by Marilyn Todd
Table of Contents
Copyright
Second Act
To Janet Hutchings, whose support is beyond price.
Critical Acclaim for Marilyn Todd
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
About the Author
I, Claudia
Second Act
By Marilyn Todd
Copyright 2014 by Marilyn Todd
Cover Copyright 2014 by Untreed Reads Publishing
Cover Design by Ginny Glass
The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.
Previously published in print, 2003.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, dialogue and events in this book are wholly fictional, and any resemblance to companies and actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Also by Marilyn Todd and Untreed Reads Publishing
I, Claudia
Virgin Territory
Man Eater
Wolf Whistle
Jail Bait
Black Salamander
Dream Boat
Dark Horse
www.untreedreads.com
Second Act
Marilyn Todd
To Janet Hutchings, whose support is beyond price.
Critical Acclaim for Marilyn Todd
‘Claudia—a super-bitch who keeps us all on the edge where she loves to live… The Roman detail is deft, the pace as fast as a champion gladiator.’ Sunday Express
‘A timeless heroine for today—you’ll be hooked.’ Company
‘An endearing adventuress who regards mortal danger as just another bawdy challenge.’ She
‘Terrific read…thoroughly entertaining.’ The Bookseller
‘Marilyn Todd’s wonderful fictional creation—a bawdy superbitch with a talent for sleuthing—an-enormous triumph.’ Ms London
‘Feisty and fun.’ Yorkshire Post
‘Claudia lives life at the cutting edge, and has a way with the sword to prove it.’ Newcastle Upon Tyne Evening Chronicle
‘If you’re looking for a romp through the streets of Rome in 13BC then this is the book to buy!’ Books Magazine
‘As juiciest as the ripest grape, this is a vintage romp to savour.’ Northern Echo
‘Claudia and Marcus make a volatile, clever and strong couple…an excellent escapist fantasy.’ Historical Novel Review
‘Delectably enjoyable.’ Daily Mail.
Prologue
Autumn had transformed the Alban Hills into a patchwork of colour ranging from dull rusts to flame, sulphur yellows to amber.
The air was warm.
Humid, even.
But the air was misleading.
Soon, frosts would arrive to desiccate the woodlands and kill off the food supply. The creatures of the forest had to move fast. Squirrels busily hoarded their caches of acorns and seeds. Dormice, fat as barrels on hazelnuts, ferried grass to their winter nests and badgers, having gorged on elderberries, concentrated on building up their body fat with plump, juicy earthworms. The woods were virtually silent. Birds were using every ounce of energy to feed, not to sing, and the only sound which echoed across the valley was the measured dig-dig-dig of a spade as it turned over the heavy, black soil.
Stripped to the waist, the Digger leaned on the shovel to mop up the sweat with a piece of coarse woollen cloth. A pheasant clucked in the distance and a viper slithered through the leaf litter, tasting with its tongue air rank with the urine of rutting fallow bucks. The Digger unstoppered the goatskin and drank deeply, watching a proliferation of painted lady butterflies on their colourful migration south. There was no wine in the skin. That had been emptied out, to be refilled with water from the little stream that babbled close by. The water was cool. Refreshing the Digger before the blade once more sliced through the soil.
Gradually, the black, aromatic earth piled up. From time to time, there would come the faint clop of ox hooves, the slow and steady rumble of wagon wheels, the whinny of a mule. Reminders that the highway ran by less than a hundred paces up the bank and that Frascati itself lay only half a dozen miles to the west. Lying at the crossroads of three main routes out of Rome, and with its wealth of patrician villas, post houses and taverns, the little town made for a popular stopover.
Finally, back aching, head pounding, the Digger tossed the spade to one side. Enough, the humid air decreed. Enough, enough, enough.
With the gentlest of nudges, the naked corpse rolled tidily into the hole.
As graves go, it was shallow in the extreme. But the Digger was unused to manual labour, and the leaves would fall soon, then the snow. It was unlikely the body would be found before spring. By then, it wouldn’t matter.
The Digger’s gaze ranged over the cadaver’s belongings. Heaven knows, there wasn’t much. A couple of tunics which had seen better days, a few personal items such as comb, faded cloak, the wineskin which the Digger had emptied. But there, at the bottom of the pack and carefully wrapped between layers of brown felt, nestled a trio of theatrical masks.
All three had been delicately carved of wood and had a wig attached. One mask had its gaping mouth curved upwards in an exaggerated smile, for comic parts. The mouth of the second was turned down for tragedy. The third, painted white and with its fair hair curled into ringlets and pinned, was for when the actor played female roles. Admiring the workmanship, the elaborate brush strokes, the sturdy ribbons by which the masks fastened behind the actor’s ears, the Digger prepared to toss them in after the corpse.
No, wait.
