Virgin Territory

by Marilyn Todd

  These rocks, these coves, these shrouded mountain ridges seemed to him more Greek than Roman, even down to the reserved and sombre townspeople, and he felt very strongly that the island ought to have remained in his countrymen’s hands. Instead it had been wrenched from their grasp, and it was unfortunate that the very people who had founded democracy should have taken this rugged and beautiful island from the Sicels and then promptly allowed it to be ruled by a succession of tyrants. As a result it fell under Roman dominion and now his own land, too, was a Roman province. He was taught as a child to be proud to be a part of the Empire. Well, he wasn’t. He was Greek, and as such he was viewed by Romans—especially Romans like that arrogant bastard Orbilio—as second rate. Diomedes pursed his lips. We shall see, he thought. We shall see who’s top and who’s not.

  A fat, stripey bee came buzzing up to check whether this newcomer was a walking pollen factory, decided he wasn’t and buzzed off elsewhere.

  One thing had been bothering him these past two days. A small matter, but it nagged him like an obstinate itch.

  Someone had been in his room.

  In the few months since his arrival, Diomedes had become aware that someone was regularly filching one of his eye drugs. Minute quantities were being taken at a time, but he had quickly noticed that one particular copper vessel was getting gradually lighter and now he weighed it once a week on his balances to prove it. This didn’t bother him. Someone in the house had poor eyesight but was shrewd enough to correct it and stealthy enough to ensure no one else found out. Sooner or later the supply would run dry and the culprit (he suspected it was Senbi) would be forced into the open. Diomedes was content to wait.

  The other business was altogether different.

  It was Thursday, the day it rained. He had been in Sullium on a private commission, checking on the lead beater’s daughter who had swellings in her neck. During his absence his room had been searched.

  The minute he returned home, he knew he’d had a visitor. The rain had cleared the air outside, sharpening his sense of smell, and the instant he opened the door his nostrils picked out the recent burning of lamp oil over and above the usual and familiar medicinal scents. The eye-drop thief called only during the daytime but it was possible an exception had been made, so Diomedes had weighed the little copper container on his balances—and found no change. Immediately on his guard, he checked his drugs and poisons before moving on to his instruments, but these were where he had left them, neatly facing outwards or upwards to suit his requirements.

  It was only when he opened the box in the corner that he made his discovery. His old (and indeed blunt) double-ended scalpel, the one with the bronze handle, was lying upside down. It could not have been a mistake on his part—he always laid his instruments in a precise manner and since this was a dissection scalpel, never used, its position never varied. The handle end doubled as a spatula, and as such faced up. The person who had gone through the box was a layman and would be unaware of this when he replaced it…spatula down.

  No, there was no mistake. The question was, what should he do about it?

  As he paused to catch his breath, Diomedes realized he was almost upon the exact spot where Sabina had been killed. The flattened grass, parched and yellow, had sprung up again after the rain, there was absolutely nothing to suggest anything sinister had taken place, yet in spite of himself and his profession, he shivered.

  Claudia was of the opinion that the family were not touched by their kinswoman’s death, but she didn’t know them the way he knew them. Sabina had been away for thirty years, they had practically forgotten her existence and when she did return they neither liked nor understood her. They might not be driven by grief, but they had been undermined by another emotion. Fear.

  Fear of what, he didn’t know. Fear that because Sabina’s sanity had left her, the same might happen to them? Fear of a monster on the loose? Perhaps just fear of the unknown? Even as their doctor he was unable to plumb those intimate depths, but the Collatinus clan did what many families do in times of crisis.

  They pretended nothing had happened.

  To his right, a small bird warbled from the top of a thorn bush. He ought to be getting back, he thought. One of the weavers was calling about his infected toe, Dexippus had promised to repay those two denarii, and the Penates ceremony was scheduled for dusk. But the Greek’s eyes remained fixed to the place where Sabina had died.

  Many people had seen the corpse in its raw and shocking state, not only himself and Claudia, but when the news was out, the entire family clambered up here to gawk.

  Yet there was something very wrong about Sabina’s corpse.

  Diomedes wondered who else had noticed the discrepancy.

