Marilyn Todd - Virgin Territory

‘It’s three to one against,’ advised Theocles. Who could miss the high spots of colour on her cheeks or the way her tongue flickered nervously round her lips? She was squeezing her hands as though in grief and he felt responsible, milady losing ten sesterces, seeing as how this was his suggestion and all.

‘Is it indeed?’ Her eyes glistened as she delved into her purse. ‘Then you’d better make it thirty.’

It was a deflated and defeated Theocles who finally placed the bet as the bout started. It was to the death, the umpire announced, bringing down his rod of office to signal the start. Let honour be triumphant.

Claudia had no idea what score these two men had to settle, but from the first it was bloody. Alypius waited for his opponent to lunge, stepped smartly aside then jerked at his ear. Blood spurted into the front row of the crowd. With a roar, Meno brought up his foot and, with a vicious kick to the knee, sent Alypius flying off balance. Squaring up, they charged again, Meno bellowing like a mad bull, and Claudia nodded. She was right to bet on Alypius. Only amateurs yelled.

For a good ten minutes she sat, knuckles white, lips pursed as they slugged it out, their bodies slippery with blood as they bit and gouged and tore at each other. Then to her disgust, Alypius threw a wild and clumsy punch at Meno’s ribs, which any fool, never mind a professional like Meno, could see coming and Alypius’s knuckles crunched on to the metal studs in his opponent’s belt, impaling themselves in the process. It was the only garment either man wore and the crowd groaned in unison when Alypius’s other fist closed round Meno’s testicles and twisted. A sweet shock of realization shuddered through Claudia and her heart began to pound. Alypius had deliberately sacrificed his hand for the greater good, because while Meno was distracted by the excruciating pain, Alypius wedged his knee into his opponent’s back and looped his damaged arm round Meno’s neck. Quick as a flash, he released Meno’s testicles and locked both wrists together.

The crack that rang out as Meno’s neck snapped sent a momentary hush over the crowd, then cheering and clapping and whistling broke out which was probably heard in Libya. Claudia tossed a denarius in the air and Theocles caught it.

‘I can’t take that, milady.’ It was a whole day’s pay. ‘The repairs to the tilt will only cost an ass or two.’

‘What are you babbling about? What tilt? Just fetch me a mug of beer-yes, beer, man, are you deaf? — and let’s get going before it’s too dark to see the damned road.’ The grand house of the city prefect still echoed with drunken laughter and girlish squeals as Theocles pulled up, and Claudia groaned. Deal me out, she thought, and marched straight past the two bronze pillars flanking the front entrance towards the slaves’ door round the corner. It was pure misfortune that the first person she bumped into was that ferreting investigator emerging from the kitchen with a plate piled high with chicken, eggs, celery and onions and a long crusty loaf tucked underneath his arm.

‘Good evening,’ he said pleasantly, licking the grease off his fingers.

‘Drop dead.’

Orbilio ignored the invitation and matched his pace with hers. ‘How’s the new stepson?’

Claudia turned sharp right into the Cretan-style labyrinth and gained two paces. Of all the people she wanted to avoid, this man topped the list. By Jupiter, the gods must have had a field day when they watched Varius drop his little bombshell in front of Orbilio. Good life in Illyria, hadn’t the whole point of this wretched exercise in Sicily been to neutralize the threat against her inheritance-discreetly?

Back in Rome, rummaging around for dealings with Collatinus, she’d unearthed a letter from some bawd by the name of Livia Maximus who was in Agrigentum and who claimed she’d given birth to Gaius’s bastard. At the time of writing, the boy was fifteen and if Gaius wanted him to have a good marriage, etc., etc., etc.… The letter was clearly a bid to get him to part with money, but there was no record of his reply, which was unusual. Gaius kept meticulous records. Thus Claudia had used Eugenius’s offer of a holiday as a cover for finding out once and for all whether this Livia creature really did have a son by Gaius. She’d sent Junius on exhaustive missions and it had cost her an absolute fortune in bribes to well-placed civil servants and other lowlife to establish that the answer was a resounding negative.

There was no Livia Maximus. There was no son. There was no pretender to the House of Seferius.

All this way she’d travelled, through storms and saddle-sores, misers and murders, to find not only this little cockroach crawling out of his dung heap, but making his announcement in front of Supersnoop to boot.

‘Claudia, you’re chilling me out so much I’m getting frostbite.’

‘Somewhere painful, I trust.’ She swerved to the path on the left, and was delighted the torchlight was bright enough to see two onions roll into the night. A second swerve, also to the left, took care of the eggs. ‘Ouch!’

She spun round to see him grinning where he’d whacked her on the bottom with his loaf. ‘Now I have your attention,’ he said, ‘perhaps we could retire to the peristyle. Walking Indian-file is hardly conducive to conversation.’

‘That’s the Cretans for you. Probably never spoke to each other from one year to the next.’ Lucky devils.

She ducked to the right so fast he overshot, but before she had the chance to take another path, a firm hand had closed round her arm.

‘The peristyle, Claudia,’ he said sternly.

Carefully placing the remains of his dinner on the sundial, he continued, ‘If you stand still long enough, you might realize that, with my contacts, I’m actually in a position to help.’

I’d rather die than take help from you, she thought. Then be cremated, just to be on the safe side. She smiled sweetly and patted his hand.

‘In times of trial, it’s a real comfort to know you’re there for me, Marcus.’

The side of his face twisted up and there was a wicked glint in his eye, but his voice remained level. ‘In times of trial, Mistress Seferius, you should be aiming for an acquittal.’

It was damned hard not to laugh, but by grinding her heel on to her toe Claudia managed it. She wondered why she made no effort to move away and put it down to the relaxing sound of the fountain gurgling nearby. The music from the banqueting hall, which was hitherto providing pleasant background noise, had been replaced by the sort of guttural laughter associated with blue comedians. Why men found bodily functions amusing was beyond her, but in the days when she earned her living as a dancer, she made damned sure her own act followed the dirty jokes. That way you could guarantee good tips.

An elderly man, round as a marble and clad only in goatskin leggings, came tottering down the side of the peristyle. When he saw them, he made a wobbly detour in their direction.

‘Claudia, we’re playing sylphs and satyrs next. Come and join ush.’

‘Not if you paid me.’

When he moved in closer, the overwhelming stink of stale wine and turnips was scary. ‘Come on-’

‘What are you goggling at, you disgusting little man?’

‘I expect he’s wondering why you’ve got bloodstains all over your stola.’

‘Rubbish, he’s staring down the front of it.’

‘I am,’ the man said cheerfully. ‘I’m shtaring down the front of it. Hey, we’re playing sylphs and satyrs next. Why don’t you join ush?’

‘I told you before, you malodorous little pusboil, I-’

‘Sounds great!’ Orbilio clapped the drunk on the shoulder and propelled him down the path. ‘We’ll be along in a minute, there’s a good chap.’ He watched him totter out of sight before saying, ‘Tell me about Varius.’