Back in Frascati, a company of strolling players had been hiring. Convinced they could do better alone, certain members of the troupe had broken away to form a rival splinter group, leaving the original company in the lurch. With Saturnalia but two months away, a lucrative time for strolling players, the diehards of the original group were desperate to take on new artists and train any amateurs willing to roll up their sleeves and pitch in.
Why not, the Digger wondered.
It wasn’t as though it was such a transition.
Aren’t all killers actors at heart—?
One
Six weeks
later and the tramontana, that vicious desiccating wind that sweeps down from the mountains in the north, arrived in Rome with a vengeance. Leaves which had managed to withstand autumn storms and early frosts now scattered like chaff in the wind. The soil, as with a defenceless crowd of peasants facing mounted Persian hordes, shrivelled and receded beneath the icy blast.
‘Makes you think about those Briton barbarians,’ Claudia said to her bodyguard, as they pushed their way through the crowds. ‘I mean, what kind of people find blue skin attractive?’
There had been no question of travelling by litter today. Snug as she would have been beneath a pile of bear skins with heated bricks at her feet, the chair would never have got through. Half the universe descended on Rome for Saturnalia. A crush of handcarts and donkeys, despatch riders and pedestrians, soldiers and slaves clogged every road. Traders and students jostled shoulder to thickly cloaked shoulder with athletes and letter carriers in a kaleidoscope of colour and customs. Dark-skinned Abyssinians, pantalooned Dacians, Cretans with their thickly oiled curls swarmed in on everything from camels to stilts, bringing with them the scents of the Orient, new breeds of sheep, panther claws, pepper, silver-coated drinking horns, turbans, marmots and liquor.
They came armed with stories, as well. Of ants that mine gold in the Indus. Of virgins auctioned off in Illyria. Of headhunting Gauls and Teutonic warriors sending their sons tobogganing down snow-covered slopes on their fathers’ bronze shields.
All these things congested the streets, filling the air with laughter and awe, while prisoners of war rattled their chains and sang songs of defiance in incomprehensible tongues and children rode piggyback on their fathers’ shoulders, squealing, tugging, dripping pastry crumbs as they passed. Wrestling her way through beneath the Capitol, Claudia noticed that not even weather as cold and drab as this could dull the gold on Jupiter’s chariot on the apex of his temple. But the sun, what little of it percolated the grey, leaden clouds, was sinking faster than she would have liked.
She was already late.
Crossing the vegetable market, finished for the day, empty-eyed beggars pressed together for warmth against the walls of the warehouse. Cripples in rags moaned with the pain. For a fleeting moment, she faltered and the past rushed up to meet her. Suddenly, she, too, was smelling the vile stench of poverty, feeling the icy cold hand of despair grip her shoulder… Then pfft! The moment was gone. She was back in the open plaza, the twenty-five-year-old widow of a wealthy wine merchant on her way to an urgent appointment.
The flower market afforded little variety in midwinter and for the most part stallholders displayed identical wares. Early white Cretan crocus feathered with amethyst, black-eyed anemones forced under glass (and which were already wilting in the freezing air) or pots of late Damascan crocuses, although one booth offered iris, narcissus and the white bells of snowflake for a vastly inflated price, gambling on wealthy womenfolk paying through the nose for exotic, unseasonable blooms. Nevertheless, the bulk of today’s trade was in greenery, and trade was brisk. With Saturnalia just one week away, Roman matrons were out in force, sniffing out the best of the bargains in fir, yew, holly and myrtle to deck out their apartments or hang in their halls.
Claudia glanced around. Pretended to peruse the foliage displays. Curled one booted foot round the leg of a collapsible stand. With a crash, the table pitched forward on to the cobbles, spraying evergreens in every direction.
‘Junius.’ She extracted a prickly holly leaf from the hem of her gown and snapped her fingers. ‘Help this poor woman with her table, will you?’
‘Must be the cold,’ the stallholder muttered, gathering up armfuls of fragrant fir before they were trampled. ‘Got into the hinges, I’ll wager.’
She was extremely grateful to the young noblewoman for lending her a strong arm to help.
While Junius rushed to lift the collapsed stand, Claudia slipped away. In theory, of course, she should have been able to order her slave to stand guard while she kept her appointment, but theory had no place with the young Gaul. Closer than her own shadow, orders meant nothing when it came to protecting his mistress. Guile was the only solution.
Daylight was fading fast, and the smell of the Tiber was sour in Claudia’s nostrils as she negotiated her way through the maze of twisty lanes. The din of commerce receded with her every footstep. With the seas closed from October until March, the only traffic on the river in December came from local barges and the occasional coaster. The docks were deserted and Claudia’s boots echoed over the quayside.
Funny how circular temples remained so popular in the provinces, yet had long fallen out of favour here in Rome. There were only three of them left—the one she was making for, the Temple of Portunus, Hercules’s shrine across the way and, of course, Vesta’s temple in the Forum. But whether they were situated in the heart of the Empire or the back of beyond, every circular temple toed the same architectural line. Fluted columns round a circular cell. Domed roof. Elaborate bronze grating between the columns.
