by Marilyn Todd
He stroked his goatee beard.
'Nevertheless, I think I'll ask Salome to come across and check you over.'
'Tell you what. Why don't I visit her?'
'If . . . if that's what the Lady Claudia wishes.'
'It is.' Anything to get out of here. Anything. But the mention of Salome had jolted a memory. 'Wasn't she on her way to tend the boat builder's niece yesterday evening? The child
who was traumatized after seeing Nosferatu about his grisly business?'
Mazares turned an amused glance on Pavan.
'Good heavens, Claudia's cracked it,' he chuckled. 'Nosferatu! The beast that dares not speak its name!'
'It would explain why the legend's so widespread,' Pavan rumbled back. 'And why he only comes out at night.'
'Yes, but we can console ourselves, General, that our reviled monster remains a creature of superstition.'
'How so?'
'Oh, Pavan, don't tell me you, of all people, actually believe in fairies?' Mazares forced his expression to become serious. 'I'll arrange transport to Amazonia, My Lady.'
Together the two men strode out of the room, hardly waiting until the door was shut before resurrecting the fairy joke.
Alone once again, Claudia could not control the shakes that gripped her. Raspor had come to her for help and she had dismissed him, an act of disdain that had cost him his life.
Too many, how you say - innocents? - have died, and the King, he is too trusting. He thinks only good of people, but there are bad people around him. Very bad.
She saw again his terrified eyes scanning the crowd.
Just say you 'll meet me. Then I give you names of people who was killed and dates when these so-called accidents happen, but not here, not now. Is too open, too dangerous. I am dead man, if I am seen talking to you.
Paranoia, she'd thought at the time. Like Pavan and Mazares, she'd put it down to 'all in the mind'.
Please. You have King's ear. He will listen. When you give him detail of murders, he have no choice but to listen, because Mazares, he will stop at nothing to—
Those were Raspor's last words. Mazares will stop at nothing . . .
Claudia pulled on a gown of soft apricot cotton, fixed her girdle in place. She didn't know why she'd been lured to Histria, only that if Mazares wished her dead, he could have finished the job off last night and no one would have been any the wiser. From that point of view, at least, she was safe. But who else might not be? And how long would her life be protected, once Mazares realized that she was on to him . . . ?
Nosferatu laughed.
Nine
'Oh, there you are, Marcus.'
His aunt breezed along the portico, two slaves trotting at her heels like hunting hounds, as sunlight bounced off the gold-filigree tiara in her hair and dazzled the sapphires dripping from her neck.
'I wanted to thank you, darling, for sorting out that awful business with Horatio. You have no idea what a strain it put on your poor uncle's heart when he heard those rumours. Wicked, absolutely wicked, and frankly, Marcus, I think the people who start them ought to be tied to a post in the Forum and whipped for the anguish it causes.'
'Well, it's settled now,' Orbilio said, mentally crossing his fingers. 'You can both rest easily.'
'D'you know, I can't help thinking that someone must have heard about those unfortunate incidents in the boy's past. I mean, how else could the rumour have started? Between you and I, dear, part of me wondered whether they mightn't have been true, leopards and spots and all that, because, heavens to Hera, I'll never forget the first time I saw my son dressed in women's clothes. Never! The boy was only eleven, but thank goodness, it was just a passing phase that he grew out of. Are you sure I can't persuade you to stay another few days? Your uncle has so enjoyed having you here.'
'I've enjoyed my visit, too,' he lied.
Through a pair of tall double doors opening on to the colonnade, he glimpsed the aftermath of last night's banquet, the Trojan theme mosaic littered with the broken shells of
lobsters, mussels, crabs and oysters, and scattered with date, peach and cherry stones, meat bones, pastry crumbs, pools of spilled wine, and a broken lyre that lay in the corner. Oh, and somebody's sandal sitting forlornly under one of the couches. If only his aunt and uncle had talked to their son and listened to what he'd had to say! But no. Night after night, year after year, friends and associates would gather round the table like vultures, gorging on overpriced delicacies, nibbling at the choicest part of the animal, while in the room next door, a lost and lonely child grew into a lost, unhappy man . . .
