Marilyn Todd - Widow's Pique

'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 lifestyle 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.'