Second Act

by Marilyn Todd

  He didn’t care too much for embroidery, Deva knew, but she was Damascan and Damascan women didn’t let their men go about in plain cloth and that was that. He couldn’t have it both ways. If he liked the way she wore short bodices that revealed a tight midriff and fringed skirts that came halfway down her calf to show off her finely boned ankles, then he’d have to accept that every once in a while he’d have to look good for her. And since looking good in Damascan eyes meant wearing a tunic embroidered in traditional designs, then he could bloody well lump it.

  ‘You’ll rue the day you set up with a Roman,’ her mother had said. ‘It doesn’t do, two cultures crossing. No good can ever come of it.’

  Deva spat on to the pavement. What did her mother know? The old crone had been a widow these past fifteen years, she’d grown sour and miserable, and you’d think she’d have been pleased her only daughter had found a good man to settle down with. A herbalist, too! In fact, if Deva only had a child to present to him, her joy would be complete. She giggled. Of course, they’d only been together six months, her and her man. He’d hardly leap for joy if she handed him a bawling bundle and said, ‘There you are, love, that’s your son.’

  The joke sustained her as she crossed the Sublician Bridge, its timbers reverberating under the solid clomp of her clogs. Ahead, the sheds and warehouses lined up along the river looked grey and forbidding on this dull, damp day, the shadow of the Aventine Hill looming over them, but Deva wasn’t worried that there was no one else around so early in the morning. A pleasant change, not having to step over piles of steaming dung, or sidestep refuse left behind by the delivery carts, or be on the constant lookout for pickpockets and gropers.

  Turning up between the spice warehouse and a marble store and shifting her basket to her other arm, she squeezed the small brooch which lay in the palm of her hand. Bronze and engraved with an intricate leaf pattern, she knew her mother would find the gift ‘too Roman’ for her taste, but then the old crab found fault with everything these days, and you’d think she’d just get on with it and accept that she was a Damascan living in Rome and bloody well get on and enjoy the life and the customs.

  ‘That’s because you don’t know no better,’ her mother would snap. ‘You was born into it, Deva.’

  ‘Yes, I do know better,’ she’d reply. ‘You keep telling me,’ and then she and her mother would argue, and then she’d regret going to visit, much less taking the gift she always brought, which was inevitably far more than she could afford, but she did it anyway, because they always parted on a quarrel and even though it was as much her mother’s fault as hers, Deva still felt guilty. And it always bloody hurt that the gift was never good enough…

  Between the tall buildings, she found herself sheltered from the wind blowing straight down from the north. There’d be rain later, she thought. Cold, icy rain, but it wouldn’t dampen the spirits of the people crushed into the Circus cheering on the chariots, waving their team colours in the air. Out of the wind, Deva paused to pull the shawl from her head, and thought she saw movement behind her. Obviously not. Nothing stirred. Rats, in all likelihood.

  The shawl was Damascan, too. Rich red and deeply fringed, it was her best shawl, because today was a triple celebration. Not only the Festival of the Seven Hills, but her seventeenth birthday and the six-month anniversary of her and her man getting together as a live-in couple. He was twice her age and more. A widower with receding hair. But he was funny, clever, good in bed, too, and he knew a lot about a lot of things, her herbalist. Deva was happy. Why shouldn’t she be? She had a good life with a good man, and good honey to sell at market this morning which should bring her a good profit to tide her over the holidays. Who wouldn’t be dancing for joy? And, of course, if she became pregnant…

  That was her reason for visiting her mother. The dance. She stopped again, glanced round, but there was no shadow, no echo of footsteps. Just Deva and her lovely red, fringed shawl. She shook the soft, woollen cloth, draped it across her right shoulder then tied the ends round her waist. Tonight, of course, she would not be wearing her winter bodice and thick skirt. She would put on her best beaded top, the white skirt and then, barefoot, she would act out the Fertility Dance that her mother had showed her when she was a child.

  ‘You have to tie the shawl right, Deva. It’s all in the knots.’

