Virgin Territory

by Marilyn Todd

  Pity the woman was a total stranger. Because whatever else this creature might have done with her thirty-six years, she hadn’t spent the last three decades serving Vesta.

  In fact, two weeks hadn’t passed since she came face to face with the Holy Sister at the Feast of Jupiter—and unless that girl had taken extensively to drink in the meantime, this was not the same woman.

  As the ship cleaved its way through the seething white water, rain bouncing off the heavy goat’s-hair cloak, Claudia groaned.

  What am I doing here?

  In debt. In a storm. With an imposter. In a little wooden bucket. Bound for a place I’ve never heard of. To stay with someone I don’t know. While my whole future hangs in the balance and the crew want to chuck my cat overboard…

  Hell, on top of that—look, I’ve broken my bloody nail.

  II

  Ask yourself this. If you’d just spent the past three days being tossed around boiling seas with salt water chapping your cheeks and bilge water slapping your ankles, would your first thought on stepping ashore be for a fortune teller?

  Claudia barged past.

  ‘I see the image of a ram,’ a Sicilian voice called after her, ‘and arrangements for a wedding.’

  Claudia rolled her eyes. Every man, woman and child in Syracuse could see the image of a ram, that was the shape of the Furrina’s red, carved sternpost.

  ‘I see a funeral—’

  ‘You’ll see your own bloody funeral if you don’t get out of my way, now clear off!’

  Where was her bodyguard, for gods’ sake? Surely Junius had got his sea-legs back by now?

  ‘—and I see love blossoming for you. A tall—’

  Don’t tell me. A tall, dark, handsome stranger. Claudia pulled up short and heard a satisfying thump as the fortune teller tripped over a rope. What was it about these people, hustling you all the time? Respected astrologers she could understand, theirs was a science, an art—but these frauds? Weddings, funerals, tall, dark, handsome strangers. Originality was hardly her strong point.

  To her credit, the fortune teller, with her mass of red hair and generous bosom (neither of which was her own), might have many things to learn, but tenacity wasn’t one of them. She’d already picked herself up and was limping up the wharf after her quarry.

  ‘For just two sesterces, I can whisper the name of your future husband in your ear.’

  ‘For just two sesterces, I can have any one of these big, burly porters throw you in the harbour.’

  ‘You wouldn’t…?’

  But the look on Claudia’s face told the fortune teller that she just might, and the subsequent arrival of a muscular, Gaulish-looking slave at her elbow tended to confirm the issue. The redhead vanished.

  To Claudia’s surprise, Sabina had not been at all perturbed by the storm, though neither had she been eager to stretch her legs. She’d wait till the last minute before disembarking, she said. Well, that was her loss, because Syracuse was fun. It was big and bustly, noisy and colourful. Fortune tellers apart, it thrust its wine shops and whores, food stalls and physicians upon you the instant you set foot on solid land and after a long sea voyage, Claudia decided, as she marched back to supervise her luggage, the men would probably need them all. It was merely a question of priorities.

  On every step, round every pillar, under every towering statue along the harbourside, clerks and merchants, watermen and wharfies went about their business through the constantly changing tide of humanity, waving, gesticulating, holding up fingers—five, I said five—as bales and crates and sacks changed hands to the clank of the tally pieces. Donkeys brayed under the noonday sun, bright pennants and banners flapped in the breeze.

  Despite an abundance of temples, theatres and other public buildings to testify that, regardless of two hundred years of Roman occupation, this was still the gem in a once-Greek crown, the city had a curiously cosmopolitan feel, with its assortment of brightly coloured tunics and dark coloured slaves. Great tusks of ivory lay piled on the quay alongside Lebanese cedars and Carthaginian camels honking in protest. A tigress, bound for the arena, snarled inside her cage. A Syrian aristocrat in floppy hat and pantaloons gathered together his brood of little Syrian aristocratlets. Yet for all that, Syracuse had contrived to remain Greek.

  Yes, there were togas in evidence, but it seemed the good men of Sicily weren’t perhaps so status-conscious as their counterparts in Rome, for here far more of them took advantage of the Greek pallium. It was lighter and smaller and draped in such a way as to leave the right arm and shoulder bare, making it a much more attractive garment for the climate, as well as considerably less restrictive than the conventional toga. However, one man who had not adopted this cool and casual form of dress stood out in the crowd. Not necessarily because of his height, which was above average, or because of his looks, which were compelling rather than handsome, but because at this very moment Claudia was being pointed out to him by one of the men off the ship. His bearing proclaimed a military background, which was confirmed when he marched straight up, stopped abruptly and all but saluted.

