Marilyn Todd - Second Act

‘Erinna?’ he rasped again. He put his head round Caspar’s bedroom door. ‘Oh, there you are.’

‘I’m making a new costume,’ she said, and it was obvious to Claudia, and therefore to Skyles, that she had heard him calling her name. ‘If I’m to play the Soldier’s Mistress, I thought it would be fun if I wore a legionary’s kilt and a bodice with stitching that resembled armour. Now the Soldier’s Mistress comes on stage looking like another soldier, only with bosoms.’

‘That,’ Skyles said, ‘is inspirational.’

From the shadows, Claudia expected him to make a bow or perform some extravagant comic gesture. Instead, she saw only a strained line round his jaw as he leaned against the door jamb watching her nimble fingers jab their needle at the fabric.

‘What did you want?’ she asked bluntly.

The strain stretched up his cheekbones to his eyes and he ran a hand over his smooth, shaven head. ‘Tomorrow’s the Festival of Consus. I was wondering if you’d like to go to the races with me? We could have a meal in that tavern on Tuscan Street, the one that always has a sheep roasting on a spit out on the pavement-’

‘No.’

In the doorway, Skyles frowned. ‘No, you don’t want to go out? No, you don’t like chariot racing? No, you don’t want a meal? No, you don’t like me? No, what?’

Clutching an armful of bright red fabric, Erinna squeezed past him on to the gallery.

‘Sorry, Skyles, that was extremely rude of me.’ She flashed him a radiant smile. ‘What I should have said was, no thank you.’

*

Waste disposal was one of Rome’s most illustrious achievements. What, not so many generations back, had been nothing more than a series of open, unconnected, stinking ditches had been converted into a network of jointed underground tunnels which were flushed with water from the aqueducts, and which were tall enough and wide enough to ride a hay cart through. Not that anyone had attempted such a feat, although from time to time bored schoolboys would take a boat inside to stick a river rat or two, egging each other on to see how far they could penetrate before the stench made them turn back.

The Great Sewer was their favoured choice, since it ran west below Tuscan Street then cut underneath the Forum, the current record holder claiming to have reached as far as the Julian Basilica, although the witnesses in this case were brothers aged no more than ten and could not be relied upon.

The shrine to the nymph who presided over this putrid underworld was round and built of Anio, a dull brown building stone, durable but ugly, and was capped by a marble rim. Since the structure lacked a roof and was thus open to the elements, many felt the shrine represented nothing more than a giant latrine and it was perhaps for that reason that Cloacina remained the most neglected deity in the pantheon.

Which is why the Halcyon Rapist had been able to subject his fifth victim to her ordeal in broad daylight.

No fear of interruption here.

He could take as much time as he liked.

‘Been shopping for Saturnalia presents, have we?’ a familiar, husky voice called out breathlessly, and a pair of chiselled cheekbones thrust themselves under Claudia’s nose. ‘You know, you shouldn’t be out on your own, kiddo.’ He whisked the basket out of her hands. ‘These streets aren’t safe.’

Claudia could not tell him that shopping was a by-product of her excursion. That her real purpose had been to find out what her agent had learned about Skyles-and what did he mean, he couldn’t find out one damn thing about the actor?

‘I doubt Skyles is his real name,’ her agent had said. ‘But given that most strolling players are on the run from one thing or other, that doesn’t surprise me. What bothers me more is that I’ve circulated his somewhat singular description among my sources and nothing’s come back. Nothing,’ he added sinisterly, ‘at al l.’

Which was odd, considering that network of scars. ‘Keep looking,’ Claudia had replied, reminding him that this was still urgent.

Turning now to Doris, swinging the wicker basket through the crowds with nonchalant ease, she said, ‘What’s your real name?’

They had reached her front door, where a tantalizing smell of cooking greeted them, and Claudia could almost hear the rissoles sizzling on the open griddle and pullets turning on the spit. She’d spotted red mullet for sale in the Forum and hoped the Cook had seen them, too. Stuffed with soft cheese, prawns, parsley and chives and drizzled with garlic and olive oil, they were the sort of dish any hostess would be proud to serve to oleiculturists with a wealth of connections and an interest in her stepdaughter for a wife.

‘My real name?’ His hand froze as he returned her basket, and an expression she hadn’t seen before crossed his face. No longer the happy-go-lucky young fool, something feral flickered behind those cornflower-blue eyes. ‘Do you really want to know?’

Claudia felt a chill in the air which wasn’t down to the weather. ‘Yes.’

‘Then I’ll tell you,’ he whispered. ‘But this is our secret. Yours and mine, understood?’

‘Understood.’

Doris looked over his left shoulder, then his right, then checked the landings upstairs. ‘Daphne,’ he said and then, with a cluck of his tongue, the old expression was back and he was joining the Spectaculars with a series of athletic cartwheels.

Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies…

But before she could consider the implications of the sea change which had descended on Doris, Julia burst through the vestibule door behind her, rubbing her hands and tossing her mantle to a slave to dry off.

‘Sister-in-law!’ Either Julia was in the grip of chronic indigestion, or that was a smile on her face. ‘I tried calling you in the street, but you didn’t hear me. Isn’t my oleiculturist simply wonderful?’

‘I don’t know, I haven’t seen him.’

‘Tch, poor fellow! Exhausted from travelling, I suppose, but he looked absolutely wretched when he arrived and I said to myself, that dear man is in no fit state to go courting our Flavia, so I insisted he went straight up to bed. Do you know, the darling boy had only been here ten minutes when Marcellus came rushing in, gushing about all the contracts he’ll be getting in the New Year. Now tell me the oleiculturist has no connections!’

‘Did you just say “darling boy”…?’

A thin claw grabbed Claudia’s arm and drew her close. ‘Forget what I said about Marcellus playing around. Nothing of the sort.’

‘I suppose he’s simply been working long hours?’

‘Exactly, and last night, you should have seen him! Worn out with the strain, he was. Still.’ Julia was quite unperturbed by her husband’s apparent exhaustion. ‘He made up for it by presenting me with this wonderful bracelet. Garnets, of all things, and my dear it’s not Saturnalia for another three days. You know, he actually admitted he hadn’t been paying me sufficient attention of late-’

‘Apologized that he’d been preoccupied with his work?’

‘Absolutely.’ Marcellus ought to apply to Caspar for a job. He’d learned his script off pat.

‘And he gave me this sweet little scent bottle. Look, he’s even put some perfume in for me.’

Claudia dutifully sniffed the floozy’s overblown scent. Typical Marcellus, though. Hadn’t even bothered to have it filled up to the stopper, but what the hell. The main thing is, Julia’s happy, the allowance is going where it ought to be going and Marcellus, with luck, might actually be earning his own supper for a change. If Julia felt that was all down to some washed-out olive-oil man, who cares? Claudia made a mental note to up the schmoozing stakes over dinner. Get him to sign up Flavia for a wife and Claudia need never see her in-laws again!