Marilyn Todd - I, Claudia

‘Who did you think it was, the Emperor’s wife?’ Hadn’t he been in a fight before? Seen bumps and bruises and cuts and blood? ‘Fetch Orbilio.’

‘The master? I’m afraid he’s out, milady.’

‘What! Dammit, where?’

‘I’ve no idea. I’m sorry. The Emperor’s envoy called him away on a secret mission about an hour ago.’

So that was it? You escape from hell, race halfway across the city to save a man’s life-only to find you’re too late? That it’s all been for nothing? She was cold. So very, very cold. Her whole body was in spasm. Around her the crush of carts, street-sweepers, drunks and vagrants went about their business unaware and untouched by the tragedy.

Hold on. Why not a genuine ambassador?

‘Did you examine the seal yourself?’

Yes, he said, it was definitely the sphinx of the Emperor, and when asked to describe the envoy, the manservant’s description was so vague there was only one man in the whole of Rome whose features were so forgettable. This was surely a contributing factor when it came to witnesses, for Ventidius Balbus might as well be invisible for all the impression he left behind. It explained, too, how he’d entered the tenement to kill Crassus. Few people would think of their landlord as a visitor. And only an arrogant egotist like Balbus would consider forging Augustus’s seal!

Claudia slithered down the door jamb to slump on the threshold, not bothered whether the gods which inhabited it were offended or delighted by the sight of her bare bottom on top of them. First, she had threatened the manservant. Then she bribed, wheedled, cajoled and cursed him, in case he harboured the mistaken belief he was protecting his master until finally, convinced the poor wretch spoke the truth, her knees could support her no longer.

Defeat wasn’t a word generally attributed to Claudia Seferius, but even she had to admit the chances of guessing where Balbus might have taken Orbilio were remote in the extreme. Conscious suddenly of her throbbing face, the tightness of the swellings, the tenderness of the bruises and the raw wheals round her wrists, she stared at the red woollen bootees. They’d served her well, up and down the hills. The rose petals had made a perfect cushion for her feet. And when she caught up with Balbus, she’d force them down his puny throat, he’d choke to death on bloody rose petals, so help her. You might have won this round, you perverted little scumbag, but by heaven you’ll regret it. However long it took poor Marcus to die, I’ll double it for you. Treble it. I’ll slice the skin off your feet and burn them with coals. I’ll pour oil down your gullet and set it alight. I’ll rub nettles on your skin and stick pins in your balls. I’ll seal ants in your ears and-

‘I clocked ’em.’

Damn you, Ventidius Balbus. Damn you to eternal hell. Claudia looked up. The sky was turning pink now, and already the temperature of sultry air was rising. The last of the delivery wagons were weaving their way towards the gates. Bakers were baking, millers were milling, street lighters were extinguishing their torches and heading for their beds.

A small finger prodded her on the collarbone. ‘Didja hear? I said, I know where they went.’

She didn’t see where he’d sprung from, only that he was annoying her. Then his words filtered through. Rufus? Rufus knew where they’d gone? Claudia was on her feet in an instant.

‘Where?’

‘Don’t snap me head off, I’m only-’

‘I’ll snap you limb from scrawny limb if you don’t squawk, you horrible little oik.’

He pulled a face. ‘Well, seeing as how you’ve got the hump, like, suppose I’d best not ask what it’s worth, eh? Ooh, ouch! All right, climb off yer high horse, they went to an old warehouse on the far side of the Aemilius bridge.’ Bugger! Balbus had me incarcerated by the Capitol, I was practically there. She glanced up at the brightening sky. What a waste of bloody time. Had I but known, I could have been there an hour ago.

Despatching Rufus for the soldiers and the Libyan for Callisunus, Claudia hared back down the hill. That manservant, the fool, was more concerned with cleaning her up, tending her wounds and finding decent clothes. She supposed he meant well, but he couldn’t seem to understand it was a matter of life and death. Vaguely, she wondered whether he thought she was drunk.

The streets were clearer now, less traffic, fewer pedestrians, and the early morning light meant she could see her way more clearly. Which brought different hazards to dodge. Bruised fruit, donkey droppings, spilled oil. One careless footstep could mean a trip and a sprain-hammering home the message that a man’s life might yet hang in the balance. Any incapacity on her part might well sever the slender thread from which it dangled.

Apart from a few eager pigeons grubbing around in the cracks of the flagstones, the Forum was largely deserted and as she raced past the Rostra she was grateful it wasn’t thronging with the usual bankers and advocates, soothsayers and whores. By the time she reached the bridge, she was wheezing pitifully and the cushioning effect of the rose petals had worn off, but Claudia was barely aware of the pain in her lungs or the rawness of her feet. She was cursing herself for tearing headlong down here without thought to how she could stop Balbus single-handed. If only she’d thought to grab a knife from Orbilio’s house!

Below the stone arches the winding Tiber swirled and eddied, and she forced herself not to think about Marcus’s broken and bloodied body which might, at this very moment, be sucked into its murky depths. Across the bridge she hesitated. A grey stone building, Rufus said, but in this light they all look grey! Wait. The boy said it was next to a grain silo…and there’s only one grain silo. Claudia weighed Sospita’s spear. It mightn’t be much, but so intent was she on catching Balbus that she hadn’t been aware of it clutched in her hand. Until now. She pursed her lips and nodded with satisfaction. Gotcha, you little pervert. I’ve gotcha! She was no longer afraid of him. And the instant you cease to fear the oppressor, he’s rendered powerless. Dust to blow through your fingers.

Nevertheless, sweat was pouring down her back and her heart pounded louder than a blacksmith’s hammer as she circled the building. She had to believe Marcus was still alive.

Slowly does it, Claudia, slowly does it. She could not afford to risk failure at this stage. Easing the door open a fraction, she wriggled inside. It was pitch black, though from the dry, dusty air quarried marble had probably been stored here at one time. Right now it looked-and sounded-as though it was empty. Then her ears picked up a sound. A scuffle. It came from overhead. A series of grunts. Ach, it could be anything. Rats, vagabonds, you name it. Then she heard a groan. Not a groan of discomfort, not a groan of pity, this was a groan of abject misery.

In the gloom her eyes picked out an upper storey, rather like a hayloft in a stables, at the far end of the storehouse. There was a ladder leaning against it. Keeping close to the wall, Claudia inched her way forward, her padded bootees silent on the boarded floor. She was clutching the shield and spear so tightly that her knuckles shone white in the darkness. Her ears caught a second, more urgent scuffle, a gurgle and another groan followed by a high-pitched giggle, and suddenly Claudia realized she’d not only found her man, but that his victim was at least strong enough to fight for his life. She tested the ladder and crept up, rung by rung.

No wonder you couldn’t see anything from below. A huge black curtain partitioned off this upper storey. Claudia lifted the hem and peeped underneath. A circle of oil lamps, each no further than a cubit apart, surrounded Orbilio. He had been stripped naked and tied to a chair, his arms to its arms, his legs to its legs. Beside him, a small table displayed a precise arrangement of surgical implements. Now Claudia wasn’t too hot on surgical instruments, but she could identify saws, scissors, forceps and knives, as well as several she’d never seen before, many of them with a sinister screw mechanism. She felt her blood turn to ice. Balbus, too, was stark naked, his legs blue-white from lack of sunshine, ribs poking through the skin on his chest. He was leaning over his victim, holding a jug in his hand.