Marilyn Todd - Virgin Territory

Two burly slaves deposited their bantamweight burden in his special ivory chair. Acte tucked the blanket round his legs and over his feet before heading off to supervise the preparation of her employer’s meal. Again Claudia acknowledged the dignity with which she went about her duties, carrying herself straight, her face composed and tranquil, as though she was mistress of the house rather than a slave.

‘Love letter?’ Eugenius asked, ‘accidentally’ brushing the curve of her breast.

‘Not exactly,’ she replied, landing a stinging slap on the wizened hand, and eliciting a throaty chuckle from its owner. How did Acte cope with the groping? Probably didn’t notice, it happened so frequently.

‘I’m writing to my sister-in-law to enquire about the health of my dear stepdaughter. Such a sweet girl, I miss her dreadfully.’

Like hell. If I never see that miserable frump again, it’s still too soon.

‘Wasn’t she jilted at the last minute?’

Claudia did not wish to discuss that particular matter. Not now. Not ever. Neither did she intend to allow the conversation to turn itself on to the subject of marriage, which it invariably did whenever Eugenius was present, the crafty old sod.

‘Eugenius, there’s something I wanted to ask you.’ She smiled so sweetly, he couldn’t possibly take offence at the sudden change of subject. ‘That blue dye of yours, the one that comes out the colour of wild anemones, I was thinking about using it as a livery for my slaves.’

That should set tongues wagging in Rome. Having all your servants dressed in the same colour was by no means uncommon, but a blue as arresting and vibrant as this should send more than one patrician cross-eyed with envy. Including Eugenius? He clearly prided himself on his bleaching techniques, even the family wore white-but then it’s cheap, isn’t it, you miserly old buffer?

Eugenius sucked his teeth. ‘There’s enough fleeces in the clipshed,’ he said at length. ‘I’ll arrange for some to be spun into cloth and dyed-providing,’ he laid his hand over hers and squeezed, ‘you accept it as a gift. From an old friend of your husband’s.’

A bribe, you mean. And actually, Eugenius, this is the first time you’ve mentioned Gaius-and I’ve been here nearly a fortnight.

‘I’d be honoured.’ She leaned forward and tapped him playfully on the knee. ‘And in return I’ll send you some of our finest vintage wine.’

One taste and you’re hooked, my old son. My livery is a one-off, whereas you… You’ll be placing orders for my wine year after year after year.

‘Did you say something, my dear?’

Claudia shook her head. ‘No. Why?’

‘It sounded like “gotcha”, and I wondered whether it was another of those strange local oaths.’

She trusted bending down to recover her reed pen would account for the rush of blood to her face. The ink had run out to form a black, tarry puddle right in the middle of the path.

‘I never got the hang of the local patois.’ Eugenius had his eyes closed. ‘When Aulus was born, I was employing translators because at that time no one on the island spoke Latin, it was a straight choice between Greek and Sicilian.’ Here we go. First it would be how he came here with his pregnant bride at the age of nineteen because he could see Sicily was losing its old identity and he wanted to get in at the beginning of the new one. Then it would be how this wasn’t an easy island to grow fat on.

‘Not that this was an easy island to grow fat on.’

‘You surprise me.’ Now how far had she got with that letter to Leonides? Had she covered that business with the banker yet?

‘Oh no. Augustus might have solved the language difficulty, but he created problems of an altogether different kind when he gave away prime tracts of arable land to his war veterans. That didn’t concern me, of course, I’d seen this coming, which is why I exchanged my grain fields for pasture.’

‘Had you?’ Yes, she’d covered the banker.

‘Then there was the tax situation. Five per cent on everything that comes in, five per cent on everything that comes out.’

‘Really?’ Ah, she was sacking the Parthian, that was it.

‘My biggest problems, though, came about when Augustus scrapped the tithe system in favour of stipends, because these were then assessed on landholdings.’

‘Terrible.’ No doubt the trouble was over a woman. That stupid Parthian couldn’t keep his dongler to himself if his life depended on it. Which in the case of the Iberian, it well might.

‘So we have to send cash instead of goods, and he’s levied a poll tax on top.’

‘Never!’ However, if Leonides kept his mouth shut about the reason behind the sale of the Parthian, it ought to raise five hundred sesterces.

‘Did I tell you Augustus came to Sicily eight years ago?’

The first stop on his tour of the Empire. ‘No.’

‘It was his first stop on a tour of the Empire…’ Faced with the prospect of liquidating five hundred lovely sesterces, Claudia switched Eugenius off completely. With a sum like that she could repay her most pressing debts, although it would be foolish not to set aside a hundred, because if she was back in time for the Victory Games she could double her investment. There was always a mock battle or two, and she’d never put her money on the wrong side yet. So if she kept, say, two hundred to one side…

‘…which nets me only 3 per cent, whereas you’ll be netting nearly 10 per cent, won’t you?’

Claudia was on the point of admitting she frankly had no idea of the profit margin, when what he was saying sank in. Seferius wine brought in an annual profit of 10 per cent.

Ten per cent.

Profit.

She would need an abacus to work out exactly what that meant in terms of bronze sesterces, but she didn’t need an abacus to know it meant a lot.

‘Eugenius!’ She jumped up from the bench, threw her arms round him and kissed his papery cheek. ‘Have I ever told you how wonderful you are?’

High in the hills, rain was falling as sleet and the man Melinno shivered under his cloak. He’d got a fire of sorts going but it didn’t throw out much heat, it was all he could do to keep the rain from dousing it. He clutched his pack to his stomach, for comfort as much as for warmth, and found neither.

He’d fucked up again. It was all he were bloody good at, fucking up. Fucking up and making baskets. Aye, he could weave a good basket, could Melinno. His father had made them for an olive grower, such good baskets that the merchant gave him his freedom. Aye, first generation freeborn and nimble with the withies was Melinno, and his da was real proud of him. They worked side by side until the wasting disease claimed him, then Melinno turned his hand to weaving mallow fibres as well. Howay, who’d have thought them fish baskets would sell so fast? Like iced wine in summer they went, just because they could drain the whey out of curdled milk and save buying a separate basket. Business was booming when he met Sulpica. They wed and everything was grand-until he killed her.

There’s no justice, Melinno thought, coughing into his hand, no fucking justice. That bastard’s still living the high life.

Melinno couldn’t believe the gods were not on his side-no, the problems he had right now were his own making. What with the weather and all, he’d been so busy watching out for them one-eyed giants that he’d completely missed the turn-off to the east. Trudged right round the Great Burning Mountain, he had, and it were only thanks to an old goatherd he’d missed Hadranum. Aye, that were a close call. That were the town where Vulcan’s sacred shrine stood guarded by a thousand slavering hounds from Hades. They welcomed pilgrims, the goatherd said, but sniffed out disbelievers and tore them to pieces. Melinno shuddered. What a way to go, eh? Well, he were certainly no pilgrim, and if he’d got any closer, they’d have sniffed him out and no mistake. Then who’d have avenged Sulpica?