“What’s that?” he shouted out the front of the tent at nobody, then turned to Claire. “Lady Claire, I think the upper footman is needing you for something.”
Rising, Claire peered outside. “Where is he?”
“You don’t see him?” He rose as well. “I’ll escort you.”
With a hand on her shoulder, Jonathan steered her toward the tent’s opening. “Since the hour grows late,” he added, looking back to Noah, “perhaps we ought to have Mr. Hawkins begin with the six of you. We’ll join you momentarily.”
Eleven
“Wait—” Claire began.
“Just over here,” Jonathan said firmly, propelling her onward.
He didn’t let up until they’d got far enough from the tent to avoid prying ears. Then he relinquished her shoulder and, bracing for her reaction, blurted out, “There was no footman.”
“I worked that out for myself,” she said dryly.
And to his amazement, with perfect equanimity, continued their walk.
He kept pace beside her, wondering what she could be thinking. “I’m sorry for the trick,” he ventured. “But I thought you might need a respite from the party, presumptuous though that may be. I wanted to make certain you were all right.”
“You mean: You wanted to make certain I didn’t lose my temper.”
Sheepishly he raised his eyes—and, to his great surprise, found hers twinkling. “You’re taking this extraordinarily well.”
“You’re right; I ought to be scolding you. But as I did need a respite and I was losing my temper, I cannot conceive how.”
“You could scold me for tricking you,” he suggested.
“You really think I have any right to reproach you on that score?”
He grinned. “Fair point.”
The matter settled, they strolled along companionably till Claire asked, “Where are we going?”
A moment’s reflection taught him where his feet were headed. “The Venus Room. Unless you’d rather rejoin the others?”
“Goodness, no!”
Her vehemence once again raised Jonathan’s curiosity. But he kept to himself as they ambled among the hovels—thatched structures purpose-built to protect the site’s most significant archeological findings.
The hovel they ducked into had been built upon the Roman foundation walls of a large, airy room that jutted out from the rest of the complex. Lysons had concluded it was an audience chamber, where the villa’s owner would have conducted public business, received supplicants, and dispensed local justice.
“Ah, I remember this room,” Claire said, blinking round the dim interior. “Mr. Lysons said it was your favorite.”
Jonathan nodded. The chamber’s expansive floor was almost entirely filled by a masterpiece of ancient tile-work, much finer and more detailed than the Medusa. At its apex was the head of Venus, goddess of love and fertility, flanked by her customary peacocks and lotus flowers.
“These little cupids are darling.” Claire crouched to admire an ancillary segment of the mosaic. “What are they doing?”
Though he knew the cupids by heart, Jonathan moved to regard them over her shoulder.
The winged figures occupied a strip of vignettes which, taken together, told a story. “Those two are dressed as gladiators of differing classes: a secutor and a retiarius. Here, you see them in combat. Here, the secutor is kept from killing the retiarius. Next, before the fight resumes, the retiarius shows generosity by offering a fallen helmet to his opponent, who spurns it. Lastly, we see the secutor strike his death blow.”
“Hmph. Seems rather a callous allegory. What does it mean?”
“Who can say? Roman ethics bore little resemblance to our own.” He couldn’t resist adding (with feigned innocence): “Perhaps the retiarius is a traitor and his generosity a mere ploy. I’d argue such men deserve callousness.”
Her sharp look told him she’d caught his meaning—in this instance, the retiarius was Milstead. Straightening up, she began a ponderous turn about the room.