  Bunkum. It was all in the dance. But believing’s conceiving, and Deva did so want to give her man a son. A little redheaded herbalist, just like his daddy, to fill the crib that her man had carved himself. And if she got the dance just so (and tied the bloody knots right), then they were looking at a plump little autumn equinox baby!

  Singing to herself, the bronze brooch clenched in her hand, Deva hurried up the alleyway towards the apartment above the weaver’s that her mother shared with her oldest brother and his family. With luck, she’d have timed it so that her sister-in-law would be coming back from the public ovens with a basket of hot rolls.

  The hand that lashed out round her neck and pulled her into the open doorway came so fast, that for a moment Deva didn’t realize what was happening. All she knew was a strong smell of aniseed and that the brooch had gone spinning out of her hand, but she had to get the brooch back. It was for her mother, and had cost a small fortune.

  ‘Whore!’

  Again, she didn’t connect. Whoever this person was talking to, it couldn’t be her. She was a virgin when she’d met her man. Had known no other. Wanted none, either.

  ‘Dirty, filthy, common little bitch!’ The voice seemed to echo behind her. ‘Scream and I’ll cut your throat like the worthless trash that you are.’

  ‘P-please. I have no money. Only the brooch.’

  What brooch? She’d dropped it, he’d never believe her. Her mind was whirling. He was taking her shawl, her precious shawl, because she had no money to give him. The shawl was worth more than the brooch. Not in financial terms. It was her fertility shawl. The shawl that would give her a baby. Deva began to claw at the cloth until she felt the prick of the knife at the side of her throat. Felt a hot dribble of liquid run down her neck. Instinctively, she stopped fighting.

  ‘There’s a good little whore.’

  Laughing, he flung her to the ground, the stone flagstones sending a shooting pain through one of her knees as the bone cracked.

  ‘Do as I say and I won’t kill you.’

  Deva nodded dumbly. He had dragged her into an empty storehouse. Grain from the smell of it, the dry dusty air. A store that would not be used until the harvest was in. Months—light years—away. If she resisted, tried to run, he would kill her and then, when her body was eventually found, it would be unrecognizable. In the meantime, her man would think she had run off and left him.

  So Deva obeyed every twisted and deviant command the Halcyon Rapist gave her.

  Thirteen

  With her elbows resting on the rail that ran round the upstairs gallery, Claudia watched the frenzied activity in the atrium below. Any fears she might have harboured about the production not being professional had vanished. The pulleys had been rigged up for the canvas scenery and Ion and Doris were hauling on one side, Skyles and Felix on the other, and with every run-through, the backdrop was changed that little bit faster.

  ‘That bloody rumpus in the street last night,’ Ion grumbled, his handsome face made ugly with a scowl. ‘I couldn’t sleep a bloody wink after that.’

  All four men shared the same room, Claudia remembered. The same room where she and a Buffoon with a craggy, lived-in face had sipped wine…

  ‘Oh, really?’ Doris laughed. ‘Then who was snoring like a carthorse in the bunk above me? It’s the rest of us who couldn’t sleep, kiddo.’

  ‘Is that why you slipped out?’ Felix asked.

  Perhaps it would have happened anyway, but the rope slithered through Doris’s hand, tilting the canvas at a drunken angle.

  ‘The bleach from your hair has washed into your ears and softened your brain,’ he said, and Claudia noticed a tig
htness around his mouth as he replied. ‘I didn’t go anywhere.’

  ‘If you two girls wouldn’t mind,’ Skyles called across, his biceps bulging from the strain of holding the heavy sailcloths. ‘Only, Ion and me are getting a mite tired over here.’

  Doris pulled a face. ‘Sorry.’

  Stage management was another factor which had to be worked into the production. Among such a small troupe, there was no room for the squad of labourers and skivvies that were employed in the bigger theatres. Like it or not, everyone had to pitch in with scenery and costume changes, even the castrato, and no one saw any conflict between big, bearded Ion wielding a dainty needle or a young man with chiselled cheekbones and traces of kohl round his eyes boasting muscles a stevedore would be proud of. Now, as the four actors hauled on the ropes, aiming for a count of twenty-five to get one backdrop up, then drop the other one, Claudia wondered why had Doris faltered when Felix asked, is that why you slipped out?