  ‘Mistress Seferius, my name is Fabius Collatinus. Follow me, please.’ He strode off down the wharf.

  So much for the army. It teaches a man how to build roads, bridges, aqueducts and fortresses. It teaches a man how to fight, build siege engines and guard frontiers. It does not, unfortunately, seem to teach a man manners. Claudia resumed supervision of her baggage.

  It was a rather less confident Fabius who returned. ‘Excuse me, you are Claudia Seferius?’

  ‘I am.’

  This time she didn’t even bother to look up. Amongst legionaries he might be a giant among men. Among the Claudias of this world he was a mere babe in arms. She turned to the porters, who appeared to be handling Drusilla’s cage with some trepidation.

  ‘That crate’s to travel with me.’

  ‘It’s my duty to escort you onwards to Sullium. There’s a passage booked on board the Isis, she sails within the hour.’

  ‘Then she’ll have to sail without us.’ She turned towards him and smiled prettily. ‘I can’t leave Syracuse until their eyes open.’

  He cocked his head to one side. ‘I beg your pardon?’ Claudia indicated the crate at her feet. ‘The kittens. I’ve promised Drusilla we won’t embark on the next leg of the journey until their eyes open.’

  ‘Drusilla?’

  ‘My cat,’ she explained cheerfully, beckoning over a food-seller and selecting a venison pie. ‘Now, Fabius, I don’t suppose you know of a decent tavern, do you?’

  He shook his head, and it was difficult to tell whether Fabius meant no, he didn’t know of a tavern or whether he shook it out of pure bewilderment.

  ‘Where do you recommend?’ she asked the pie-seller. ‘The island here or the mainland?’

  For a moment the poor man was speechless. Not once in his life had the nobility canvassed his opinion on any subject under the sun, let alone asked him to recommend accommodation. But he had a shrewd eye for business (how many pie-sellers bothered to meet incoming ships?) and therefore suggested an establishment he knew to be frequented by visiting dignitaries.

  ‘Oh, the island, m’lady. Without a doubt!’ The fact that the place belonged to his brother was, he felt, neither here nor there. ‘I’ll lead the way.’

  That was worth three asses, he reckoned. Add on a cut from his brother and with any luck he’d be pissed before twilight. To his dismay, the man in the toga sought directions then dismissed him with the princely sum of two copper quadrans, which just happened to be the price of the pie.

  ‘Which reminds me, Fabius.’

  The soldier spun on his heel. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Would you be so kind as to arrange a couple of sacrifices for me? Two white bulls—that’s one for Neptune, one for Jupiter—and something nice for the Tempestates while you’re at it.’

  ‘White bulls? They cost a fortune!’

  ‘Then it’s as well you’re only shelling out for two, isn
’t it?’

  He didn’t look particularly happy as he set off down the sidestreet indicated by the vendor.

  Munching on her pie and careless of where the gravy dribbled, Claudia gestured over a litter. If that marblehead thought she was accustomed to walking up and down wharfs, he was very much mistaken. Where she came from, ladies travelled in vehicles which reflected their station in life.

  Heaving Drusilla and her family into the litter and wiping her greasy hands on a cushion, she began to have serious misgivings about this whole wretched enterprise. What sort of family were the Collatinuses, for heaven’s sake, expecting their womenfolk to walk? Before instructing the bearers to move on, she prayed to whatever spurious gods they worshipped in this isolated land that it was simply Fabius who was unused to a civilian lifestyle. The last thing she wanted was to be stuck with a family of misers!

  ‘One other thing, Fabius.’ She poked her head through the curtains as the litter came alongside.

  ‘Oh?’ There was more than a hint of concern in his voice.

  ‘Mmm. The woman at your elbow. That’s your sister, Sabina. Since you forgot to ask…’

  III

  Despite the innkeeper having only one eye, Claudia could not really fault the establishment. It was neither verminous nor damp, which was more than you could say for most city taverns, and was far less of a fire hazard than it appeared from the outside.

