Virgin Territory

by Marilyn Todd

  The hurly-burly of Rome came flooding back, its streets thronging day and night and with entertainment on practically every corner. After just two weeks, Claudia was pining for the gruff shouts of the wagon drivers, the shrill laughs of the whores, the squabbling of the lawyers. It was decidedly odd, not being on guard against a poke in the eye from a porter’s pole, not coughing from the dust of the stonemasons’ mallets, not sidestepping a sudden swish of dirty water down the gutters. All this scenery—good life in Illyria, she exclaimed to herself, it just wasn’t natural.

  But what was natural around here? Not the Collatinuses, that was for sure. Barking mad, the lot of them. In fact, the only one who wasn’t barking was Cerberus, their soppy, sloppy guard dog, and even Claudia, who knew precious little about canine behaviour, could have told Fabius that a kick in the ribs wasn’t the answer.

  Nor was theirs a high-spirited madness—good heavens, if only! They were simply unpleasant. There was no other word for it.

  Claudia had long forgiven Sabina for her part (or, rather, lack of) in that dockside fiasco last Monday. It was not, she supposed, Sabina’s fault she had a cog missing—but her mother… Holy Mars, Matidia was enough to make a physician break his seal of secrecy! If that woman possessed any brain cells whatsoever, they had to be evenly distributed round her body. Squashed together and concentrated between her ears they might at least have served a useful purpose, but instead Matidia’s thoughts were as sparse and as colourless as her hair, which she hid beneath a succession of elaborate—if perfectly hideous—wigs.

  Funnily enough, this very airy-fairyness was the strongest evidence yet to corroborate Sabina’s claim to Collatinus blood, although even her mother didn’t connect the chubby child who left home with the willowy creature who came back.

  ‘I thought your eyes were grey, darling,’ Matidia said mournfully on greeting her long-lost daughter and Claudia’s ears had pricked up.

  Aha! Was the imposter about to be denounced at last?

  ‘Or do I mean blue?’

  No wonder her husband, Aulus, dissolved his frustrations in the wine goblet. Since his own father, Eugenius, was something of a tyrant, running both business and household with an iron fist in spite of an accident which left him bedridden, Aulus, at the age of fifty-eight, could perhaps have been forgiven the odd indulgence—had he been less of a bigot and a bully, and uncommonly proud of both qualities. His patronizing air bounced right off Claudia, but probably went a long way towards explaining why the good folk of Sullium rarely accepted his social invitations and dished them out even less.

  Of course, in Aulus’s case, Claudia thought cheerfully, it was easy to look down one’s nose at people. When you’ve got a hooter that long, what other option is there?

  Aulus had sired two other children—sons, both as tall and gaunt as their parents. Portius, a mere eighteen with kohl-rimmed eyes and bejewelled fingers, was probably a mistake in his conception and everything had gone downhill since. He was, Matidia enthused, a genius, a prodigy. He had had the Call, she said. He worshipped his Muse with unstinting devotion, she said. Why, you could catch Portius night and day kneeling to Euterpe, she said, laying offerings at her feet and listening to the notes of her flute that gave him the rhythm to his poetry, notes which we mortals were denied unless we, too, had had the Call. She said.

  Then there was Linus. What could you say about Linus? Thirty-one, with his high forehead and receding, gingerish hair, he looked at you the way most people look at cowpats stuck on the sole of their sandals. In true Collatinus tradition he had taken himself a tall, bony wife with a short neck and stooped shoulders and there were, no doubt, many ways of describing Corinna. Mousy, bland and nondescript dashed to the fore. Unfortunately, there were precious few ways of remembering her. She came, and then she went. Finish. No conversation, no animation, no impact.

  A far cry from their offspring, four ghastly, unruly brats. Well, let’s be charitable and say three, because Vilbia was still toddling. Just give her time.

  Add to that a wide range of secretaries, scribes, servants, tutors and slaves. Mix well. Stir in an extra helping of jealousy, vanity, squabbling, back-biting and miserliness, top with a tartar—and a visitor quickly begins to get the picture.

