Marilyn Todd - Second Act

‘Little ovally things. Often speckled. You find them in nests.’

‘And…you’d like some right now?’

‘Hard-boiled,’ she replied.

‘Naturally,’ Leonides murmured, and dammit she’d sack him if he wasn’t enslaved. Well, now. Hard-boiling a few eggs must take a good while, she calculated, moving behind the tall bust on the podium where she could look out into the peristyle but not be seen in return.

‘One day a stranger

Rode into our village,’ a clear voice sang.

‘Ravaged with scars of hard battles long past. ‘

‘Adah told me you wanted to see me,’ Erinna said.

‘I have something for you.’ Still propped against the pillar, Skyles dangled a perfect circlet of flowers from his outstretched finger.

Erinna looked at the chaplet then at the flower beds. ‘Does our hostess know you’ve been raiding her garden?’

‘If you’re asking, does this constitute receiving stolen goods, then the answer is “probably”.’

The clown. Always the clown.

‘But with the courts closed and the jails full to overflowing, I don’t think they’ll clap you in irons, Mistress Erinna.’

‘I think you’re missing the point,’ Erinna said.

‘What? That I didn’t actually buy you the flowers? Well, no. But I wove them myself.’

‘That’s not what I meant and you know it.’

Claudia could only see the back of Erinna’s head, but she could see all of Skyles. Especially the dark intensity burning holes in his eye sockets. ‘I’m an arsehole at times,’ he said equably.

‘Aren’t you.’ There was a smile, though, in Erinna’s reply.

‘Good, because if we agree on that, we at least have some common ground.’

‘You’re incorrigible,’ she replied, and of course, it being Skyles, Erinna couldn’t help laughing.

Very slowly, very gently, he positioned the chaplet of crocus and hellebores. They were a perfect fit over Erinna’s tight chestnut bun. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve changed your mind about going to the Circus and having dinner with me?’

‘No.’

Skyles stared at his feet. ‘Mind if I ask why?’

‘You can ask, but I’ll only lie to you, Skyles. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to rehearse my lines, now that Caspar’s got me playing the Virgin as well.’

A hand fell on her arm. ‘Then let me ask you something else.’

‘No.’

Whatever else followed, Claudia would never know. Julia chose that moment to come flapping into the office, her hair spiked in a dozen different directions as though she’d been taking lessons in coiffure from Hermione.

‘She’s gone,’ she cried. ‘Flavia’s run off with that gigolo just like she threatened.’

‘Calm down.’ Emerging from behind the podium as though it was the most natural place in the world to be standing, Claudia pushed her sister-in-law into a chair and forced a glass of vintage Chian wine down her throat. ‘No one’s run off with Skyles, Julia. See for yourself. The gigolo is outside in the garden.’

‘Then where is she? Her bed’s not been slept in and-’ Bony hands bunched into fists. ‘That little cow’s playing me up again, isn’t she? When I get hold of her, I swear I’ll-’ She broke off as a thought suddenly occurred to her. ‘What am I saying?’ she laughed. ‘Once Flavia meets our handsome oleiculturist, she’ll soon forget about penniless actors!’

‘You do realize that his sexual preferences swing the other way?’

‘What?’ Julia reeled in her seat. ‘My divine Marcus?’

‘Keeps a harem of little black boys in his house on the Esquiline, and another at his estate at the seaside.’

‘Oh, my!’ Julia fanned herself with her hand. ‘So many shocks, one on top of the other, that I’ve come over all-’

‘Queer?’

‘Faint.’

She rose to her feet and made some effort to pull herself together.

‘So much has happened, I nearly forgot,’ she said primly. ‘Sister-in-law, I shall expect you to have bolts fitted to my bedroom door by tonight, and I would advise you, my girl, to have them fitted to yours.’

‘Bolts?’

‘This house,’ Julia hissed, ‘is turning into a brothel.’

With that, she swept out through the door, knocking Leonides aside.

‘Four hard-boiled eggs, milady,’ he said, laying down a covered silver platter.

‘Eggs?’ Claudia scowled as she lifted the lid. ‘ Eggs? Oh, for gods’ sake, Leonides, take them away. You know I can’t stand the bloody things.’

*

Unlike other divinities, the Shrine of Consus was sited underground, below the first turn in the Circus Maximus. In a mirror image of the August festival, when a bowl of earth was removed from its place as centrepiece of the altar, in December a bowl of freshly turned soil was positioned in the empty slot. The gesture was purely symbolic. The August bowl represented the tired soil in which the harvest had been grown. The December bowl symbolized the rich, fertile earth for the new seeds, the idea being to bless the god of the store bin, for in theory without wheat, Rome would starve.

Theory be damned. Since Augustus took the helm, the provinces of Egypt, Pannonia and Sicily had been turned into the Empire’s wheatfields, with fleets of four-hundred-tonne cargo ships, known as ten-thousanders after the number of sacks that they carried, doing the Puteoli-Alexandria run in under twelve days. Rome would never be brought to her knees again, held to ransom over her need for grain. But it was important not to forget these things. Remind citizens of how it used to be, before the Eagle’s shadow covered the earth, and for that reason Augustus had restored the much larger temple to Consus on the Aventine. It was here, in the main temple, that the sacrificial offerings were burnt before being taken in festive procession down the hill to his underground shrine, but it was in the Circus where the real entertainment took place.

In full Imperial regalia, Augustus himself would ride a circuit in his war chariot. This would be followed by a procession of some of the finest horseflesh in Rome, then the consecration of offerings to Consus. After that, it became a free-for-all of mule races, donkey derbies, athletes racing on foot, before the festivities culminated in a series of full-blooded chariot races, and all this with the six most mysterious women in Rome in attendance at the Emperor’s side, the Vestal Virgins. Something for everyone, then, on this lively public holiday.

Everyone, apparently, except Claudia Seferius.

‘If you’re going to make a habit of inviting men into your bedroom,’ Orbilio said, warming his hands briskly over the brazier, ‘you’ll have to get your pitch in a lot faster. Jemima’s already offered me a knee-trembler, thank you.’

‘Be grateful it wasn’t Hermione. Thecks in the thellar for thickthpenth,’ Claudia mimicked.

‘I was more worried about Fenja. I have nightmares about her catching me in the hallway and jolly well helping herself.’

Ah, yes. The more urbane, the more dangerous…

Claudia shifted her weight to the other foot and thought about the reason she’d invited him into her room. Frankly, she wasn’t sure how to play this. Whichever way, it wasn’t going to be easy ‘Last year’s victims,’ she began.

The dancing light in his eyes vanished. ‘You’re talking about the rapist?’

She nodded. Ran her tongue over her lips. ‘Could you write down the addresses of the three women who identified their attacker?’

‘For gods’ sake, Claudia, if you know who-’

‘I don’t.’

That much was true. It was still only a hunch. Images swirled like a kaleidoscope inside her head. Of Ion, handsome and rugged, but never happy, sneaking out as the herald called the sixth hour. Of Doris, slipping out after him. Of a draught from the front door. Of Caspar, sneaking along the gallery in the dark. Blood thundered at her temples, and there was a pain at the back of her eyes.