Whatever was going on here in Baetica might not matter to anybody back in Rome. The oil cartel could merely be the excuse Laeta and Anacrites used to perpetuate their rivalry. Or Laeta had used it on his own. Much as I loathed Anacrites, he was beginning to look like an innocent victim. He might have been just doing his job, decently attempting to protect a valuable commodity. Perhaps he was unaware of the threat from Laeta. When I saw them together at the dinner they had sparred verbally, but there was no sense that the spy suspected Laeta might actually be preparing to pick him off. Him and his best agent—a man I reckoned I would have liked.

I could walk away from the palace intrigue—but the dead Valentinus would continue to haunt me.

The scenario stank. I was furious that I had ever become involved. Helena's father had warned me that whatever was happening among the Palatine magnates would be something to avoid. I should have known all along how I was being used. Well of course I did know, but I let it happen anyway. My mission was a bluff—if Laeta hired Selia to attack Anacrites, he must have brought me in merely to cover his own tracks. He could pretend publicly that he was searching for culprits, though all he wanted was power. He must have believed I would fail to find Selia. Maybe he even supposed I would be so entranced with the importance of investigating a provincial cartel, I would forget to look for her at all. Did he hope I would be killed off in the attempt? Well, thanks, Laeta! Anacrites at least would have shown greater faith in my tenacity.

Perhaps instead Laeta wanted me to kill Selia, because she would know how he came to power.

As for the quaestor and his bumptious senator father, they looked like mere adjuncts to this story. I could only warn the Emperor that Quinctius Attractus was assuming too much power in Baetica. The proconsul would have to deal with Quadratus. I was treading on sliding scree, and I could risk nothing more. No informer accuses a senator of anything unless he is sure of support. I was sure of nothing.

I decided I did not want Claudius Laeta to acquire more power. If Anacrites died, Laeta could take over his empire; once in charge, whether he was bothered about the price of olive oil looked doubtful to me. I had heard for myself how Laeta was obsessed with the trappings of success with which Anacrites had surrounded himself: the suite in the palace of the Caesars, the villa at Baiae. Laeta's personal ambition looked clear enough. And it relied on undetected maneuvering. He certainly would not want me popping up in Rome to say be had paid Selia to eliminate Anacrites. Vespasian would never stand for it.

Maybe I would have to use this knowledge to protect myself. I was perfectly prepared to do so, to secure my own position—yet dear gods, the last thing I really wanted at this point in my life was a powerful politician nervous about what I might know.

I would have to fight him ruthlessly. It was his own fault. He was leaving me no choice.

 

I spent two days riding hard with muscles that had already ached and a brain that swam. I was so tired when I reached the mansio at Corduba I nearly fell onto a pallet and stayed there overnight. But I needed to see Helena. That kept me on my feet. I recovered the horse Optatus had lent me to come into town, and forced myself to stay upright on it all the way home to the Camillus estate.

Everything looked normal. It was dark, so the watchdogs set up a hectic yammering at my approach. When I led the horse to the stable a slave appeared to look after him, so I was spared that. The slave looked at me shiftily, as most villa rustica staff do. Without a word, I left my baggage roll and limped slowly to the house.

Nobody was about. A few dim lamps lit the corridor. I was too weary to call out. I went to the kitchen, which was where I expected to find everyone. Only the cook and other house-slaves were there. They all froze when I appeared. Then Marius Optatus broke in through another door opposite.

He was holding a leash; he must have been to investigate what had disturbed the dogs. His face was gray, his manner agitated even before he saw me.

"Falco, you're back!"

"What's wrong?"

He made a vague, helpless gesture with the hand that held the dog leash. "There has been a tragic accident—"

I was already on my way, running like a madman to the room I shared with Helena.

FIFTY-TWO

 

Marcus!"

She was there. Alive. Larger than ever; still pregnant. Whole. Sound.

I fell to my knees beside the chair as she struggled to rise and took her in my arms. "Oh dear gods..." My breath rasped in huge painful gulps.

Helena was crying. She had been crying before I crashed into the room. Now instead she was calming me, holding my face between her hands, her light rapid kisses on my eyes both soothing and greeting me.

"Optatus said there had been an accident—"

"Oh my darling! It's neither of us." She laid my hand upon the unborn child, either to comfort me or herself, or to give the baby notice that I was home again. It seemed a formal, archaic gesture. I tickled the child and then kissed her, both with deliberate informality.

"I should bathe. I stink and I'm filthy—"

"And half dead on your feet. I had a feeling—I've ordered hot water to be kept for you. Shall I come and scrape you down?"

"That's more pleasure than I can cope with..." I rose from my kneeling position beside her wicker chair. "Stay and rest. But you'd better tell me about this accident."

"Later."

I drew a finger across her tear-stained cheek. "No, now."

Helena said nothing. I knew why she was being stubborn. I had left her. Something terrible had happened, which she had had to cope with on her own, so now I had lost my rights.

We gazed at one another quietly. Helena looked pale, and she had her hair completely loose, which was rare for her. Whatever had happened, part of her unhappiness was because she had been alone here without me. Well, I was home now.

In the dim light of a single oil lamp, Helena's eyes were nearly black. They searched my face for my own news, and for whatever I was feeling towards her. Whenever we had been apart there was this moment of readjustment; the old challenge was reissued, the new peace had to be reaffirmed.

"You can tell me I shouldn't have gone away—but do it after you explain what's been happening."

She sighed. "You being here wouldn't have changed anything. There has just been a terrible accident. It's young Rufius," she told me. "Rufius Constans. He was working on an oil press on his grandfather's estate when one of the quernstones slipped and crushed him. He was alone when it must have happened. By the time somebody found him he was dead."

"Yes, that's a dreadful thing to have happened..." Constans had been young and full of promise; I felt bitterly depressed. Helena was expecting my next reaction. I tipped my head on one side. "He was alone? Nobody else was with him?"

"No, Marcus," she replied softly. I knew that, trained by me to be skeptical in every situation, she had already spent time wondering, just as I was doing now. "No; I can see what you are thinking. But there is no possibility of mischief."

"No special crony lending Constans a hand with the oil press?"

"No. Quinctius Quadratus was out of action; I can vouch for that myself."

I took her word. I was too tired to concern myself with how she knew.

 

I held out my hand and now she let herself take it. "Have you been fighting?" Helena could always spot the damage. "Just a few knocks. Did you miss me?"

"Badly. Was your trip useful?"

"Yes."

"That makes it all right then."

"Does it? I don't think so, love!" Suddenly unable to bear being apart from her, I tightened my grip to pull her up from the chair. "Come and wield a strigil for me, sweetheart. I'll never reach my own back tonight."