Virgin Territory

by Marilyn Todd

  A spark of irritation flared.

  ‘It’s been the day for people’s little secrets, Aulus. Don’t feel privileged. Look!’ She pointed. ‘Up there!’

  ‘Bitch!’

  She had run into the river, it was her only chance. Hampered by bare feet and waterlogged skirts, she aimed for the middle. Swim to safety. A hand reached out, but her arms were wet and his grip wouldn’t hold. Splashing like a hippopotamus, Claudia zigzagged towards deep water, ducking and twisting to escape him. She could hear his stertorous breathing, see his shadow on the clear, babbling water.

  Then she was free! Launching herself into the current, she felt the icy water on her cheeks, one stroke, two—

  The grip on her ankle was of iron. In a frenzy, she tried to kick, but the twisting and writhing served only to wrap her skirts round her legs like bandages. Aulus, panting, was dragging his quarry to the far bank. She held on to rocks, but he was stronger, they cut into her hands, grazed her arms, she had to let go. She picked up a boulder.

  Yesss!

  His hands flew to his face. The stone had broken his nose, that big, long nose. Blood streamed everywhere, he was trumpeting like a bull elephant.

  ‘Shit!’

  Her foot slipped, her ankle twisted and rocks fell inwards to trap it. She tried to claw free, but the boulder over her foot was huge.

  ‘Got you, you bitch!’

  Too late she realized he’d come up behind her, and for the second time in one day a vice clamped round her neck, dragging her head backwards and under the water. She saw him, grinning, as her arms flailed. A pebble, that’s all I need, a pebble to blind the bastard! Her leg held fast, the knee twisted and sending out waves of excruciating pain. She saw weed, thin green strands of it, trailing in the current. She heard a roaring in her ears which wasn’t water, and now the picture of Aulus, face twisted with hatred, had red tinges round the edges. With one monumental surge, she pushed herself out of the water, spluttering in the warm sunshine.

  ‘Oh, no, you don’t!’ Before she drew breath, he’d thrown her back under.

  Fingernails clawed. At his hands. At his arms. She could see red trails spiralling in the current, saw strips of flesh flapping in slow motion, saw the white flash of bone. With her last remaining effort before oblivion, Claudia forced back his middle finger. Back, and back—and snap!

  Aulus, roaring with pain, let go. Gasping, Claudia jack-knifed towards the bank, kicking at the boulder pinning her ankle. With a second mighty jerk, she twisted again, freeing her trapped leg while her arms pulled on her stola.

  ‘Bitch! You’ve broken my finger!’

  Choking, she threw her sodden gown over his face, hoping the weight and the wetness would confuse him while she pelted him with stones. She had forgotten how weak she was. Like raindrops, they bounced off and he easily shrugged off the soggy cotton.

  On the bank lay a branch, swept down in the spring floods but stranded when the waters receded. Coughing water, Claudia hurled herself towards it. She’d break his bloody leg! Hurry, hurry… Over her shoulder, she saw Aulus was gaining. Faster… Willing the strength into her body, she heaved herself out of the water. Sweet Jupiter! His hands, his arms, his tunic were saturated with blood and where fingernails had clawed, gobbets of flesh flapped loose.

  Six paces. Five. Four… Too late she discovered the ordeal had left her too weak. She fell to her knees. Somewhere a girl was whimpering. She was shocked to find it was her. Crawling, the gravel cutting her knees to shreds, Claudia stretched out an arm. Oh no. It was still out of reach! A shadow fell over her. A cry lodged in her throat. Aulus, dripping with blood as though he’d been peeled, eyes blazing with fury, raised his scalpel.

  Then, above the gurgle of the waters, Claudia heard a twang. Aulus jerked, astonishment written clear on his mangled features. She rolled herself into a ball, hoping to minimize the target, but Aulus stood there, wobbling, a vacant look on his face. As he pitched forward, she rolled out of the way.

  For a moment she thought it was a ruse, a ploy to tease and torment her.

  Until she saw the arrow in his back.

  On the far bank, at roughly the point where she clambered down from the plateau, stood the gigantic figure of a man.

  By the time Aristaeus had made his way down, Claudia had watched her iris blue stola drift on the current until it was out of sight. She wished the shaking would stop.

  Aristaeus handed her his tunic. It came to her ankles, smelled of cherrywood and fresh sweat and you could have fitted a whole troupe of Syrian dancing girls inside.