'Unfortunately, my dear Lucretia, duty calls.'
His aunt sniffed loudly. 'I do wish you'd adopt an appropriate career.'
'Ah, you'd prefer thieves, rapists, fraudsters and killers to remain on the loose. How about anarchists and those planning assassination attempts on the Emperor's life?'
Take the case he'd been assigned to at the moment. A tricky affair by any standards, and gathering the evidence would be a bugger - but then weren't all plots to destabilize the Empire hell?
'Sit down, Marcus.'
It was an order, not an invitation, and therefore he remained standing, arms folded over his chest, his shoulder against the green-veined marble column, and wondered why he felt so ill at ease in this villa where he had often played as a child. The pillars, the paintings, the exquisite mosaics, were exactly the same as he remembered. Likewise the painted marble statues of his forebears, the expensive drapes and awnings, the fountains in the garden. Even the livery of the slaves was the same nauseous pea green. It was him, he supposed. He was the one who had changed.
'Marcus, I don't need to remind you that your father was a highly respected advocate.'
She settled herself on a bench under the shade of a pomegranate tree and clapped her hands. Instantly, a slave appeared and proceeded to waft a fan of ostrich feathers to create a breeze that, like so many things around here, was 100 per cent artificial.
'Both your brothers are in the law, and quite honestly, that's where you should be, my boy.' His aunt's voice grew strident with censure. 'In court.'
'I often am, Lucretia. It's called giving evidence.'
Imperious eyes rolled. 'The Security Police pay you a pittance, Marcus, and snooping is no career for a healthy young man. You're twenty-six and it's high time you married.'
'I'm twenty-eight,' he reminded her, 'and I've been married. She ran off with a sea captain from Lusitania, if you recall.'
'By the lights of Apollo, I swear the whole of Rome still sniggers about that and the fault was entirely yours, you know that. She was your wife, you should have kept tabs on the slut, because, to put it bluntly, Marcus, women of our class oughtn't to be in the position where they're able to fraternize with tattooed types in the first place. I'm not saying it doesn't happen. Occasionally a patrician woman might slip to the point where lust triumphs over common sense, but, good grief, in those instances at least they have the decency to employ discretion. They don't elope with the fellow. Tch, you were young, I suppose, and the little bitch fooled us all with her sweet tongue and innocent face, so I can't really blame you for going off the rails and joining the Security Police when she left—'
'Thanks.'
'—even though the disgrace of it drove your poor papa to his tomb.'
'My father drove himself,' Marcus said evenly, 'in the fastest chariot he could find. Riding pillion, you might recollect, were an excess of rich food, far too much wine and more women than most men could cope with.'
His aunt's nose twitched, but only slightly.
'If you had a wife, you would have to settle down,' she assured him, snapping be-ringed fingers for another slave to pour two goblets of wine. 'No wife would tolerate the hours you keep, much less the company you keep them in. She'd see you settled in a more appropriate line of work.'
When Orbilio refused the glass, he wasn't sure whether it
was because it symbolized the shallow lifes
tyle into which he was born or whether he genuinely wasn't thirsty.
'A wife's job is to provide children, Marcus. Your last one failed to deliver the goods, but you're young, you're goodlooking, you can even be witty on occasion, and I happen to know of the perfect match.'
So that's what the lecture was in aid of.
'She's the youngest daughter of one our City Prefects, her name's Camilla and—'
And she's barely fifteen.'
'See, I knew you'd agree. Like I said, the child's perfect.'
'Child is right, Lucretia. It's obscene.'
'Nonsense! A man needs an heir and many members of your own family have taken young brides. Your second cousin, Cassius, was twice your age. Your grandfather. My grandfather, come to that, and my middle sister was just fourteen when she was contracted, and her groom was in his sixties at the time. Now, Camilla comes with a generous dowry and your uncle has already approved the City Prefect's draft contract.'