  Especially when the question had been addressed to Skyles.

  *

  She was still speculating when the door to the porter’s vestibule banged open and Julia, Flavia and ten trunks of luggage deposited themselves around the fountain. The old bat wasn’t hanging about, then. Come for Saturnalia clearly meant come five days beforehand in Julia’s book, and Claudia already saw her penny-pinching brain computing how much money she’d be saving.

  ‘I’ve put you in Gaius’s room,’ she called down. ‘With dear little Flavia next door.’

  Julia opened her mouth and then shut it. To complain that she’d prefer one of the other rooms would be to snub the brother she professed to have loved so dearly, whereas to request (in front of strangers, too!) that her whingeing foster daughter sleep further away would sound worse. She shot Claudia a pinched smile.

  ‘Thoughtful as usual, sister-in-law.’

  Beside her, Flavia was standing with her mouth gaping at the pageant of tanned flesh and rippling musculature hauling away at the canvas, her eyes popping at the careless way the men balanced on a mere quarter rung of a ladder. Claudia smiled to herself. Whichever ‘highly unsuitable boy’ had been the object of Flavia’s latest crush, that boy was history. Four objects of passion had taken his place and her gaze jumped from one to the other as she followed Julia up the stairs to the opposite gallery. Frumpy, lumpy and not helped by a breakout of spots on her forehead, Flavia didn’t understand what kohl round a man’s eyes signalled. She interpreted it as daring and raffish, just as she mistook Felix’s bleached hair as an actor’s affectation. Dear me, Claudia thought, if Flavia transfers her affections to either of those two, she’s in for a shock.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ Julia said, ‘but I’ve invited a friend to stay, too.’

  ‘Of course I don’t mind.’ Any more people who could keep her from this harping old fossil would be welcomed with open arms.

  ‘Well, you did say they were going to be the talk of all Rome, these productions of yours, and there’s this gentleman who could put a lot of business my husband’s way—’

  ‘Not exactly a friend, then?’ She should have known Julia wouldn’t have any.

  ‘It would be an excellent contact for Marcellus to cultivate,’ Julia sniffed. ‘He’s patrician, an oleiculturist, his family’s in the law—’

  ‘Remind me how useful an olive grower might be for an architect.’

  Across the gap, Julia smiled condescendingly. ‘You don’t understand how these things work, dear. This gentleman is nobility, and he assures me that he is in a position to help Marcellus, so it’s only right we return the favour.’

  ‘In other words, you’re short of the readies to slip him his five to six pounds in silver?’

  The smile froze into something approaching a sneer. ‘That is not the case at all. This gentleman simply mentioned that he would very much like to attend this particular function, and under the circumstances one could hardly refuse.’ The freeze thawed. ‘As I say, he’s an aristocrat, divorced, stinking rich—and very much taken with our little Flavia, I don’t mind admitting.’

  ‘I think I know him,’ Claudia murmured. ‘His mother dropped him as a baby and he was never the same after that.’

  For a moment, she almost felt sorry for the lank-haired, round-shouldered lump goggling down at her four heroes, who’d decided they’d had enough physical exercise for one morning and were now reading through the script. Claudia saw visions of her being palmed off, like some character in one of Caspar’s plays, to some doddery old olive grower who had taken a shine to her childbearing hips. Then the sympathy vanished. Over the last year, Flavia had been bombarded with eligible bachelors. Almost from the day of her birth, Gaius had started paving the way with potential husbands and while Claudia had continued his labours after his death, Julia and Marcellus had also worked tirelessly to secure the girl a good future. With what reward? Flavia had insulted every single suitor and the time to be wilful was running out fast. Soon she would have no choice in the matter. Roman law was tough when it needed to be, and if she wasn’t betrothed soon, the State would step in and fix her up with a candidate of its own choosing.

  Claudia resolved to have a word in her stubborn little ear tonight. Tell Flavia that it was high time the silly cow wised up. Marry someone she can at least get on with. Then have affairs like everyone else.