  ‘Good shot.’ He couldn’t make out the words, they were still a gargle from the throttling, but he probably got the gist.

  Confident his quarry was dead, the huntsman pulled his arrow free and rolled the corpse over. Claudia backed away, covering her nose with her hands. The stench was vile. Aristaeus pointed to the black stain oozing over the front of Aulus’s tunic.

  ‘Looks like he fell and crushed his baneberries,’ he said with a grin.

  *

  Later, when the joke about baneberries had worn off and the pain in her throat had eased to a throbbing, she thanked him properly.

  ‘I tracked you,’ he explained, ‘to give you this.’

  He held out a golden filigree net, as light and insubstantial as gossamer.

  Claudia took the gift in trembling hands. It was a hair snood, the sort women wear when they’re alone—or with their lover. When their hair hangs loose and they have no need of curls or ringlets or ribbons. In the centre was a single, golden ornament.

  ‘It’s beautiful.’ One of those items which is both inexpensive and yet utterly priceless. ‘Thank you.’ It wasn’t necessarily the bruising round her throat which was the problem at the moment.

  Eventually, when the mist cleared from her eyes, she explained why Aulus was trying to kill her.

  ‘I’m glad it weren’t Fabius,’ Aristaeus said. ‘They makes a good pair, him and that readhead.’

  ‘Fabius and Tanaquil?’ The hustler who dyed her hair and padded her breastband?

  ‘Thought, after the way those two hit it off in Syracuse, you’d have known about them love trysts in the birch grove? When I heard of this second murder I assumed it was her, not poor Acte.’

  ‘Tanaquil and Fabius?’ In love? In Syracuse?

  ‘Real upset he was when her brother died, terrified she’d up and leave him because of it. Tried to stop the execution, but, course, the old man never budged on nothing.’

  Which explained this morning’s tantrum. Discovering Sabina really was his sister, he was petrified Tanaquil would leave him in case insanity ran in the family. Fat chance. That redhead had Fabius just where she wanted him. From now on, Fabius would follow her orders, it was what he did best, and as for Tanaquil, not only had she fallen on her feet financially, she’d slotted Fabius into the role her brother had played.

  ‘Don’t reckon they needs to run off to Katane, now he’s got this lot to see to.’

  ‘Do you know why he joined the army as a footslogger?’ That, like the reasoning behind Sabina’s blue flagon, had been nagging away at Claudia for ages.

  Aristaeus wiped the blood off his spent arrow. Perhaps he wanted it as a souvenir, most likely he wanted to destroy evidence of his involvement.

  ‘Fabius was fifteen when Eugenius forced him to watch the impaling of six thousand fugitives. He believed there was a better way to serve justice by fighting men face to face, and I’m inclined to agree with him.’

  He snapped the arrow shaft in two and threw the pieces into the water.

  Claudia thought of the little freighter bobbing in Fintium bay, of the man waiting on board. ‘I have to go,’ she said, and the huntsman nodded.

  ‘Safe journey.’ She thought his voice sounded gruffer than usual.

  He began the arduous ascent, the quiver of arrows slung across his nutbrown back, showers of red arbutes raining from the branches he used to lever himself up. Soon, she thought, it will be winter.
The leaves will fall, there will come a bite in the air which is welcome for the olives but not for the rest of us. The asters will blacken, and snow will cover the mountains and drive down the wolves.

  She trickled the snood through her hands. A golden spider in its golden filigree web, made by the man who collects spiders’ webs.

  Her throat was throbbing, her knee was on fire, her left ankle had puffed up like an inflated pig’s bladder. Heaven knows how she’d find the strength to climb that bank, let alone make it to Fintium.

  But, she thought, kilting up the huntsman’s tunic, it was definitely the right decision, coming to Sicily.

  Hadn’t she always said so?

  About the Author

  Marilyn Todd was born in Harrow, England, but now lives with her husband on a French hilltop, surrounded by chateaux, woodlands and vines. As well as sixteen historical thrillers, Marilyn also writes short stories, which are mostly crime-based. When she isn't killing people, Marilyn enjoys cooking. Which is pretty much the same thing.

  www.marilyntodd.com

  Man Eater

  On the eve of the Roman Festivities, the last thing you’d expect Claudia Seferius to be doing is heading in the other direction. However, even beautiful young widows have to put business before pleasure when their vineyards are threatened with arson.