  Within seconds of Claudia returning from dinner feeling a whole new woman now the incrustations of salt had been scraped away, there was a knock on her door. The wine—

  ‘Hi! Remember me?’

  The fuzz of red hair and Sicilian burr were unmistakable. Claudia slammed the door, wondering whether the fortune teller’s eager face would pull back before woodwork actually connected with nose, but a hand shot out of the blackness and the door bounced off it. Well, not a hand, really. More a paw. And a damned big one at that.

  Claudia’s eyes followed it up the arm to the gorilla on the other end. Really, she thought. If she hadn’t seen it for herself, she’d never have believed life could be that cruel.

  ‘That’s Utti,’ the redhead explained. ‘He’s my brother.’

  ‘How lovely for you.’ Claudia found the door wouldn’t budge. She pointed to the ham propping it open. ‘Would you mind?’

  ‘Huh?’

  It speaks, it speaks.

  ‘The door, Utti. Would you please remove your grubby fist.’

  ‘Uh…’ It glanced down at the redhead, who was dwarfed by its presence.

  ‘No, wait!’ It was more of a plea. ‘You’re in danger, great danger—’

  ‘So are you. There are four tough guys standing right behind you.’

  The redhead smiled cheerfully. ‘No problem,’ she said. ‘Utti’s a wrestler.’

  Claudia’s bodyguard, no slouches themselves, would be no match for a good professional. ‘Come to the point,’ she snapped.

  The girl’s face took on a pained expression, about as genuine as her hair and her bosom. ‘There’s no point to come to. You’re in danger, and we’re here to help. Oh, I’m Tanaquil, by the way.’

  ‘And I’m very sorry. Now run along, there’s a good girl.’

  Utti had been forced to remove his hand when he turned to face out the bodyguard, so Claudia smartly shut the door. Almost immediately there was a second knock.

  ‘What?’ She flung it open.

  A struggle was in progress, in which three men had been pinned to the ground—and Utti wasn’t one of them. Tanaquil seemed totally oblivious to the clouds of dust and flying furniture, to the shouts and the grunts and the blood.

  ‘You’re going to Sullium, aren’t you? Well, I told you I saw a ram’s head. Eugenius Collatinus is in wool, isn’t he?’

  Is he? Since Sicily was one of the four great granaries of Rome, Claudia had blithely assumed he was in wheat.

  ‘Fabius said so,’ Tanaquil continued happily. ‘And he also says his grandfather is planning a wedding for Sabina, so you must believe me now!’

  Claudia wrenched her eyes off Utti, who was kneeling on Junius’s stomach and punching one of the Nubians while he kicked at the other. Idly she wondered whether he’d noticed the Cilician, Kleon, clinging to his back.

  ‘Tanaquil,’ she said calmly, ‘I don’t care whether you spend your leisure hours staring into the future or staring into the bottom of an empty wine glass. I neither want nor need the services of a fortune teller.’

  The redhead wagged a playful finger. ‘That’s what you think,’ she said, ‘but don’t worry, you’ll hardly know I’m about.’

  Claudia winced as Kleon dug his fingers into Utti’s eyes, then winced harder as Utti casually shook him off like an old cloak and the boy went bouncing down the staircase.

  ‘Even Utti will be on his best behaviour.’

  ‘He’s not behaving very nicely with my bodyguard.’

  Tanaquil turned round. ‘Oh, is that who they are? Sorry.’ She put two fingers in her mouth and whistled. ‘Utti, they’re friends,’ she said. ‘Friends. Yes. Put them down.’

  The gorilla’s mouth formed a wide O and he clambered to his feet, pulling Junius up with one hand and one of the Nubians with the other. The second Nubian was still unconscious. All five were covered with blood.

  ‘Horry.’

  Claudia mouthed, ‘Cleft palate?’

  ‘Broken nose, but don’t worry, he’s used to it.’

  ‘Obviously. Well, goodbye, dear. Goodbye, Utti. Pleasure to have met you both.’

  The big ugly lump smiled so broadly you could see both his teeth. ‘Bye!’

  ‘Not goodbye, silly, goodnight!’

  Irrepressible little thing, wasn’t she?

  Tanaquil leaned towards Claudia. ‘He’s ever so excited about meeting the family. We’ve never stayed with posh people before.’