Was his aunt cold-blooded by nature, or simply blinded by the prejudice of her class? He studied her. Straight-backed and stiff-lipped, bony, unyielding, and the sad thing was that she was still two years short of fifty.
'What about Camilla?' he asked. 'Has anyone consulted her views?'
'Women are never consulted in these matters, Marcus, as you well know.'
For the first time Lucretia lifted her face to look into his eyes and her whole attitude softened.
'You really must stop trying to change the world, darling. Learn to accept the inevitable and you'll find life so much simpler.'
'It's precisely because nothing in life is inevitable, Lucretia, that I didn't follow my father into law.'
Emotion began to surge in his breast.
'There's no single issue, legal or moral, that cannot, or
should not, be challenged and I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not a sheep to be herded this way and that. When I marry again, indeed if I marry again, it won't be to some vapid, compliant, emotionally docile mouse, who relies on servants to bath her, to dress her, to pin on her brooches—'
'Oh, lord.' His aunt signalled for the little fan-wallah to flap harder. 'You're in love.'
'Hardly!'
Whatever had him by the balls lately, it wasn't love. Love didn't tear a man's liver to pieces and prevent him from sleeping at night. Love wasn't bewildering, terrifying, exhilarating, electrifying, it didn't rip through your gut, claw at your innards and chew your emotions to mush. No. Love was tender and sweet. It was holding hands in the moonlight, strumming tunes on the lyre, gazing deep into each other's eyes. It sure as hell wasn't serpents writhing around in your brain!
'And in any case, my marital status is irrelevant, since I have no intention of resigning from the Security Police.'
If there was one good thing to come out of this sermon, it was to reinforce his belief in his job!
His aunt changed tack.
'Your uncle has spoken to your superiors, you know. They say you have an almost perfect track record for the investigations you've undertaken on behalf of the administration, and despite what you might think, we are proud of you, your uncle and I. Indeed, the whole family is proud of the way you've handled yourself, Marcus.'
He'd like to think his father would have been proud of him, too. But in his heart he knew it wasn't true.
'By breaking with tradition you've shown spirit, and your impartiality does you credit, my boy. However, you know the old saying. Quit while you're ahead, and to have solved virtually all your cases is a commendable achievement. But it's time to rein in that pride, Marcus, and start living up to your obligations.'
'Obligations?' He spiked his hand through his hair. 'Lucretia, if you truly believe that siring sons and defending slander is
more worthwhile than quelling insurrection and keeping the Empire stable, then I pity you.'
It would take more than that to ruffle his aunt.
'I don't know what's making you so tetchy this morning, darling, but you'll feel better after a long hot soak in the bathhouse.'
She clicked her fingers and more slaves came running.
'I'll get the steam room prepared,' she said, 'and I'll send a girl in, as well.'
'I don't want a girl, thank you.'
His aunt tutted as she clip-clopped down the portico.
'Don't be so silly,' she trilled. 'I'll send Phyllis along. Your uncle's mood always improves after a session with Phyllis.'
He couldn't be hearing this right! His aunt - the same aunt who so staunchly promoted duty and obligation - arranges for slaves to have sex with her husband? Orbilio suddenly had a longing to return to the rough drinking dens and the dark bearpits outside town, where he spent so much of his time tracking down felons. In those places, at least, dishonest people were honest about who they were . . .
'Hello.' A slant-eyed Oriental girl emerged from the main body of the villa. 'Mizz Lucretia tell me you grumpy.'
'Well, I'm not,' he snarled back. 'Bugger off.'
'Mizz Lucretia say woman's touch make you feel better.'
'She wrong.'
'She not wrong. You very grouchy. Phyllis fix that for you, huh?'
A hand had covered his groin before he knew what was happening. Stroking. Fluttering. The same hand that had been over his uncle's groin, and heaven knows how many others . . .
