Marilyn Todd - Widow's Pique

'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.

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.

'Welcome, my dear.'

Mazares had arranged for an armed escort to accompany Claudia across the Rovin Channel to Salome's farm, but if the Syrian girl was surprised by the visit, it didn't show as she swept her guest into the house and who knows — maybe every visitor arrived here under armed guard?

'Wild strawberry and rosehips,' she said, handing her visitor a goblet of pale pink liquid. 'You won't find a better tonic, anywhere.'

'News travels fast.'

The drink was sweet, scented and utterly delicious.

'News?'

Salome's puzzled frown was genuine.

'That I didn't sleep a wink last night,' Claudia said quickly. 'Personally, I blame the pillows. I swear they've been stuffed with bricks and old horseshoes.'

'No wonder my geese were eyeing you so warily,' Salome retorted. 'Poor things, they feared themselves featherless. How are you finding Mazares?'

She didn't even break stride and maybe it was the sunlight, but Claudia thought she caught a mischievous twinkle in those cat-like green eyes.

'Which came first,' she asked artlessly, totally ignoring the question, 'the farmer or the healer?'

'My mother, my grandmother and her mother before that were all healers,' Salome replied, smiling. 'With each generation that passes, our skills become richer, each of us adding something from her own bank of knowledge, be it culled from Egyptian, Greek, Indian or Roman medicines.'

How about local, Claudia wondered, thinking about the King's mysterious illness. On a fast horse, Gora was a day's ride from here..