  ‘Then he’s in for a big disappointment. I don’t want you. I don’t need you. You’re not coming with me.’

  This was not open to discussion. Claudia slammed the door shut and leaned her weight against it until all went quiet on the landing, then she threw herself down on the couch.

  Straight away there was a rat-a-tat-tat.

  Heaven help us. ‘Go away.’

  A second, louder rap followed.

  ‘Can’t you get it through your thick skull you’re not wanted. Now GO AWAY!’

  After half an hour she decided she’d waited long enough. ‘Landlord, where’s the wine I ordered?’

  He shrugged. ‘I sent it up.’

  ‘Lie to me once again, you thieving vermin, and I’ll poke your other eye out.’

  He had an odd sense of humour, finding that funny. ‘Gods’ honour,’ he said. ‘Dodger took it.’

  ‘I did.’ A small, swarthy, bandy-legged Sicilian came stumping up. ‘You sent me away,’ he said accusingly. ‘Twice.’

  ‘Don’t try to wriggle out of it!’ Claudia fixed him with a scowl. Small wonder they called him Dodger. ‘Just fetch the wine.’

  Across the room, Drusilla extricated herself from the heaving mass of kittenhood and stretched every joint to its limit before making her way over to Claudia. She’d spent the last leg of the voyage sprawled on her side in a haze of pure bliss as four minuscule bundles of fur sucked and squeaked and snuggled and dozed—but now, like all good mothers, she recognized you could take only so much of a good thing.

  ‘I saved you a lump of boiled calf, poppet.’ Claudia broke the cold meat into pieces and fed them to her one at a time. ‘Tougher than we’re used to, but for a busy tavern it’s not too bad.’

  When Drusilla had eaten her fill, Claudia began stroking the cat’s dark brown, glossy coat. ‘You heard the outcome, I suppose?’

  ‘Prrr.’

  ‘Exactly. Talk about lumbered!’

  Tanaquil had lost no time in ingratiating herself with Sabina and had now wormed her way into going to Sullium.

  ‘I can’t imagine what she hopes to gain from it.’ Fabius wasn’t going to part
with his brass (just look at the fuss he’d made about reimbursing the landlord for damages!) and Sabina didn’t look as though she knew what money was.

  ‘Perhaps that’s the idea?’

  Squinty eyes closed in pleasure as the rhythmic massage smoothed away loose strands of fur.

  ‘Perhaps she’s hoping Sabina will cough up without question?’

  Enlightenment would come swiftly enough. Vesta’s little playmate was so far out of touch, she’d have to seek advice from her brother. All that Claudia could see happening was for Tanaquil to be stranded along the south coast, along with that galloping great oaf Utti.

  Her fingers moved up to tickle Drusilla’s ears and in response paws began to knead soft dough on Claudia’s lap.

  ‘What do you make of Fabius, then?’

  My, how he’d squirmed when Claudia introduced him to his long-lost sister! On the run-up to forty and newly released from two decades in the army, he found women every inch as baffling as the civilian life he was thrust back into. His mission had been to escort Claudia Seferius to Sullium and this he had undertaken with organized zeal. No doubt had his orders been to escort Sabina back to Sullium, Claudia would have been equally excluded, but even so—

  ‘Rrrrrr.’

  ‘No, poppet, hardly a touching reunion.’

  ‘Sabina?’ he’d said, his jaw dropping. ‘Holy Mars, you’re nothing like the chubby kid who left home.’

  The woman’s reply transcended belief. ‘I thought you’d be older,’ she said.

  Give me strength!

  Claudia leaned back in her chair and up-ended the jug of wine as Drusilla curled into a ball on her left breast, secure in the support of her mistress’s arm. What to make of Sabina, that was the question. Quiet was an understatement. Excruciatingly polite, Sabina rarely spoke unless spoken to, and then it was only to utter spooky statements in that toneless voice of hers. For instance, at their initial introduction, before the Furrina had a chance to unfurl her sails, she had said, without preamble and certainly without irony:

  ‘I have seen you many times.’

  Oh, really?

  But before Claudia could frame the other question hovering on her lips, Sabina continued, ‘You are a cat and I know your ways. The chase, the play, the pounce. You see in the dark.’