Marilyn Todd - I, Claudia

‘Claudia, please-’

She turned her head and covered her ears. She didn’t want to see him, she didn’t want to hear him. She just wanted him gone.

A century must have passed before she found the courage to turn round. The room was empty, apart from herself.

Feeling like an old woman, she crawled off the bed and opened the shutters to let in the fresh night air. Drusilla, miffed at being thrown out, was nowhere in sight and it was quite possible that, knowing her she’d stay out until dawn to teach Claudia a lesson. She yawned. The night was still young, but her bones ached, her head was pounding, there was a filthy taste in her mouth.

‘Good evening, m’dear. Received your message.’

She spun round. There was a figure in the room, the figure of a man. He wore a toga, which didn’t disguise the fact that he was small in all directions.

‘Jupiter!’

She turned up the light to find herself staring into the blank features of Ventidius Balbus, a flagon of wine under one arm.

‘I think there’s been a mistake in communications, Ventidius, I didn’t send any message.’

‘Oh.’ His face fell. ‘Um. Sent you a letter…’

‘Yes, I know.’

She was too damned weary to bawl him out and he looked so pathetic standing there. Besides she could use that drink.

‘Plus proposal of marriage. Wondered, er, whether this has been considered?’

‘Ventidius, could we discuss this another time? I’m very tired.’

‘Ah! One didn’t mean to, um… Although this matter is of some urgency to one’s self.’

One’s self? Or was that, one’s elf? Really, it was quite impossible to take this twit seriously! However, since he was the one who might still make that Genoa connection, it wouldn’t hurt to be tolerant. He had, after all, recently divorced a wife who, he told her endlessly at the banquet, had been bonking every man in sight. His ego was probably fragile.

‘The thing is, Ventidius, I’ve decided against remarriage.’

‘Somewhat hasty, don’t you think? Early days, and all that.’

‘Possibly, but you know Roman law. I’d be putting myself under the rule of another man, and somehow the concept of subordination doesn’t appeal.’

His eyes, those ghastly boiled gooseberries, widened in shock. ‘Oh, but you must. What would people think?’

‘Convention, Ventidius, is not something that interests me.’

Neither was the prospect of bonking this insipid little worm.

‘So if you’d excuse me…’

‘Quite. Quite.’

He looked so crestfallen, she had to shield the smile on her face.

‘One is, um, not without funds, y’know.’

‘Ventidius, I didn’t think for one moment you wanted to marry me for my money.’ This one would want to get inside a different sort of treasure chest. ‘But,’ she feigned a yawn, ‘it’s late, and this girl does need her beauty sleep.’

‘Apologies. One didn’t mean to… Um, perhaps one could persuade you to accept this small token of my esteem. A delicacy of mine, sweet violet wine.’

Oh. She handed him the glass Scaevola had been using. ‘Well, here’s to sweet violets.’ Claudia dredged up her best professional smile. ‘And to you, Ventidius.’

Good grief, it was ghastly. Rich, sweet, sickly. Claudia began to blink rapidly. Was the room swaying or was she? She put a hand to her forehead.

‘I think-I’m feeling-a little dizzy,’ she began.

But before she could finish the sentence, the floor had risen up to meet her.

The ship was rolling and wallowing, pitching and tossing. Hammers pounded incessantly. Slow, heavy hammers which shook your bones. Rapid, tinny hammers which shook your nerves. Not to mention every hammer known to man in between.

Claudia groaned. She lifted one eyelid, closed it immediately. No ship. Wherever she was, this was no ship. Too dark to make out the ceiling, but the walls move, there’s no floor. I’m drifting on a pink sea. A bare-breasted woman with the head of a goat wades up to her thighs, her arms outstretched and beckoning…

I’m dead. The bastard’s killed me!

What else explains the heat. The heat and humidity and that thick, cloying scent. Heavy. Choking. Nauseous. And limbs weighted with iron. When she tried to swallow, it was to discover a small, furry rodent had been wedged inside her mouth. After three attempts to spit it out, she realized something. It was her own tongue.

Not dead, then. Hallucinating.

Her eyes swivelled round. Slowly-very, very slowly-quaking walls solidified in the simple flicker of a candle and, as her vision adjusted, the naked woman became a humble statue, the goat’s horns nothing more sinister than its skin drawn up to form a helmet. The pink sea, however refused to go away and as Claudia struggled to sit up, another fact became plain. Her wrists and ankles had indeed been bound. She was strapped naked save for her breast band and thong to a couch in the middle of this wretched hell-hole. Even the pins from her hair had been taken.

Dear Diana, save me from sweet violet wine and worms that turn!

She slumped against the soft wool. What on earth could that idiot be thinking of, kidnapping her? And where was she, for heaven’s sake? Not his own house, it was too dark, too damp, too neglected for habitation. The plaster had crumbled, the frescoes all but disappeared. A tomb? She wriggled her wrists until the bindings chafed. Give him credit, Ventidius Balbus could tie a mean knot, she’d say that for him.

‘Balbus, you raving lunatic, let me loose!’ Her voice echoed round the empty stone chamber. ‘Balbus, can you hear me?’

Futile, but it made her feel better shouting and screaming. You can almost forget how helpless you really are…

It was the intermittency of the hammering which made her realize the pounding came from outside her head, yet no matter how hard she yelled she wasn’t making herself heard. At least there was consolation in that she was still in Rome, because these reverberations and rumbles meant it was another temple in the process of restoration. Temple! Of course. What if this was once the home of a long-forgotten cult which, like Consus, was also revered underground. She could feel her pulse racing. Where, though, where? Juno, it could be anywhere! No. No, it couldn’t. The clues are here. Goddess. Wears goatskin. Arms out, left one bent at the elbow. Got it! The old shrine of Sospita. That left hand would have clutched a shield, the right a spear. I’ll bet if I could see her feet she’d be wearing shoes with turny-up toes! Claudia winked at the statue. The old vegetable market, am I right, Sospita?

Her hands, being over her head, were beginning to tingle and she wriggled her fingers to chivvy the circulation back. Balbus had chosen his spot with care. Apparently he wanted to play sex games, but-a rash of goosepimples broke out on her skin-suppose he’s the type who likes to torture his victims? It would be naive to imagine she was the first woman pinned to this altar. Her eyes squinted in their search for bloodstains, but with only that one small flame burning in the corner it was impossible to differentiate shadow from stain. Bugger! Frantically she clawed at the bonds. Bugger, bugger, bugger! Panting from the exertion, her wrists and ankles raw, Claudia slumped back and forced herself to stay calm. Emotion could only be her undoing. Men like him feed on fear. Fear and power. Balbus was a worm who had acquired himself a victim, relying on his power and her fear to get his kicks. Or so the poor misguided bastard thought! So if you plan to escape from this rathole, you’ll need a cool head and a clear brain. Deep breaths, Claudia. One, two, three, four-

Her ears picked up measured footsteps, yet even as she braced herself to scream, instinct held her back. The footsteps grew louder. Clomp, clomp, clomp down the stairs. Eight of them. No, nine. He’d hesitated at the last. There was a grinding of a key in a lock, a draught, the grating of a badly fitting door over stone. Once inside the chamber the footsteps were instantly muffled but she could hear him wade through the pink froth and suddenly the room was filled with light.