  XVII

  The ceremony of the Penates was an annual event, a sacrifice to the gods of the household store-cupboards who watch over and protect the stocks for the winter. In Rome this took the form of a morning ceremony up on the Velia, after which families gathered for private celebrations. A quick check of the kitchen, a generous toast; on to the grain stocks, a generous toast; down to the cellar, a generous toast. By the time it came to making the actual sacrifice, everyone was pretty well oiled and it ended up a wonderfully festive occasion hugely enjoyed by one and all, if the hangovers were anything to go by.

  Claudia had no idea why, in the Collatinus house, it should be celebrated at dusk. If celebrated was the word, and she had her doubts here.

  She tapped her foot impatiently. There was still a half-hour to kill, and she categorically refused to spend more time with these people than was necessary. Dear Diana, a girl daren’t set foot outside her own room these days for fear of tripping over hovering physicians. Then there was Portius poncing on about ‘his’ poetry, Matidia banging on about those bloody cushions for the banqueting hall or else it was a summons to Eugenius.

  Eugenius! Any more stories about that damned war and she’d scream. All right, so the island had been in decline for the last quarter century and maybe its towns and villages had decayed into nothingness, but you couldn’t blame Sextus for every crumbling ruin or every bankrupt landowner.

  ‘He incited the slaves to rise up,’ Eugenius had argued. ‘Without that, we’d all have remained prosperous.’

  Whinge, whinge, whinge. Good life in Illyria, the man was as rich as Midas, what more did he want? He’d come through the war unscathed, which is more than many could boast. Penalties for supporting the wrong side were harsh—in many cases, whole towns were razed—and as for the slaves, could you blame them for fighting for freedom? They had prayed to Feronia, goddess of liberty, and believing she’d sent divine help in the form of Sextus’s rebellion, they flocked in their droves to Sicily. But, Juno, how wrong could you be? When Augustus clawed his province back, some thirty thousand fugitives from the mainland were rounded up and returned to their owners, leaving a staggering six thousand unclaimed. Six thousand souls on whom Feronia turned her back.

  They had been impaled, every last one of them.

  And Eugenius Collatinus had watched.

  In fact, he’d turned it into a right bloody picnic and taken the whole damned family along.

  A gong clanged in the atrium outside her door, frightening the kittens and alarming their mother. Claudia spent twice as long soothing them as was necessary, indeed anything to postpone the time when she would have to stand among these ghouls and smile and be polite and witty and charming. When, finally, she could no longer put off the evil moment, she found the whole family assembled on the far side of the pool. Lamps flickered, bringing the farming friezes to life. Lambs gambolled, bees swarmed, corn was threshed. Rich unguents scented the room, herbs were strewn on the floor.

  There was Linus, his distinctive forehead shining in the artificial light, looking bored. Portius, weighed down with jewels, nibbled a broken nail. Matidia, in yellow wig and crimson stola, looked like a candle and you could hardly see Corinna for cloth—it was draped up her neck, down her arms, over her head, presu
mably to hide the bruises from children who showed no interest in her whatsoever. Paulus amused himself by pulling Popillia’s hair out of its clips. Marius stood proudly to attention beside his uncle Fabius, who today wore a scowl to match Popillia’s.

  Eugenius was apparently unwell and couldn’t attend, so it was Aulus who clapped his hands, took one majestic step forward—and stumbled. His eyes were glazed, his jaw loose. Claudia reckoned he must have been drinking solidly since daybreak.

  Behind him, the slaves, factory as well as household, hung back in the shadows. They stood stiffly, exchanging the occasional glance, biting the occasional lip. Considering Sabina had been murdered on Tuesday and buried on Wednesday, it was hardly surprising they were still jittery on Saturday. Gossip was rife enough—a maniac lurking in mountainous crevices, waiting to pounce on helpless women—without Marius pitching in with tales dear old Uncle Fabius had told him. Like how in one battle the centurion had thrust his sword deep into a barbarian’s throat, up through the top of his skull and blood had gushed out of his eyes…dear me, who wouldn’t have dropped the sacrifice?