In the temple precinct, she paused. ‘Captain Moschus?’ She could have sworn she’d seen a figure. ‘Moschus, is that you?’
A skinny black cat shot out from behind the sacred laurel. Unless the gods had been turning men into animals again, safe to assume it’s not the trusty captain. She shrugged off her unease, mounted the steps and pushed open the door.
‘I’m a tad late,’ she said, and her breath was white in the air.
The man with his back to the altar stone struggled to his feet, dirty hands scrubbing the sleep out of his eyes and pushing greasy, greying locks back from his face. ‘No problem, missus. It’s your show.’
The tidal wave of body odour sent her reeling. Hygiene, Claudia remembered belatedly, taking in the greasy stains down his waterproof goatskin cloak and the ingrained grime round the neck of his tunic, did not top the captain’s list of priorities. But hungry dogs eat dirty puddings, or so the proverb goes. Putting a hand across her nostrils, she got straight to business.
‘The Artemis is officially recorded as sunk?’
‘S’right.’ He smiled a black-toothed smile. ‘Old Moschus put the word round good and proper.’ He sniffed noisily to emphasize his point. ‘To all intents and purposes, ’er ribs is scattered over Neptune’s sandy soil from Naples to the Messina Straits.’
A simple yes would have done, but never mind. ‘You had no trouble convincing the merchant, Butico, that his consignment of Seferius wine went down with her?’
‘Word for word like we agreed. “Risky business, shippin’ this time of year,” I tells him. “Storms whips up outta nowhere and wallop. Lucky to be alive meself,” I says. “Me crew escaped by the skin of their teeth.”’
‘And Butico believed you?’
‘Looked ’im straight in the eye and said I got fifty witnesses what saw the old girl go down.’ A grimy finger tapped the side of his nose knowingly. ‘You can trust old Moschus, missus.’
Anything less likely Claudia could not imagine, but under the circumstances, a girl can’t afford to be choosy. Especially when the idea had been his in the first place.
When Butico had approached her with a view to purchasing a large consignment of wine for his estate in Sicily, the seas were already closing.
‘I’m afraid shipping it would be logistically impossible,’ she told him.
‘There is a boat, the Artemis, which is leaving shortly to lie up in Syracuse for the winter,’ Butico pointed out. ‘Perhaps she might be willing to oblige?’
Perhaps she might, Claudia thought, but if you don’t have the goods to sell, you don’t have the goods to sell, although she saw no merit in mentioning that minor detail to Butico. Consequently, she thought no more about it, until Moschus knocked on her door two days later.
‘I hear you might have a cargo for me?’
She’d had to come clean then. Admit that she didn’t have the quantity in stock that Butico wanted. But instead of shrugging and turning away, the old sea dog had laughed.
‘Don’t see that as no problem, missus. I mean, Butico ain’t to know, is he?’
Suppose they pretended the shipment went down in a storm? With his estate on Sicily, Butico, more than most, would know the unpredictability of the Ionian Sea, the storms that ravage her coasts. And old Moschus could sure use the money, he’d added, almost drooling.
‘Uh-uh. This is out and out robbery,’ Claudia had replied. ‘Bargepoles aren’t long enough for me to touch this.’
Besides. Not only would they be defrauding some poor slob of an awful lot of sesterces, but if she was caught, she would be stripped of her assets and exiled. No fear.
‘Butico’s richer than Croesus,’ the captain spat. ‘Small change to ’im, that.’
‘Maybe so, but—’
‘Trust me, he won’t even miss it, and if it’s your pretty skin you’re worried about, forget it.’ The old sea dog had wiped his nose noisily with the back of his hand. ‘Once I gets the Artemis refitted and sailing under a new name and canvas, you and me’s got no worries.’
Claudia glanced at the statue of Portunus the harbour god and hoped to heaven he was right. ‘As agreed, then.’ From her purse she withdrew five bronze receipts, each stamped with the hallmark of the Temple of Castor and Pollux. Each token would redeem a thousand sesterces from the depository.
Moschus’s price was high. Very high. There was his crew to be bribed, as well as the Artemis’s refit, but even so, Claudia had made a comfortable three thousand on the deal. Outside, daylight was almost gone, but she was taking no chances being seen with the captain. She would allow Moschus a slow count of thirty before following.
Nine, ten, eleven—
A figure appeared in the doorway. Taller. Broader. Better dressed than Moschus, and a decade younger.
Call it the twilight, but to Claudia, inside that tiny circular shrine of Portunus the harbour god, the figure looked extremely reminiscent of Butico.
The merchant whose consignment of wine was supposed to have washed into Neptune’s sandy soil from Naples to the Messina Straits.
Two