Marilyn Todd: Sour Grapes

'Who on earth would want to marry your grandmother? She has no money.'

Claudia had inherited every copper quadran of her husband's estate and frankly the old bag was lucky to get an allowance. It had been open warfare from the day Gaius introduced his pretty, witty trophy wife to his mother — the only difference was, wars usually end.

'Who cares?' Flavia shrugged. 'Darius is rolling.'

Nineteen, Twenty and Twenty-One were caught in the weeds. It was the mid-runners, as usual, swirling downstream, although Number One might yet pull a surprise from the left.

'Then good luck to them,' Claudia said as Sixteen and Seventeen bumped heads and span off in separate directions. Down to six little effigies left in the running, one of them worth three hundred sesterces.

'Luck has nothing to do with it, according to Candace.' Flavia was more interested in chewing her nails than watching the race. 'It was the spirits that brought the two love birds together, she says, and she says my father's given the wedding his seal of approval, as well.'

Twelve gods on Olympus, it has to be lucky. Come on, come on, Number Twelve!

'Flavia, sweetheart, your father's been in his grave for three years. He can't possibly give the marriage his blessing.'

A swirl in the current put paid to Number Nine. Five little doughboys remained.

'Oh, yes, he can! Candace has spoken to him. She walks the wind and communes with the dead, and she's even let me talk to Papa myself. He's terribly well, honestly, and very happy where he is.'

Number One, the outsider, hit a dead cow floating down. It was neck and neck between Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen and Fourteen.

'And where exactly is your father, did he say?'

Only someone in the last throes of senility couldn't see through this Candace fraud. Correction. Only someone in the last throes of senility and a sulky teenage brat!

'Never thought to ask, but he sends you his love.'

'Does he indeed?'

Things were looking good. Eleven had sunk, while Fourteen snagged in the current and was starting to come back upstream.

'You know, Flavia, I think I might just go up to Mercurium and have a cosy chat with your father myself.'

Communing with the dead, my eye, and besides, it was high time Claudia looked in on those Tuscan vineyards. She was, after all, a wine merchant. Wouldn't hurt to see where the stuff came from, she supposed… And now it was just Twelve and Thirteen neck and neck. Yes, definitely something to do with the current.

'If you think I'm coming with you, you're mistaken. It's boring.'

'Nonsense, you'll have your father to talk to.'

'You only want me up there so you can palm me off on some dreary old fart in the country, where I'd just die.'

'Trust me,' Claudia assured her. 'That's not what I have planned, and since your foster mother's stuck in Naples looking after her sick cousin, you're in my care and what I say goes… Bugger.'

Thirteen had sailed straight under the bridge, and where was Number Twelve? Splattered all over the bloody pier, that's where it was, having crashed at the very last turn. Claudia felt a hole well up inside where three hundred sesterces should have been as the remnants of her effigy were devoured by six hungry ducks. How was she supposed to pay off her creditors now?

'You've gone green,' Flavia observed cheerfully. 'Is it something you ate?'

'No, that's just the taste of dreams being swallowed.'

Dreams of not being permanently in debt. Dreams of not having to constantly look over her shoulder. Dreams of freeing the shackles once and for all…

One by one, the crowd began to disperse, until only stepmother and stepdaughter remained peering into the thick, muddy waters. Oh, well. Claudia's fortunes might be dashed on the piers and the soothsayer might well be a fraud, but thanks to Doddering Darius, Larentia was one burden Claudia would no longer have to shoulder — and shortly, Fortune willing, the weight of financing her stepdaughter and funding the girl's sponges of foster parents would also be lifted from her.

'Flavia, there's something I need to talk to you about.'

'If it's about picking my nose in public, Aunt Julia's already worn her tonsils down on that one.'

'Yes. Well. We'll discuss that endearing habit another time.' Claudia took hold of the girl's hand, because this was no time to have the silly cow run off. 'The thing is, we — that is, your foster parents and I — have found the perfect husband for you, um, darling. His name is…' Wait, it would come to her. 'His name… Anyway, the point is, he's a wonderful boy.'

Bit gangly perhaps, and maybe his front teeth did cross a tad, though quite honestly it was hardly noticeable unless he laughed. But the law was the law. If a woman was of childbearing age, she was obliged to marry and bear children and the State was unequivocal. Choose a husband yourself or have one appointed for you, and despite being the daughter of a prestigious wine merchant, Flavia was rapidly running out of options. Every time the family identified a suitable candidate, she'd fob him off until it reached the point where her maidenhood was the only thing that kept suitors knocking on her door. For once, virginity could not be underestimated.

'He's honest, reliable, not at all the type to sleep around, drink or gamble, and everyone agrees that he'll make you an admirable husband.'

'Nope.'

'He's wealthy, his parents are extremely nice people, you'd have your own house here in Rome, where your babies can be reared in comfort with the help of the very finest physicians-'

'No, no, no, no, and in case you're not getting the message, no.'

'All right, it mightn't be a match made in heaven, but — ha, ha, ha — even in those marriages the day-to-day maintenance is done here on earth.'

'Don't care.' Flavia snatched her little fat hand back. 'I'm not having Honest-and-Admirable's babies and that's final.' She crossed her arms over her chest to prove the point. 'I'm having Orson's.'

'Are you, indeed. And who's Orson?'

'Honestly!' Flavia rolled her eyes contemptuously. 'He's the boy who made me pregnant, of course.'

The sun was sinking as Claudia blazed a path through the crowds that had gathered for their evening entertainment in the Forum. If some money-grubbing, fortune-seeking, low-born, no-good scoundrel thought that by siring a baby out of wedlock he could worm his way into the Seferius fortune, he was bloody well mistaken, she thought, skirting the sacred lotus tree, where a Sabean Arab in fringed robes offered rides on a mange-ridden camel. For one thing, by the time she'd taken a gelding knife to the conniving son-of-a-bitch, there'd be no more siring, and for another… She marched through the troop of Sarmatian dancers balancing in full fish-scale armour and barely heard the clatter of metal on the flagstones. For another, there was no fortune.

From the moment Gaius embarked upon that ferry ride across the River Styx, the Guild of Wine Merchants had swooped, and for a man who they claimed was their friend, they had a funny way of showing it. The funeral feast was still spread and Claudia was swamped with bids, some kindly offering to take the millstone from her neck as a favour, others trying to wheedle the business from her through proposals of marriage. Oh, yes? He might have been fat, he might have been old, and his breath might well have felled a forest of oaks, but Gaius Seferius gave his life to those vines. Surely, the vines owed him something in return? As it happened, the return for vintage wine worked out to four per cent higher than its closest business rival, olive oil, a profit which Claudia was more than happy to distribute among jewellers, dressmakers, horse races and the like, had the Guild of Wine Merchants left her in peace. Trouble was, the bastards wouldn't let go.