Wolf Whistle

by Marilyn Todd

  I mean, the cash had been in a depository, for heaven’s sake. Who the hell checks their depository?

  The answer, unfortunately, was one Sabbio Tullus, owner of said fortune. With the plague having no respect for status, age or gender, Tullus adjudged that now might be a prudent time to vacate the city and spend a few weeks overseeing his estate in Frascati and, fearing robbery in his absence, decided to take his silver along for the ride.

  Claudia couldn’t say who was the more surprised. Tullus, finding a gaping hole in the repository wall. Or Claudia, loading up her satchel.

  The instant that key had rattled the lock, she was out through the gap like an elver, but there hadn’t been time to reposition the loose block of stone. Tullus, goddammit, had seen her.

  Typical that for all the resort’s opulence and splendour, there wasn’t a living soul to be seen. Not counting the gateman, the only other human on the planet appeared to be an immense Oriental, standing with his feet set solidly apart and his arms folded across his tight black leather vest, staring across to the misty blue hills which cradled Plasimene. Apart from a topknot on the poll, his head was shaved and glistening, and the only other outcrop of hair sprouted from his upper lip, which, like the topknot, hung disproportionately long. Pegging him as the sort of chap whose idea of releasing an animal into the wild meant kicking a cat off a cliff, Claudia reckoned he’d be just the sort Tullus would send to ask for his money back.

  Then again, a dozen bruisers on her tail was better than the course he had actually taken.

  As the searing heat beat down upon her back, Claudia groaned. The gods must be wetting themselves on Olympus at the mess she’d gotten into. I ask you, fancy calling out the army. Jupiter, Juno and Mars, what was the silly sod thinking of? Not that the military was concerned with the theft of a few silver denarii—no, no, that was a civil, as opposed to a criminal, misdemeanour. Rather, Claudia believed, their ears pricked up because one of the caskets in that strongroom happened to belong to Tullus’s nephew, who in turn was related by marriage to a second cousin of the Emperor’s wife.

  The connection was distant. But not so distant that it failed to qualify as potential treasonable theft.

  The authorities could prove nothing, of course. A feeble little thing like me, officer? Surely a case of mistaken identity? I’ll have you know, I’m a respectable young widow, and just look at this house, it boasts two stories, a peristyle and an internal bath room, do I look like a common criminal? But the authorities weren’t stupid. This theft concerned the Emperor, and like a tiger, they were prepared to stalk their prey, waiting for that one, fatal mistake.

  Then the letter came. Luck? Or was the motive more sinister?

  Mounting the red marble steps, Claudia glanced back towards the spa’s bath complex, its limestone walls sparkling white in the sunshine with red valerian tumbling from urns set on pedestals. Relax. No-one there. To the right of the path, nestling in a grove of immature walnut trees, sat the tiny, circular shrine dedicated to Carya, the nymph of the spring. There was nobody there either, apart from a toothless old peasant woman rocking herself back and forth, and why should there be? Heaven knows, she’d taken a convoluted enough route to arrive here, had left enough false trails to confuse even the most zealous trufflehound.

  In any case, why shouldn’t an old friend of Claudia’s husband cancel his furlough in order to deal with the crisis in the public water supply? And why, having done so, shouldn’t he take pity on the pretty young widow and offer her the booking here instead? Paranoia is setting in, she thought, once I suspect every stroke of luck which comes my way. There was nothing, she decided, nothing at all which could trouble her here, except maybe her jaws locking open from yawning too much.

  ‘There you go, poppet.’

  Slipping the latch to Drusilla’s cage, Claudia marched towards the entrance, where two liveried Nubians heaved open the mighty oak doors and where, inside, Pylades himself was waiting to greet her.

  ‘Welcome.’ He stretched out both hands. ‘Welcome, my dear, to Atlantis…’

  I, Claudia

  Claudia Seferius has successfully inveigled her way into marriage with a wealthy Roman wine merchant. But when her secret gambling debts spiral, she hits on another resourceful way to make money—offering her ‘personal services’ to high-ranking Citizens.

  Unfortunately her clients are now turning up dead—the victims of a sadistic serial killer…

  When Marcus Cornelius Orbilio, the handsome investigating officer, starts digging deep for clues, Claudia realizes she must track down the murderer herself—before her husband discovers what she’s been up to.

  And before another man meets his grisly end

  Virgin Territory

  It just wasn’t fair. When you marry a man for his money, you expect him to leave you a shining pile of gold pieces. Not a crummy old wine business. How was the new young widow Claudia going to pay off her gambling debts now?

  So when Eugenius Collatinus asks Claudia to chaperone his granddaughter to Sicily she jumps at the chance to escape Rome. It should be easy—Sabina Collatinus, she is told, has recently completed thirty years’ service as a Vestal Virgin.

  Or has she…?

  Claudia’s suspects she is escorting an imposter. And then a woman’s brutalized body is discovered.

  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.

  Unfortunately, being run off the road to Etruria by a hand of hooligans was not part of Claudia’s gameplan. Nor was seeking 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.