  There’s Dexippus, Claudia reflected, Eugenius’s secretary, with his thick lips and strange, brooding stare. There was Piso the tutor, bald on top apart from a little tuft of wispy dark hair right at the front, with a penchant for the cane. And there was Senbi, their hard-boiled household steward, who, along with his son, Antefa, kept the slaves in line and whose word was law, whose justice was rough.

  The guest bedrooms, being at the front of the house and thus well distanced from those of the family which flanked the garden, gave Claudia some degree of protection, but was it enough? Would Rome be far enough from this bunch of callous, self-absorbed individuals?

  ‘And to think I was in a hurry to get away from Syracuse.’ Claudia addressed her remark to a pair of swallows describing frantic parabolas overhead.

  ‘Tsee!’ Selfish creatures. Totally disinterested in other people’s problems. ‘Tsee!’ They swooped and soared and flew on.

  Tuesday, the morning after the alleyway incident, Claudia made the rounds to see who might be sailing west and secured eight passages on the Pomona, a merchant galley prepared to drop them off at Fintium. With Syracuse bursting at the seams with army veterans, Fabius had been as happy as a pig in a ditch and she’d had to prize him away in the end.

  ‘I thought you wanted to mark time,’ he’d said petulantly, trying to fathom out why his belongings were sitting in a heap at the bottom of a gangplank.

  ‘What on earth for?’ The mast was being stepped, it wasn’t long now.

  ‘Why didn’t you wait for their eyes to open?’

  Another good sign, the oarsmen were boarding.

  ‘Fabius, they’re animals. One doesn’t “mark time” for animals. Do have a care!’ A stream of indignant feathers flew from the bars in the crate his toe had stubbed. ‘Those are our chickens.’

  What have I let myself in for? she wondered. Dammit, they didn’t even feed you on these poky little coastal tubs, you had to provide for yourself!

  Fabius nursed his injured toe. ‘Yesterday you said…’

  Claudia moved to let a stevedore past, his back bowed with the crate on his shoulder. ‘Yesterday I wasn’t expecting to be raped behind the storehouses,’ she snapped.

  ‘You did say only eight places?’ His eyes rested on the red fireball and her pet gorilla haring down the wharf towards them, their progress impeded only slightly by the burden of bedding and provisions. ‘What about Tanaquil?’

  Claudia stepped daintily into the bow and shrugged, her face a picture of innocence as she asked, was it her fault the Pomona was full?

  With Sabina having difficulty negotiating the rail, she offered to hold the blue flagon, but the make-believe Vestal declined with her usual infuriating politeness.

  ‘A talisman, is it? Your good-luck charm?’

  Distracted momentarily, with one foot on the deck boards and the other on the gangplank, Sabina produced one of her rare frowns. ‘Claudia, dear,’ she said in the sort of tone you’d use to a backward child, ‘I keep my soul in it.’

  Such was the impact of the statement that Claudia nearly missed the interchange on the quayside. Fabius, clearly untrustworthy, was in the middle of having a quiet word with the captain, man to man, or in this case coin to coin. Within seconds, Sabina’s new-found friend and her big, ugly brother were hopping merrily aboard. Which, of course, they would, seeing as how the ship was only half-full. Claudia heard teeth gnashing as the oars began to lap, and wasn’t surprised to find they were hers.

  Now, across the Sicilian countryside, yellow and parched from the summer heat, Claudia was watching Collatinus’s workforce making their weary way to the outhouses for their evening meal. She leaned down and pulled on her own sandals. Why did nothing go according to plan?

 
; Contrary to what she told Fabius, her real reason for leaving Syracuse quickly was business in Agrigentum, and once they’d cleared harbour it was her turn to have a quiet word with the captain. It was at this point she discovered Gaius’s old ox-hide map was less than accurate. Agrigentum, the captain said apologetically, was not on the coast. He could drop her off at the nearby port of Empedocles? Instant calculations decided there might be mileage to be made from Eugenius Collatinus and so as the merchantman struggled against the prevailing headwind, Claudia squinted into the distance, barely able to make out Agrigentum’s honey-coloured walls perched high on the hill.

  Damn!

