Marilyn Todd - Virgin Territory

Claudia shivered. At the Villa Collatinus, it was as though Sabina hadn’t existed. Tears had not been shed, her name was never mentioned, her unsettling mannerisms never broached.

There is a formula for clearing your mind of difficult encumbrances. You tell yourself jokes, you sing dirty songs, you count to a hundred and fifty then you repeat one word twenty times. Claudia was on the second round of joke telling when she became aware of a small shadow beside her. Popillia, red in the face and desperately trying to suppress tears of anger, radiated so much heat you could have lit a bonfire with her.

‘I hate you!’

Claudia pulled up her knees and hugged them. ‘You resent having your bluff called,’ she corrected.

‘Do so hate you. Piso spanked me on my bare bottom and in front of my brothers, too. I hate you more than Piso!’

Claudia waited for the fire to burn itself out.

‘It’s not fair. I told Piso it was you who broke the pot then-’

‘Then Piso spanked you for that, as well.’

‘How did you know?’ The blazing fury had been replaced by sullenness.

Claudia smiled. ‘That’s grown-ups for you. Still, you’ve learned one valuable lesson.’

‘Yes I have! Never tell the truth.’

Claudia’s grin broadened. Well, that too, but what she meant was: ‘If you want something in future, try asking nicely. Blackmail never works.’

‘It works for you, I heard you with Orbilio.’

Wow. This child has potential.

‘I hate my brothers, too.’ Popillia began to scuff the toe of her little leather shoe against the rough bark of the tree. ‘They talk Greek and climb trees and Fabius has given them wooden swords to fight with. I only get dolls, it’s not fair.’

It was the second time she’d said that in less than a minute.

‘I regret to tell you this, young lady, but fairness is a myth. It’s up to you-and you alone-not only to even unfair odds, but turn them round and make them work in your favour.’

‘How?’ It wasn’t quite as sulky as previously.

‘First things first. Greek’s taught to boys, I know, but if you want, you can pick it up by asking Diomedes to teach you, can’t you?’

Tentative nod.

‘Same with trees. You can learn to climb those yourself. Start with a yew or something, they fork close to the ground. That’ll get you admitted to the Boys’ Club, won’t it?’

Nod, nod, nod.

‘Except that’s not enough, is it?’

Popillia, who clearly thought it was, shook her head very, very slowly.

‘Ideally you’ll need an extra qualification, some advantage to make them so envious of you they’ll beg you to join.’

Eyes grew big as fingerbowls.

Claudia patted the rock beside her. ‘So why don’t you and I share this,’ she opened her handkerchief to reveal a luscious assortment of honeyed fruits, ‘while I show you how to make a catapult?’

‘Bite on this.’

Diomedes placed a stick between the child’s teeth before rubbing the mixture of salt, saltpetre, wine and vinegar into the wound on his shin. The boy’s eyes watered, but he didn’t murmur even when Diomedes began to set the fracture with palm fibre splints. Behind them, the boy’s mother hovered like a broody hen, clucking and soothing her chick and throwing out a big, brave smile every now and then, and although it wasn’t her intention, it was she who was largely responsible for the boy’s courage. He’d have gone through surgery without poppy juice before letting his mum know the doctor was hurting him.

Diomedes tied the last knot in place. ‘And next time you play blind-man’s-buff, stay away from the cliffs. That could have been a jolly sight worse, you know.’

He ruffled the boy’s hair and, taking pity on the pinched, white face, popped a pastille into his mouth. He used them in the main for the expulsion of bladder stones, but they were flavoured with honey and wouldn’t do the lad any harm.

‘Take half a cup of this twice a day-’

‘Cor, that stinks!’

It was the first time the child had flinched and Diomedes wasn’t surprised. The root of the white mandrake had a stench which alone was often quite sufficient to put a person out. Even Diomedes had not grown inured to it.

The boy’s mother pushed herself between her son and the physician. ‘Thank you, sir. Thank you very much. He’ll take it, sir, twice a day, like you said.’

‘Be careful with it, it’s very strong. No more than half a cup. Once in the morning, once at night.’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

The slave woman backed clumsily out of the room, the boy already feeling the painkilling effects as he hobbled off on his bandaged leg, his mind busy with what capital he might make out of his injury among his peers.

Diomedes closed the door behind them. At least it made a change from the usual toothaches and stomach problems he was presented with. He wiped his hands on a towel and began to mix up a saffron salve for Gelon’s inflammation. Gelon was the head fuller and Diomedes didn’t know why those slaves who worked in the fuller’s yard had more eye problems than those in the weaving sheds, or why the dyers seemed to suffer more from hardening of the limbs than anyone else, and frankly he didn’t care. Collatinus ran so many slaves-far more than he had realized when he accepted the job-that it was tough enough simply keeping abreast of the coughs and colds, sores and swellings. Now there was an outbreak of whipworm to contend with, an intestinal parasite he was having serious trouble controlling. Zeus forbid it ever got into the house, his head would be on the block for that. The old man wasn’t renowned for swingeing acts of forgiveness and he’d already made no bones that he hadn’t wanted Diomedes here in the first place.

‘Waste of bloody money, all you know is blood letting. I could have bought my own doctor from the auctions for a fraction of what I pay you.’

Diomedes had continued to massage the wasted muscles. ‘An unqualified slave with a few quack remedies is no good,’ he pointed out. ‘Look at the trouble the last one gave you.’

The old man had snorted. ‘Cured my warts, didn’t he?’

Diomedes turned him over. ‘What did he prescribe when you had the fever, eh?’ Cat dung and owls’ toes tied to the body of a cat killed just before the moon waned!

Would Eugenius accept he’d recovered naturally? ‘Pah! I tell you, if physics were any good, there wouldn’t be three of the buggers buried up in Sullium-and not one of ’em a day over thirty.’

Diomedes had long since concluded it was Aulus who had pushed for his appointment, but Aulus would have no sway if the whipworm spread any further…and Diomedes didn’t fancy moving on again.

Not yet.

Not alone.

Not since Claudia Seferius walked into his life.

He ceased rubbing saffron into the beeswax. She was beautiful and no mistake. A straighter back he’d rarely seen and she moved with the grace of a panther. She had a reputation for being prickly, but he’d only ever found her witty and charming. Then again-he recommenced his mixing-she had a reputation for that as well. She was reputed to have charmed half the men in Rome, and Diomedes found that very easy to believe.

He transferred the ointment into a small ceramic pot, set it aside for when Gelon called during his meal break, and began measuring milk into a cup. Claudia was waiting for something, but to ask outright would mean showing his hand and he’d made one terrible mistake already. He ought to have remembered she’d recently been widowed and would still be grieving for Gaius. Zeus, he shouldn’t have tried to kiss her last Tuesday! On the footpath in broad daylight, what was he thinking of? At the time, though, she appeared so full of life, so full of laughter, that he thought the signals he’d picked up were from a woman not just wanting to be kissed, but expecting to be kissed. Diomedes, he told himself, you’re a fool to think you could rush a woman like Claudia Seferius.