  It was only a tray of corn and lentils, spelt and honey and, yes, she had to admit that it made one hell of a sticky mess, but Aulus went ape. The slave had done it on purpose, he insisted. A slur on himself, his family, his ancestors and his household gods. Deliberate sabotage of this most solemn of occasions.

  The boy shot a haunted glance towards Eugenius’s quarters. ‘But the Master—’

  That, although he couldn’t have guessed, was his undoing. Whether it was the drink or the build-up of years of frustration from constantly deferring to Eugenius, Claudia would never know, but Aulus exploded.

  ‘I am the Master!’ he roared. ‘Do you hear me? I’m the Master, and I’ll teach you to fuck up my ceremony, you clumsy bastard. Everybody! Outside! I’ll have no blood spilled on my floor.’

  Blood?

  Aulus clapped his hands. ‘Antefa, take this piece of filth out of my sight. You, fetch some torches and light up the yard.’

  The boy’s face had gone white. ‘Wh-what are you going to d-do?’

  Aulus mimicked his slave’s quivering. ‘I’m going to chop your bloody thumbs off, boy, that’s what I’m going to der-der-do!’

  A gasp rose from the slaves before they filed silently towards the rear of the building and into the square. Aulus barked an order to his steward. Claudia glanced round the rest of the assembly. Dexippus had a strange light in his eye. Acte looked sick. Diomedes was pushing his way towards another exit, presumably to fetch his case. Linus had a hand on his eldest son’s shoulders, propelling him towards the orchard. Fabius whispered something in Marius’s ear. Finally, only Claudia and Aulus remained in the atrium. Senbi passed by, weighing an axe in his hand, wearing the sort of grin that a man wears when he particularly enjoys his work. The splash of the fountain made her feel queasy, but Claudia kept her face expressionless.

  ‘What’s your problem?’ The contempt in Aulus’s bellow could be heard in Sullium. ‘Think it’s too harsh, do you?’

  ‘I do, yes,’ she replied slowly, ‘but more importantly I think if a man feels the need to establish his supremacy in such a brutal manner, then he’s totally failed to hit his target.’

  The point was further emphasized when the boy watched his thumbs fall from his hands without so much as flinching—though whether Aulus realized his servant had retained moral superiority Claudia very much doubted.

  XVIII

  ‘Who are you writing to?’

  Claudia surveyed the small round face which thrust itself in front of her. Marius might well be nine going on ten, but he had yet to add character to his features, which remained typical of rich boys everywhere who have been given everything they want in terms of toys, education, attention and flattery. Everything, that is, except the one thing they truly need. The love and attention of their parents. Perhaps it was no bad thing he’d latched on to Fabius with a single-minded obsession. It might yet be his salvation from a world of sycophants and sybarites, which was where his other uncle, Portius, was heading.

  ‘My sister-in-law,’ she replied.

  In fact she was composing a reply to Leonides, for nothing in the world would have induced her to write to that frightful old bag.

  ‘I don’t know why girls bother to learn to write.’ He gave a superior sniff. ‘It’s not as if they do anything with it.’

  Claudia ignored him.

  ‘I speak Greek, you know, and I’m only nine. Even boys in Rome don’t start to learn Greek until they’re eleven, do they?’

  Claudia decided not to dignify that with an answer either. She just hoped she was around when Popillia trotted out the two sentences she was so earnestly learning by heart.

  ‘Not that I’ll need Greek in the army.’ He stood stiffly to attention, shoulders back, chest out, chin up.

  Claudia’s pen scratched over the parchment. ‘I appreciate your attempts to conceal my whereabouts from Master Orbilio…’

  ‘Bet you don’t know how to make camp.’

  She laid down her pen. Did this boy say bet?

  ‘How much?’ she asked.

  A calculating look crept into Marius’s eyes. ‘My bulla against that ring there.’

  The boy knew his precious gems, then. Claudia eyed up the amulet round his neck, the little golden globe given to him at birth which was supposed to protect him until he was old enough to go it alone. It would weigh at least an ounce.

  ‘You’re on.’

  Claudia held out her hand and when he did the same, she made his eyes pop by clasping his wrist, warrior-style. Before he could recover from the shock, she was reciting as fast as she could.