  The coaster, manned by oars and therefore less impeded by westerlies than ships relying solely on sail, took barely three days to reach Fintium. More, and Claudia might well have been tempted to jump overboard, what with Tanaquil’s incessant chatter and Utti’s cauliflower ears all over the place. The only consolation was that Sabina stayed below in her quarters and Fabius was quite spectacularly seasick.

  But the upshot was that, after a full twelve days at sea, Claudia did not have the inclination to make the lumpy, bumpy half-day wagon ride back to Agrigentum. Early days, she thought. No hurry. She stood up and straightened a ring on her finger. Tomorrow, she’d see what Sullium had to offer. Because something had to be happening in this tedious little backwater.

  Hadn’t it?

  *

  It was the painted eye which first caught his own. The carved and painted eye which adorned the prow and kept watch for evil spirits. Seemingly alone, it bobbed quietly and unblinkingly on the bright blue swell, gazing up at the cottonball clouds. Then gradually more and more shattered planks hove into sight, and finally Marcus Cornelius Orbilio lent his strong arm to hauling up the bodies. Unlike the eye, these floated face downwards, staring at the sponges and the seaweed, their fingers and arms and necks and ears glistening with jewels which they had hastily crammed on to ensure that whoever found them would have the wherewithal to give them a good funeral.

  Two of the men had killed themselves, rather than face death by drowning. They recovered nine bodies in total. And that was just on the first day of his voyage.

  Everyone knew about the storm in the Ionian, three tortuous days of it, though the helmsman assured him she’d blown herself out.

  He was right, and the knowledge did not make Orbilio feel better.

  Faster than a racing chariot, the trireme, sleek and light, cleaved a lovely line through the water. It had set out at first light the morning after he had called at Claudia’s house, but by then, as he learned from her Macedonian steward, Claudia had already been gone a week. Except…

  The flautist, piping time for the oarsmen, changed his key, indicating that they would shortly be putting in to harbour. This would be what, Orbilio’s seventh night with the navy? He’d really hoped to catch up by now. Unfortunately, as much as the warship made brilliant speed on the water, two hundred men do need to eat and sleep and for that, they put ashore. Swings and roundabouts, he thought. Swings and roundabouts.

  Claudia, too, would be held up. Assuming she was safe (praise Jupiter she was, he had no way of knowing), the storm would have added two days to her voyage. Also, he knew the Furrina was bound only for Syracuse. Changing ships would add a further day—and suppose she went sightseeing? Or took the overland route?

  Gulls wheeled and shrieked as the boat shipped oars. Anchors were heaved over the side. Tired oarsmen, their stiffened, corded muscles glistening with sweat, checked the money in their purses. They were responsible for their own rations, and would have to purchase them ashore.

  Orbilio watched the dark waters claim the last segment of the sun. The waning moon was already high. Tomorrow would be the tenth day of October. He might, if the gods were with him, arrive in Fintium before her.

  He hoped he was not too late.

  VII

  Claudia tapped her foot impatiently outside the mercer’s shop. Dear Diana, how much longer would that tiresome woman be in there? They were only cushions, for gods’ sake! However, Matidia was having unconscionable difficulty. Should one go for all red or should one opt for several different colours? The problem was, once one entered the realms of variety, other decisions were then thrust upon one, such as should one choose blue with green stripes, purple with a red border or gold and green, and really, ought one to co-ordinate the stripes so they ran either all vertically or all horizontally? What did Claudia think?

  What Claudia thought was that if Matidia hadn’t made up her mind after half an hour, the chances were she wouldn’t do it at all, and she was trying to find a way to phrase it politely when Matidia added:

  ‘It’s so important one achieves the right effect for dear Eugenius, he has taken so much trouble over his new banqueting hall.’ She lowered her voice to an outraged whisper. ‘He actually had the temerity to suggest that Acte person should choose the cushions, you know. Can you imagine it? A slave?’

  Having seen the animated Acte, more companion than nurse to the old man and with more taste in her big toe than the rest of the family put together, Claudia could imagine it.

  Matidia turned to the mercer. ‘Talk me through these cushions again.’

