Helena finally took pity: “He's working for a private client.”
“Anyone I know?”
“Oh nothing terribly exciting. It's just a commission for a woman who needs help to bring a lawsuit, I believe.”
“It seems a long way for you to come.”
“We were out here for family reasons,” Helena replied reassuringly.
Euphrasia ignored that. “I'm fascinated… however would your husband find a client in a strange province? Did he advertise?”
“Not at all.” Helena was perfectly calm, in marked contrast to the other woman's obvious edginess. “We were on holiday. The client found us. She was somebody who had heard of Falco in Rome.”
Euphrasia could no longer bear the suspense and came out with her question bluntly: “He's not working for that hard trout who was involved with Pomponius Urtica?”
“Do you mean Scilla?” asked Helena innocently.
“I know she wants to cause trouble,” Euphrasia said, backing off slightly and becoming more offhand again. “she has been harassing my husband. I dare say she's been on at Calliopus too. We know he's in Lepcis,” Euphrasia continued, now speaking bitterly. “With that wife of his, I hear. Artemisia has had a lot to answer for!”
“Why would that be?” asked Helena, in quiet astonishment. As far as we knew, all Artemisia had done was to let herself be married to Calliopus, a man who reckoned that being wealthy meant owning a full set of everything- including a mistress called Saccarina in Borealis Street. Euphrasia's accusatory tone seemed uncalled for. Mind you, I had now seen that Artemisia was young and beautiful, which many another woman would find unforgivable.
“Oh never mind her,” Euphrasia said dismissively. “If Artemisia takes chances, Calliopus puts her right with his fist. If you ask me,” she leaned forward, looking earnest, “scilla's the one who intends to cause serious trouble. She's the maggot to watch.”
“I quite liked her,” Helena commented, resisting Euphrasia's condemnation.
“You're too tolerant. She's trying to force a confrontation with my husband and Calliopus. We're certain she's persuaded that dreadful man Hanno to back her.”
“She had a terrible experience when the lion attacked her lover,” Helena remonstrated gently. “I'm sure it wasn't her fault. I don't believe she ever asked for a private display in her honor. It seems to have been her fianc?'s idea; she disapproved of it. He made a misjudgment, a typical male error. It's very sad for Scilla that Pomponius died that way.”
“You know quite a lot about her then?” Euphrasia asked narrowly.
“She approached me first. Falco was off on a jaunt with my brother, so in a way I vetted her. As I say, I did feel for her. Some compensation for her loss would seem to be desirable.”
There was a short silence.
“I was there of course,” Euphrasia barked.
“Where, Euphrasia?” Helena may not have grasped immediately what she meant. I could tell she soon remembered that Saturninus had told me the four evening diners at the intended private show had been Pomponius and Scilla, plus himself-and also his wife. We should have asked Euphrasia for her version before this.
“At Pomponius' house. When the lion got loose.”
“You saw what happened then?” Helena replied quietly.
“Oh yes. I shan't say any more; my husband would be furious. It was agreed that nothing would be said. Pomponius wanted it that way.”
“I don't understand.”
“Naturally, it was to protect her. Scilla, I mean. Pomponius was loyal, you have to give him that. When he realized he was dying, he was more insistent than ever. She had enough of a reputation without all Rome hearing about the lion incident.”
“Well, Pomponius is dead now-”
“Stupid man!” Euphrasia snarled. “Don't ask me about it,” she repeated. “But Scilla could tell you. Before you start feeling sorry for that little madam, Helena Justina, you should make her admit the truth. Ask Scilla,” commanded Euphrasia resoundingly, “who really killed that lion!”
She swept to her feet. As she did so, she must have disturbed something, a small golden creature which darted along a skirting not far from where the baby was inspecting her own pink little toes on the floor.
“Is that a mouse?” Helena gasped.
“No, a scorpion.”
I walked into the room, like a husband just returning from a morning on the quayside. Keeping up the charade, I let my face register all the right things: surprise at seeing Euphrasia, alarm at Helena's set white face, rapid reaction to the emergency.
I scooped up the baby; passed her to Helena; moved Helena out of the way; pushed past Euphrasia. I seized a vase and dropped it over the scorpion. Helena had closed her eyes, rigid with shock.
“Helena once had a bad scorpion sting,” I explained tersely.
I shepherded them all from the room then went back to deal with the scuttling thing. After I had battered it to pieces, taking revenge for what the other had done to the precious girl I loved, I sat on my haunches in private for a moment, remembering how Helena nearly died.
I went out to find her. Holding her and Julia, hushing them, even I trembled.
“It's all right, Marcus.”
“We'll go home.”
“No; it's all right.”
When we had settled down again, we realized that in the panic Euphrasia had taken her chance to avoid awkward questions; she had slipped away.
We could not ask my client what Euphrasia had meant, because Scilla still failed to appear.
Then, out of the blue next day, the elusive Scilla wrote to me. The letter was found on the doorstep in the morning, so there was no messenger to trace. It appeared she was now in Lepcis, though as usual, she was coy about her address.
She confessed that when she arrived here (which must have been some time ago) after she failed to find me she had hired someone else. She did not specify Romanus, though I reckoned it was him. He had managed to contact the two men for her, and there were plans for a settlement. I could send a bill to the house of Pomponius Urtica in Rome to cover any expenses I myself had incurred so far. My services were no longer required.
Paid off, eh?
Not me, Scilla. My clients were always losing heart and backing away; it was a hazard of the job. The mud they stirred up often took them by surprise and caused a rethink. It was not worth pressurizing them once they lost the initial impetus.
Nor, when a case had once attracted my interest was I ever in the habit of allowing myself to abandon it. I would stop work when I chose. Which meant, when I had satisfied my own curiosity.
57
THE NIGHT BEFORE the Games, Rutilius and I took a quiet walk out to the amphitheater.
We crossed the wadi by the harbor, then hiked along the beach, alternately hopping on rocky outcrops and sinking into soft white sand.
“This is hard going,” Rutilius complained, stretching his calf muscles. “I'll arrange transport tomorrow. Will Helena want to come?”
I picked up a piece of cuttlefish. “Yes, sir. She says she's afraid I may end up in the arena fighting somebody.”
“Is it likely?” He sounded shocked.