  Unfortunately, being run off the road to Etruria by a band of hooligans was not part of Claudia’s gameplan. Nor was losing her beloved cat Drusilla. Nor was being forced to seek shelter in the strange home of Sergius Pictor and family—surrounded by the menagerie of wild animals he is training for the Games.

  But Claudia is about to become the victim of an even crueller game. For that night a stranger appears at her bedroom door—a knife sticking out of his belly.

  And before the first ray of morning sunshine, Claudia is being framed for murder…

  What follows is a scene from Man Eater, the third Claudia mystery.

  I

  Claudia snapped into wakefulness, instantly aware of the empty space beside her. She cradled the cat’s cushion then thumped and punched and rearranged the lumps in her own bolster. What was in here? Firewood? It was good of the Pictors to take her in, she supposed. To patch her wounds, tend the two injured men, to feed, clothe and rest her. But the instant Drusilla turns up, she thought, I am o-f-f, off!

  Suddenly there was a blockage in her throat. Oh, she’d find her way here, no question of that. In fact, Claudia had no doubts whatsoever about the intelligence of her sharp, Egyptian cat, only…

  The trill of a blackbird interrupted her musing. Just one or two notes and faint at that—she could barely make them out between the howls and the growls—but others would follow and the evidence was conclusive.

  Juno be praised, the long night was over!

  The road accident instantly forgotten, she flung the counterpane round her shoulders and fumbled her way to the window. It was going to be another dank start, she thought, easing open one narrow shutter, but at least the fog lifts quickly as she knew from experience. She unhooked the second leaf. Oh. Her tattered tunic hung limp on the ledge, but of Drusilla there was no sign. And the mist in front of her suddenly seemed denser.

  ‘You don’t fool me, you wretched feline.’ Claudia’s breath was white in the pre-dawn air. ‘I know you’re out there.’

  Just because the bones of your ancestors lie in the tombs of the Pharaohs, don’t think you can put on airs and graces with me!

  ‘Sulk all you like, but we both know that one sniff of a sardine and you’ll be over this sill like a shot.’ Whose was that silly, reedy voice? ‘And remember, it’s not my fault you used up four of your lives in one go!’

  What was that? It sounded like a soft scuffle. There it was again. Claudia’s breath came out in a rush. ‘Drusilla!’

  Tossing the bedspread aside, she picked up her skirts and raced across the room. Although the grey light of dawn was growing paler by the minute, it was nowhere near sufficient and Claudia cursed the up-ended brazier as bronze collided with shinbone. It was only because she was swearing and hobbling and bleeding and hurting all at the same time that she didn’t realize, until she reached the door, that whatever talents these clever Egyptian moggies might possess, rattling handles wasn’t one of them.

  ‘What?’ She unlocked the door and flung it open.

  The man in the doorway was staring at her. ‘I…I…’

  His mouth hung open, and either he had a speech impediment or—as she very much suspected—he was stinking drunk. For good measure he produced another guttural gargle and lurched forward.

  ‘Get away from me, you revolting little dungbeetle!’ He really was the most unprepossessing creature she’d ever had the misfortune to lay eyes on.

  The dungbeetle’s mouth opened and closed. ‘I…’

  Claudia put out her left hand to push him away while the other tried to slam the door in his face, but the dungbeetle was too fast. He dived towards her. Using both hands, Claudia pushed against his chest, but his arms had closed round her shoulders.

  ‘Wrong room, buster.’

  She daren’t risk connecting her knee with his groin for fear of unbalancing herself—and the prospect of this horny sod on top of her didn’t bear thinking about! Along the atrium, still bright with night-torches, a blonde slave emerged from the kitchens with a wide, steaming bowl. Good. Between the two of them, they might be able to prise this animal off! She tried to call out, but the pressure of his body against hers was threatening to squeeze the life right out of her. Mercifully the girl looked up…and, incredibly, began to scream.

  Silly bitch, Claudia thought, nearly buckling under the weight of the lecherous, gargling dungbeetle, but at least it’s brought help. Doors were opening left, right and centre.

  Almost rhythmically, Claudia and the drunk danced in the doorway. He pushed, she pushed, he pushed back, but all the time she was growing weaker and weaker. Surely someone had the sense to yank him off?

  Inexplicably everyone seemed to be yelling, and it was only when Claudia finally lost the battle with the dungbeetle and they toppled sideways together, she began to understand why.

  The dungbeetle wasn’t drunk.

  The dungbeetle wasn’t gargling.

  The dungbeetle had a bloody great knife in his belly.