Marilyn Todd - I, Claudia

It took a few quiet words to calm Scaevola, whose face was positively suffused by the time the first set of dishes was cleared away. Claudia barely touched her own food. Orbilio’s plate, on the other hand, was littered with chicken bones. That idle strumpet grew bolder and bolder with every course, and Orbilio positively lapped it up. She was shoulder to shoulder with him after the eggs and lettuce, and by the time the fruit was wheeled in, she was running her little fat ankle up and down his calf and lifting his tunic with her toes.

At one stage, Claudia had to put her hand on Scaevola’s arm to steady him when he growled: ‘What the fuck’s her game?’ and began to clamber to his feet.

Quick thinking was called for. She promised him it was the usual case of pre-wedding nerves with dear little Flavia testing her fiancé to see whether he really loved her, which she could only prove by making him jealous, couldn’t he see that? Naturally she also assured him her cousin’s affections were firmly engaged elsewhere, it was something of a family joke, ha, ha, ha, but on this occasion he had to agree to conspire with the bride-to-be on such an important issue, surely Antonius could understand that? From the look he shot her, it seemed unlikely Antonius was convinced on any point, but at least he calmed down sufficiently to continue the meal without making a scene in front of Gaius who, by now, had tears rolling down his cheeks and was mumbling to himself. He needed to buck himself up, he really did. It was bad enough at the villa, though Rollo and the huge amount of work seemed to hold him in check, but since coming home he’d fallen apart. If he wasn’t slobbering in his cups he was wailing to everyone and anyone who happened to be passing that his babies, his babies, look what was happening to his babies. His mother was dying, his children were dead, his grandchild, they were all dead. Dead or dying.

Sod that for a game of knucklebones, she thought now, dodging a small boy playing in the gutter. Gaius had precious little time to pull himself together. The business was falling apart, he wasn’t meeting clients, he was negligent about deliveries, sloppy over pricing. Heaven only knew what muddle poor old Rollo was having to contend with, but the main thing was, in thirteen days’ time, Flavia Seferius was marrying Antonius Scaevola. If he hadn’t slapped himself into shape by then, by Jupiter Claudia would bloody well do it for him.

For all the hordes crammed into the Circus Maximus, the streets were no less of an ant’s nest. A builder’s wagon, one of the few vehicles allowed into the city during the daytime and that only due to the urgency of the work, was blocking one of the narrower streets and causing chaos. People were trying to clamber over the cart, marble and all, as the driver was torn between fighting them off and goading his oxen, the same oaths encompassing both. Claudia decided to avoid the route in case the weight of the people on top of the load collapsed the axle. Too many crushed limbs for her taste.

As she rounded the corner she collided with a soldier, whose nailed sole ground into her toe. He quickly apologized, but the string of obscenities with which he was greeted fairly took his breath away. She swerved round porters’ poles, shoved a beggar out of the way, heedless of upturning his bowl in the process, and elbowed aside a juggler in mid-juggle. It was truly a pleasure to turn into her own street, away from the congestion, knowing that, inside, the fountains and frescoes, marbles and mosaics could soothe away the foulest of tempers. There was something wonderfully refreshing about the pale blue frieze with its long-necked cranes and elegant panthers-the whiteness of the ostriches, the grace of the antelope-which was missing in almost every other house she’d visited.

The minute she crossed the threshold she realized something was wrong. For once the usual criss-crossing of slaves was absent. There was a strange hush in the air. Her eyes sought Leonides, but it was Junius who shuffled forward to meet her.

‘It’s Flavia, isn’t it?’ She could tell. ‘Don’t tell me! She’s run off with that snake Orbilio, am I right?’

Ashen-faced, the young Gaul shook his head. ‘No, madam. I’m sorry, but-’

‘But what, Junius? I haven’t got all bloody day, spit it out.’

‘It-it’s the master.’

She noticed his eyes had flicked to Gaius’s bedroom. ‘Oh, no, not another seizure. Have you fetched the doctor?’

She flew across the atrium towards the staircase, but Junius ran after her. Strong hands on her shoulders stopped her from going any further.

‘Don’t go up,’ he pleaded.

From his tunic waistband he drew out a letter sealed with wax and imprinted with Gaius’s own private seal of two leaping dolphins. She noticed the boy’s hand was trembling.

‘He’s dead, madam.’

Colour flooded Claudia’s face. ‘Juno, I knew this would happen! That bloody child and her tantrums! How dare she! Where is the little bitch? I’ll give her a seizure, you wait and see.’

She tried to wriggle free, but his grip merely tightened. He smelled of roses. Must have been out pruning. He was the only one in the house she could trust to look after them properly.

‘It wasn’t a seizure,’ he said quietly. ‘The master committed suicide.’

‘Suicide? Gaius? Don’t be ridiculous. Gaius is the last man in the world to top himself. Must have been an accident.’

The boy’s fingers dug into her shoulders. ‘It was no accident, madam. Master Seferius fell on his sword.’

Claudia’s litter set her down outside the modest white-fronted house sandwiched between a butcher and a wig-maker on the lower end of the Esquiline near the old temple of Juno. Opposite, a goldsmith calmly pounded his precious dust, impervious to the cries of the pedlars, the beggars, the children pressing in around him. In spite of the circumstances, Claudia hadn’t forgotten her promise to herself, and the litter no longer sported the ostentatious orange so envied by that little copycat Marcia but was draped instead with the palest blue any mercer could lay his hands on. Every spot would show, of course, but that wasn’t the point-was it, Marcia?

Waiting until it was confirmed the master was at home before dismissing her entourage, Claudia stepped into the atrium. One thing about these patricians, they had taste, she thought, looking around. The frescoes were quieter, the shades subdued, radiating calm even in this bustling corner of the city. The predominant colour was ivory, contrasting spectacularly with maplewood inlaid with tortoiseshell and the occasional hint of gold. Vesta’s sacred flame burned in the centre of an intricate mosaic depicting the wanderings of Odysseus. Low fountains gushed in the corner. Even the servants oozed tranquillity. A mournful-looking Libyan with perfect Latin informed her politely he was extremely sorry, the master was engaged with a visitor at present, would Milady mind waiting? No, Milady would not, nor would she care for any refreshment, thank you, or company, or fanning, or entertainment and, no, she was perfectly happy here, rather than in the peristyle. The servant glided away, leaving the atrium once again the peaceful haven expected of it as Claudia’s fingers traced the carved lion that comprised the arm of the chair.

She’d far rather have married into one of the patrician families, she thought. Class had been bred into them, style and elegance came naturally. Her mouth twisted at one corner. Alas, so did suspicion. Forged pedigrees aren’t commonplace, but then again they aren’t such a rarity that the patricians don’t make assiduous checks into a person’s background and Claudia had to admit that, had Gaius been more thorough, she’d never have got past the first post.