunder when Max oh-so-politely informed him that, alas, he only ever took ten men on a hunt and, he was so very sorry, but the next was fully booked…

As it happened, Claudia had been in the courtyard this morning when the hunt had set off. And there were eight men present, not ten. Dear me, she really must remember to mention that numbers thing to Marcus next time she saw him-

If she saw him again. The chances were, now he knew she was ensconced here with Max, he’d stop pestering her and stick his nose into someone else’s illegal wranglings.

“… I parried to the left, made a feint, dodged back to the right, but he was too smart for me…”

“… I was impaled once, right here.” More linen was bunched up to expose violated flesh. “Tossed me right on to my shoulder, he did…”

He! A wave of disgust washed over Claudia. They talk about boars, bears and wolves as though they were the hunter’s equals, yet how often do you see stags armed with a slingshot, or running with their own pack of dogs? She looked round the banqueting hall, at watery red eyes, fists thumping on tables, where words were already slurring, and wondered how these cloistered, overweight city-types would fare in one-to-one combat. With no bearers carrying their spears or their arrows. With no dogs at their side to hound wild creatures into panic. Just them out there, with only their wits to keep them alive…

“Having fun, darling?”

“Absolutely.”

And what would it be like, living with a constant succession of drunken braggarts, day in and day out? Max coped admirably, but then the post-hunt entertainment – this orgy of showing off afterwards – was part and parcel of the package he sold. He was, she decided, a magician. An illusionist. A man who – abracadabra! – turns fat slobs into young bucks, and should they look in the mirror back in Rome and see who they really are, then hey presto! All they need do is hand over more coins and suddenly they’re heroes again. The “war” wounds were not only worth the pain and aggravation. They were fundamental to the whole process.

She recalled their return this afternoon, whooping and hollering in the courtyard amid carcasses of slaughtered beasts and a welter of blood-caked spears, concerned only with the glory of their own achievements and not a single thought for the wounded. Or a lowly slave, who hadn’t come home…

“Is our hero not invited to join the celebrations?”

For perhaps a count of ten you could have heard the proverbial pin drop following Claudia’s question, then everyone clamoured at once, most of them bursting into raucous, drunken, astonished laughter.

“You mean Soni?”

“Not in here, love!”

“Soni? Join us? Now that’s rich!”

Claudia felt a tug on her elbow as Max gently steered her away from the couch. “That,” he said, speaking through his forced smile, “was extremely embarrassing, darling. My guests comprise merchants, politicians – the cream of Roman society.” He paused. “They do not take their dinners with slaves.”

“They take their dinners with dogs.”

“Cyclone and Thunderbolt are exceptions,” he said, and his blue eyes were steel. “The other dogs remain in the kennels, and never, ever do any of the bearers join in the banquet.”

“No matter how competent?”

“No matter how competent.” She felt his whole body unstiffen. “I admire your liberated ideas about slaves and equality,” Max said, winding one of her curls around his little finger. “But it’s my job to give these men what they want, and believe me, they don’t pay several thousand sesterces to dine with common slaves. Ah! The desserts.”

Platters of melons and cherries, quinces in honey, almond cakes and dates stuffed with apple passed by in mouth-watering succession.

“Come sit by me while we eat, it gives me an excuse to slip my arm round your lovely smooth shoulder.”

“Shortly,” Claudia promised. “There’s something I must attend to first.”

“Of course.” Max gently released the ringlet. “Hurry back, darling,” he whispered, rubbing the sapphire ring on her finger. “Your beauty is all that makes the evening tolerable. Oh, and Claudia-”

“Yes?” She turned in the doorway.

“Betrothal rings go on the left hand, my love.”