  ‘Find a place which offers grazing and fresh water, but without cover where an enemy might be able to hide. Mark out the corners with coloured flags before digging first the outer defence then the inner. Only when that’s completed can you pitch tents, erecting the centurions’ tents at either end of the horseshoe.’

  She held out her hand, palm upwards to receive the bulla. Spanish gold. Nice.

  Marius stomped off, his face like thunder, and Claudia slipped the bulla into her tunic. Was it her fault her father had been an orderly in the army? But back to the letter writing. Poor Rollo. She had absolutely no idea what he should be doing up at the farm, but if he wanted to start dunging fields and fumigating presses, let him have his bit of fun.

  ‘Is that a l.t.r. to R.m.?’

  Dear Diana, what was it about the garden this afternoon? Usually the place was deserted, but so far she’d had to fob off Diomedes (who was fast beginning to resemble a limpet), then Matidia, then Marius—and now Paulus.

  ‘Y.?’

  Paulus shrugged. ‘Just w.d.r.d.’

  ‘Then wonder elsewhere, this is private correspondence.’

  Claudia hoped that if she ignored Paulus he’d find someone else to annoy and she concerned herself with what Leonides could say to mollify the banker concerning the 200 sesterces of his she’d invested on that charioteer in the Circus Maximus. It was a cumulative bet, that one, and she was all set to win a full 600 on the Red faction—until Blue put a hub through the spokes of Red’s chariot on the last-but-one turn. Bugger.

  ‘Are you going to the t.t.r. in A.g.t.m. tomorrow?’

  ‘Paulus, unless you move p.d.q., you’ll feel the full force of my foot up your a.r.s. Now hop it.’

  Odious child.

  ‘…therefore suggest you tell the banker…’

  Hang about, what did Paulus say? T.t.r. in A.g.t.m. Theatre in Agrigentum. Theatre? Claudia clenched her fists with joy. Theatre! She blew a mental kiss to Hercules, patron of the arts and leader of the Muses. Fun and pantomime, laughter and music. The crush of the crowd, the colours of the tunics, the blare of the trumpets, the click of the castanets. People. Milling, spilling, fighting and thrilling. She could almost smell the freshly painted scenery, hear the rattles of the sistrum. Thank you, thank you, Hercules, how can I thank you enough! Tomorr
ow—Tuesday—Claudia Seferius will be there. And the change of scenery won’t hurt Drusilla, either. She comes from Egypt. Her blood must be used to travelling.

  Only first that damned letter to Leonides. ‘…tell the banker I’m very sorry, but the money is locked in my room and—’ And what? Think, think. ‘…and unfortunately I seem to have come away with the key.’ Well done. ‘Sell the Parthian, he’s been nothing but trouble…’

  ‘Mind if I join you?’

  Claudia’s pen slid from her hand, leaving a thick trail of black ink right the way down her pale blue tunic. She could feel teeth grinding together.

  ‘Eugenius, what a charming surprise.’

  Bugger, bugger, bugger.

  Two burly slaves deposited their bantamweight burden in his special ivory chair. Acte tucked the blanket round his legs and over his feet before heading off to supervise the preparation of her employer’s meal. Again Claudia acknowledged the dignity with which she went about her duties, carrying herself straight, her face composed and tranquil, as though she was mistress of the house rather than a slave.

  ‘Love letter?’ Eugenius asked, ‘accidentally’ brushing the curve of her breast.

  ‘Not exactly,’ she replied, landing a stinging slap on the wizened hand, and eliciting a throaty chuckle from its owner. How did Acte cope with the groping? Probably didn’t notice, it happened so frequently.

  ‘I’m writing to my sister-in-law to enquire about the health of my dear stepdaughter. Such a sweet girl, I miss her dreadfully.’

  Like hell. If I never see that miserable frump again, it’s still too soon.

  ‘Wasn’t she jilted at the last minute?’

  Claudia did not wish to discuss that particular matter. Not now. Not ever. Neither did she intend to allow the conversation to turn itself on to the subject of marriage, which it invariably did whenever Eugenius was present, the crafty old sod.