  Overhead, a middle-aged matron began shaking a blanket from her balcony and Claudia moved away to dodge the dust and find a place to take the weight off her feet. Not that there was much choice in this town. Talk about small. She began to pace the pavement like a caged leopard. Juno be praised, at least she didn’t have potty Sabina to contend with, because Tanaquil seemed to have stepped in and taken the heat off Claudia. You’d have thought that, once reunited with her family, some vestige of the old relationship might have surfaced, wouldn’t you? Not necessarily between her and the younger boys, who wouldn’t have known her, but what about her mother or Old Beaky or the old man? Instead, they skirted each other like wary jackals…which mightn’t be altogether surprising should it transpire Sabina wasn’t related after all.

  What, though, could be her motive as an imposter?

  Peering round the street corner and observing a trough, Claudia perched herself on the edge and dabbled her fingers in the water.

  She looked neither like nor unlike the family, in so far as she was tall and slim, but then any self-respecting charlatan would be sure to possess such characteristics to stand any chance of succeeding. Succeeding at what, though? And who was behind this charade?

  Certainly Sabina had learned her lines well and found no trouble in convincing the family she’d spent thirty years in celibate service. Why should they doubt her?

  When Claudia tried to trip her up by inviting her to tell a few amusing anecdotes, she merely smiled her sad, vacant smile and reminded her she was sworn to holy secrecy. The only thing she could say was that it took ten years to learn the rituals, ten to practise and ten to teach.

  Which she obviously wouldn’t have said had she known it was an old joke among atheists in Rome.

  A yellow dog with one raggy ear wandered up to the trough where Claudia was sitting, sniffed all four corners carefully then leaned in and began to lap.

  One thing: Tanaquil was spot on about marriage and Sabina was, with great ceremony (by Collatinus standards!), introduced to her prospective husband on Sunday, just two days after her arrival. Gavius Labienus was a respectable, wealthy, widowed oil merchant from Agrigentum, so was that it? Nothing more complicated than a step up the social ladder? The answer was quick in its coming.

  ‘He has violated me,’ that grey monotone announced to the startled assembly.

  The bridegroom’s jowls flapped in denial, but Sabina pressed on.

  ‘Do not doubt my word. I turned myself into a stag, but he turned into a wolf to devour me. I dived into the sea and became a fish, but he followed in the form of a seal to gobble me up.’ She began to stroke her little blue flagon. ‘Finally I turned into air and became invisible.’

  The silence was prolonged—it was difficult to recall exactly how it was bro
ken. Labienus, poor sod, had been shocked to his core at the prospect of being palmed off with a lunatic, Vestal Virgin or no, and even the old man was rendered speechless. The yellow dog scratched at its good ear with a back paw and chased a flea or two before trotting off to investigate a fishhead in the gutter.

  Now there was a wily old cove.

  Claudia could not actually recall her husband mentioning Eugenius (which wasn’t to say he hadn’t done so, since she’d rarely listened to Gaius unless his words happened to impinge on her own activities). However, from receipt of his letter to arrival at the Villa Collatinus, she felt she’d built a good mental image of Eugenius—an image shattered the instant she met him.

  Yes, he was old. Old and thin (indeed who in the household, apart from Fabius, wasn’t verging on the emaciated?), but wiry rather than weak. Yes, you could see the blue veins stand out on his hands, hands which if you held the light behind them might well show you their bones if you asked nicely, but any concession to age ended there.

  ‘Well?’ Black eyes had glittered like obsidian glass.

  No greetings, no words of introduction, no platitudes for the grieving widow. There was nothing bland about Eugenius Collatinus.

  Claudia had responded in kind, silently scrutinizing walls which were crammed floor to ceiling with life-size figures jostling for shoulder space. Tempted to grin, she forced herself not to, well aware that wasn’t the reaction he either wanted or expected. Hers was not the blushing maidenly gasp followed by downcast and averted eyes. Hers was the shrewd eye of the former courtesan who had seen, if not performed, every act on this jam-packed, pornographic frieze. The only difference was in the men. Instead of portraying muscular heroes, these were a ragged collection of hunchbacks and dwarves, lepers and cripples, their ugly faces further distorted by leers. Or maybe contorted by virtue of their gigantic and presumably excruciatingly painful erections.

  ‘Well?’ The voice was as sharp as the eyes. ‘What do you think?’