A Pattern of Blood by Rosemary Rowe

Author:Rosemary Rowe [Rowe, Rosemary]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781472205063
Barnesnoble:
Publisher: Headline
Published: 2000-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

We were still staring after Maximilian’s departing figure when the two servants returned with a pitcher of water and a rough board covered with a cloth, and we turned our attention to the decent removal of the page. As the slave pair lifted the lifeless body onto its makeshift bier, the rest of the group began to disperse uneasily.

Julia had been standing with her hands clasped to her breast, looking more shaken than ever. Suddenly she seemed to take a decision. She spoke, and her voice trembled with shock and anger.

‘Flavius is not left-handed, citizens, but I suspect his work in this. Though I cannot imagine how he did it. I posted a pair of slaves outside his door all night, in case he tried to approach me while I slept, and they did not see him leave his room. But somehow this must be his handiwork. He has used Rollo as his messenger to me in the past, but recently I have refused to accept his letters. No doubt he blamed Rollo. Poor little page. He meant no harm. And I have lost a good slave, too.’

She shook her head, and, accepting Mutuus’s arm, glided gracefully back in the direction of the atrium with her maids. Sollers, I noticed, was watching them grimly.

The two bearers of the makeshift litter adjusted their burden, and carried the page out to the rear enclosure to be arranged for burial. Junio and I found ourselves alone with Sollers.

‘A remarkable woman, medicus,’ I said. ‘Determined, too, posting guards at the door. But what do you make of that? Do you suspect Flavius?’

He dragged his attention away from the door through which Julia and Mutuus had disappeared, and turned courteously back to us. He shook his head. ‘Julia is distraught. Flavius frightens her with his insistence, and she sees his hand in everything. Besides . . .’ He did not finish the sentence, but looked at me meaningfully.

Flavius was right-handed, he meant. Neither Julia nor Mutuus, I realised, had noticed the trick with the purse, and Sollers did not mention it now. The little demonstration had been intended for me alone, and I felt oddly flattered at having been singled out as an intellect worthy of the distinction.

‘So, citizen,’ he said, ‘what do you intend to do now?’

‘I should like to look at the kitchens, if I could do so without arousing suspicion. I would like to see exactly how the food is prepared.’

He raised his eyebrows at me; his striking face was wry. ‘You still think Rollo was poisoned? You may be right. It is impossible to tell after death, and we have no samples of food to test. But why, in that case, were there bruises on his body, and why should Rollo alone have been affected? One would have expected all the slaves to die.’

Perhaps I should have paid attention, then, to the significance of those marks. But I was following my own train of thought. I looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Because,’ I said, ‘I know something that you may not.

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