SHADOWS IN BRONZE

spoke to Helena; he claimed to have been sent by Marcellus, bringing her a parasol to ward off the strong sun.

I pointed out coldly that we were standing in the shade. The slave stuck fast.

My hands began clenching at my sides. He had size, but his body was so soft he wore wristbands like a gladiator to convince himself he was tough. It took more than a few buckled straps to convince me. Here on the Consul's estate he was safe enough. But anywhere off his home ground, I could have doubled him up like a piece of human guyrope and fastened him in a cleat.

My temper reached straining point.

'Lady, I may have all the social breeding of a cockroach in a wall crack, but you don't need a bodyguard when you're talking to me!' Her face set.

'Wait over there please!' Helena Justina instructed him; he looked truculent, but did shuffle off out of earshot.

'Stop sounding so brutal!' she ordered me, with a look that would etch cameo glass.

I restrained myself. 'What does your father want?'

'To thank you for the statue.' I shrugged. Helena was frowning. 'Falco, I know where that statue used to be; tell me how you came by it!'

'There's no problem with the statue.' Her air of interference was beginning to annoy me. 'It's a good piece, and your father seems the best man to appreciate it.' Her father had trouble controlling her, but he was very fond of Helena. A man of taste. 'Did he like it?'

'It was father who commissioned it. A gift to my husband…' She folded her arms, reddening slightly.

I chose to avoid this glimpse of the courteous Camillus family honouring Atius Pertinax as they betrothed him to their young daughter. Helena was still looking troubled. I finally realized why: she was afraid I had stolen the thing!

'Sorry to disabuse you; I happened to be in your ex-husband's house for legitimate purposes!'

I walked down the steps, anxious to get away. Helena was following me. As I reached the ox cart she muttered, 'Why do you want the freedman Barnabas? Is it really because of his legacy?'

'No.'

'Has he done something wrong, Falco?'

'Probably.'

'Serious?'

'If murder is.'

She bit her lip. 'Shall I make enquiries here for you?'

'Best to keep out of it.' I forced myself to look at her. 'Lady, take care! Barnabas has caused at least one death-and may intend more.' Mine for instance, but I omitted that. It might worry her. Or worse, it might not.

We were standing in full sun now, which gave that lump with her parasol an excuse to come down. Pretending to turn away I confided, 'If you know Barnabas, I need to talk to you-'

'Wait in the olive grove,' she urged in a hurried undertone. 'I'll come after lunch…'

I began to feel badly harassed. Larius was gazing seawards, so discreet it made me cringe. That inquisitive hulk Nero nosed around me shamelessly to see what was going on, dribbling down my tunic sleeve. Then the bodyguard stationed himself alongside the lady as he held up the parasol. It was a huge yellow silk affair with a trailing fringe, like a monstrous jellyfish; at the Circus she could have obstructed spectators for at least six rows behind.

Helena Justina herself stood here in her brilliant white dress and ribbons, like a light, bright, highly decorated Grace on a vase. I stepped up into the cart. I looked back. Something drove me to announce, 'By the way-I realized that sooner or later you would give me the bum's rush, but I thought you were well-mannered enough to mention it!'

'Give you the what?' The woman knew exactly what I meant.

'You could have written. No need for a full oration; 'Thanks and get lost, punk' would express the right idea. Writing 'Goodbye' would not have tired your wrist!'

Helena Justina drew herself up. 'No point, Falco! By the time I decided, you had already tripped off to Croton without a word!'

She shot me a look of spectacular distaste, dodged out from the parasol, then skipped up the steps and back into the house.

•

I let Larius drive. I reckoned if I tried my hands would shake.

She unsettled me. I had wanted to see her but now I had, everything about the occasion left me shifting in my seat.

Nero was plunging straight towards the olive grove, eagerly showing off how well he knew the way. Larius sat with one arm on his knee, unconsciously copying Petronius. He turned sideways to inspect me.

'You look as if you'd been poked in the ear with a broom.'

'Nothing so subtle!' I said.

'Excuse me,' Larius goaded heartlessly. 'But who was that?'

'That? Oh, her in the ribbons? The honourable Helena Justina. Father in the senate and two brothers on foreign service. Married once; one divorce. An adequate education, a passable face, plus property worth a quarter of a million in her own right-'

'Seemed a pleasant sort of woman!'

'She called me a rat.'

'Oh yes, I gathered you two were very close!' my nephew declared, with the candid, casual sarcasm he was honing to perfection nowadays.

XXXIII

My brain was wanting to race, and I was trying to prevent it. All the way down to the olive grove I scowled in silence. Larius whistled jauntily through his teeth.

Rather than think about Helena, I considered Caprenius Marcellus. He might not be active politically now, but he was still keenly alert. He must have known all about his son's plot while Pertinax was alive-and probably encouraged it. I bet he knew where Aufidius Crispus was too.

I wondered if Marcellus had invited Helena to visit him in order to pick her brains about developments on the official side after his son's death.

Meanwhile I had no doubt Helena had abandoned me. I could hardly believe it. Six weeks before things had been so different. Remembering, a slow, rich warmth spread into me, fixing me where I sat… And what would that smart young lady be thinking now? Whether to have a pound or two of Lucanian sausage or a great fat conical sheep's cheese from the Lactarii Mountains for her lunch. Helena had a spanking appetite; she would probably need both.

Larius and I ate our apples in the olive grove.

•

I prepared for a lengthy wait while the Consul dawdled through his three-hour snack and washed it down; his honour had filled himself a substantial wine flask for one old man and a wench who was, as far as I had ever found out, abstemious with drink. Marcellus looked like the kind of invalid who made the most of his convalescence.