  ‘In fact, unless I miss my guess,’ Julia was saying, ‘you may well find there is something in this for you, sister-in-law. My gentleman is extremely well connected and I daresay he will be able to recommend our wine—’

  ‘Whose wine?’

  ‘—to his family and friends. As I say, his people are in law, which means the network’s probably spread right across the Empire.’

  ‘You don’t think you’re getting carried away here, Julia?’

  The old bat chose to ignore her. ‘You might even know him. Yes, I think you do. He came here, once. I recall the occasion now. Gaius was entertaining—or was it just a family affair? No matter. The point is, you were there at the time, dear. Marcellus, as well, and yes, I do believe little Flavia actually sat next to him.’

  ‘What’s his name?’ Claudia asked.

  If a girl is to be entertaining an influential contact under her roof, best to find out as much about him as she can. Especially if there’s a chance he might be part of the family one day. Also, nothing eases trade quite like a buried secret and the sooner she got rooting the better for everyone concerned. But the olive grower’s name would have to wait. Caspar chose that moment to emerge from his bedroom.

  ‘Why, good heavens, madam! You failed to mention that you had two such luscious creatures staying with you.’

  Julia blushed unbecomingly. Flavia was still gawping at the actors, who had now been joined by half a dozen other men, although you could probably rule out Ugly Phil as a contender for her affections. Pleasant though this face might be, that set of horns and furry leggings were designed for laughs, not winning female hearts. But whatever rejoinder Julia intended to make to Caspar’s ostentatious bow did not get past her larynx. From his bedroom, which just happened to be situated next to Julia’s, a strapping blonde marched out, her gown ungirdled, her hair awry.

  ‘Is this your wife?’ Julia asked, smiling.

  ‘Not exactly, madam.’ Caspar’s hands made a deprecating gesture before one of them settled happily around Fenja’s waist. ‘But you know how chilly it gets in the wee small hours before dawn.’

  ‘Ja, ferry cold.’ Fenja nodded vehemently. ‘Vee heff much keep-fitting to do, not to be goose pimpling.’

  A froth of bright red curls then put their head round the doorpost. ‘Mornin’ all,’ it yawned.

  ‘Two?’ Julia gasped.

  ‘You can come and make it three, if you want, love,’ Jemima quipped, one strap slipping from her shoulder as she squeezed beside her pint-sized lover. Caspar’s little pudgy hand immediately slipped around her waist, ensuring that both arms were now firmly, protectively, possessively, round both girls. />
  ‘I presume, sister-in-law, that you do not propose to expose my Flavia to these excesses of licentiousness?’

  ‘Too late, her jaw’s already dropped to the floor,’ Claudia replied, although Flavia seemed more fascinated than shocked. ‘Anyway, Marcellus has been banging on for years about how women should receive the best education possible.’

  ‘Educations, madam, do not come higher than Caspar’s Spectaculars,’ the little man confirmed solemnly, but Julia did not hear.

  The merest mention of her husband’s name had sent her retreating to her bedroom as she realized this was yet another problem to contend with. It was bound to give him ‘ideas’, this bevy of femaleness clad in fabric you could almost read through. What on earth was she going to do? Gaius’s couch, goddammit, was a double one. How could she possibly fend him off in that?

  Caspar’s eyes twinkled wickedly. ‘Run along now, my volumptuous beauties, run along. We have a cabaret to execute at the Circus, remember?’

  He gave them both a slap on their ample backsides, and, shrieking with laughter, the girls tumbled boisterously along the gallery and down the stairs. The boards were still reverberating thirty seconds after they’d left.

  ‘Madam.’ He gave Claudia a sweeping bow. ‘I do believe this is the happiliest household in which I have had the pleasure to perform.’

  It wasn’t entirely clear whether he was referring to his theatrical productions or his performance in the bedroom, but it didn’t matter. Because Flavia had come to a decision in the meantime.

  Like a child poring over a litter of puppies and not knowing which to choose, she had finally settled on the one she would adopt for her next crush. Claudia rather hoped it would have been Ion, with his broad back and shoulder-length hair and voice that boomed like a god. It wasn’t, of course.

  Like everyone else, she picked Skyles.