'Look, you're a very pretty girl, Phyllis,' he said, removing the hand and patting it. 'I appreciate what you're doing, but the thing is I - I have an appointment.'
Sod his luggage. Get out of this place ASAP.
But, as he strode down the portico, the thing he hated most
about this morning's conversation with his aunt was that his aunt had been right. He did need a woman.
All night, he'd lain awake in his wide, empty bed with echoes of Horatio's girlish giggles ringing in his ears and the hollow laughter of the whorehouse's clients, so desperate to consume themselves in animal lust. As the stars moved round the sky, Orbilio had prayed to Minerva, goddess of wisdom, that she might confer oblivion on him, but with each hour that was measured by the soft trickle of the sand through the glass on the table, his body had burned for the touch of a woman. For the heat of naked flesh against his. The feel of soft hair in his hands.
God knows, he wasn't alone for lack of availability. A wealthy patrician was always a catch, a single one an added bonus, and Marcus Cornelius was not unaware of his good looks. Indeed, it was something he'd capitalized on many a time, but as he stared vacantly up at the gilded ceiling, he realized that there was only one woman he wanted. A girl with thick, dark curls that tumbled over her shoulders and were streaked with the colours of sunset. A girl whose laugh could fill a whole room yet at other times could barely be heard, and whose dark eyes blazed with passion, and whose breasts, oh dear god, whose breasts heaved like the ocean in winter . . .
In short, Orbilio longed for the only woman in the world who didn't want him.
He wondered whether she'd found out yet that the King of Histria wanted her hand in marriage, not a contract for vintage wine. Perhaps he should have told her at the Ostia Gate? But, stubborn as usual, Claudia wasn't open to listening and he'd let her find out the hard way.
His gut lurched. What would her answer be?
She'd married Gaius Seferius for his money, she'd made no bones about that, nor that the arrangement was mutually beneficial. Gaius had wanted a young, witty and beautiful creature to parade in return and even Orbilio had had to admit they'd made a fair pact. Moreover, he was aware of Claudia's,
shall we say, indiscretions. Forgery, fraud, tax evasion, smuggling, this was just the tip of the iceberg - Croesus, there was nothing that woman wouldn't do to survive, but he couldn't protect her for ever. Sooner or later, the authorities would get to hear about her illegal exploits - in which case, penniless exile might well be the best that she'd face.
And, tough though she was, and more than capable of handling herself, there were more and more situations of late which had seen
her double-crossing characters who would think nothing of slitting a young woman's throat.
Marcus had done the only thing he could think of to protect her.
When the King of Histria asked him whether he could recommend a suitable Roman bride, Orbilio put her name forward.
The King was a good man, he was fair, he was wise, and there was no doubt in Orbilio's mind that Claudia would keep her end of the bargain and give him the heirs that he needed. He ran his hands through his hair. By allying her to the King, he was giving her the life of luxury and wealth, power and influence that she so desperately craved, yet without any loss to her spirit, and she would have safety, security and shelter for the rest of her life. What woman in her right mind wouldn't say yes?
Leaning into the gutter, he was violently sick.
Ten
The first thing that struck Claudia about Amazonia wasn't the imbalance of women, hoeing, irrigating and manuring in tunics kilted to mid-calf - which some might say was for ease of working, others flaunting their assets, like the strumpets they were. The first thing that struck Claudia about Amazonia was the colour.
It was as though a rainbow had burst upon the land and hadn't summoned up the energy to move. Sky-blue flax beside white onion flowers, purple lavender adjacent to bright green ears of wheat. Grey geese with orange bills paddled in the margins of a pool fringed with yellow iris, white arabis and blue aubretia, while black donkeys trampled yellow buttercups beneath pale pink apple blossoms, and white goats browsed among the fields of yellow lupins grown for fodder. Every last bit of it exploding out of a bright reddish-orange soil.
The second thing to hit her was the scent. Musky ajuga mingled with spicy basil, understated rosemary competed with blowsy wallflowers, while heliotropes and pinks vied for perfumed attention.