Virgin Territory

by Marilyn Todd

  ‘Give me one good reason.’

  Tears welled in Corinna’s eyes. Eye! ‘Just promise me, Claudia. Please.’

  She suppressed a shudder. What Linus would do, if he found out she’d been talking, she didn’t dare think about. The beatings were bad enough, but what he expected her to do afterwards was revolting. And it was getting worse. With increased frequency, he was finding new and more humiliating sexual practices to inflict upon her.

  ‘I’ll do no such thing. Your husband uses you as a punchbag and you expect—’

  Corinna gripped her arm with both hands. ‘You don’t understand,’ she wailed. ‘It’s my fault.’

  ‘Balls.’

  ‘It is, it’s my fault, I’m a lousy wife, I know I am—’

  ‘Corinna, stop blaming yourself for this.’ Claudia picked up a sponge and began to bathe the bruises as gently as she could. ‘You need vinegar compresses on those swellings and balsam where the skin’s split.’

  ‘I don’t keep balsam.’ Corinna didn’t seem to have noticed that no promise was given.

  ‘I’ll get you some. Then, when you’re better, you pack your things and leave.’

  ‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘I’ve got four children—’

  ‘Take them with you.’

  ‘Eugenius will never let me. He’s got plans for them, plans in the business.’

  Claudia steered Corinna into the warm water. A long soak would ease matters considerably, especially if she could put some chalk or something in it. She’d have to check with Diomedes—she could do it at the same time she picked up the balsam.

  ‘When Eugenius dies, Aulus takes over. Aulus is still under sixty, so by the time he pops off, Fabius will be in his mid-, maybe even late fifties, probably with sons of his own to take over.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘But nothing, Corinna. Go back to your family, divorce Linus—ssh! I know it’s difficult, but it’s not unheard of and I’ll stand witness for you.’ Hell, she’d stand up in court and give such a graphic account of Linus’s brutality, half the Collatinus fortune would end up settled on Corinna. ‘It’s the only solution.’

  She wondered how grateful Corinna would be. In terms of gold pieces, that is. After all, she was still on the right side of thirty and if she put some weight on the old bones and smiled a bit, she could bag herself a catch in next to no time. She left her thinking it over.

  Since only Pacquia and Cypassis were allowed in her room—that was Drusilla’s decision, not Claudia’s—she decided to pick up some titbits for the cat and was just heaping a plate with chicken, duck and sardines when a buzz of excitement went up.

  The huntsman is coming, the huntsman is coming.

  Claudia practically threw Drusilla’s dinner at her. She didn’t stop to consider what dangerous compulsion motivated her going into the hills with a man so big he could strangle her with one hand, a man whose hut was so remote her body could be picked clean by vultures, devoured by ants. All she knew was that there was something exciting, scary, intoxicating about a man who controlled you with his eyes and with his actions.

  A huge boar covered much of the floor space. There was a pile of birds—quail, pheasant, partridge, songbird—and a few hares. No venison, which was a pity, although the last lot was as tough as old boots. In fact, it could well have been a pair of Fabius’s. Smoothing her hair and straightening her tunic, Claudia picked her way to the outside door, where the kitchen slaves had congregated, plying him with wine and honey cakes. Her cheeks were flushed, her heartbeat rapid as she approached the huntsman.

  Who was short and squat and approximately ten years older than Aristaeus.

  Dammit, she should have realized there’d be swarms of the little beggars.

  *

  The pines offered shade and a delicious, heady scent. They also offered company. Magpies hopped and chattered in the branches, a squirrel noisily nibbled the seeds of the large, round, stalkless cones, fishing terns splashed into the waters. Claudia scooped up a handful of white sand and let it drift through her fingers. Against her will, the image of a tall, handsome, willowy woman formed itself in her mind, an image which it took considerable effort to dissolve until, finally, all that remained were a few fragments of blue glass.

  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?’

  XVI

  ‘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 si
ght 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.

  In the corner a small bronze container bubbled on the brazier. Diomedes lifted it off and poured the boiling water over a pile of crushed peppermint leaves, oblivious of the aromatic scent. When it was cool, he would strain it and add it to the milk and, with any luck, there should be enough of the mixture to cure a week’s worth of indigestion in the Collatinus household. Ordinarily he would have passed the half hour’s waiting either reading or catnapping, but today there was too much to catch up on and he set about making another infusion, this time of horehound with wine for the cook’s cough.

  He’d spent as much time as he could with Claudia over the last few days, more time than he should, in fact, but it was important to him. Dare he risk a second kiss? Progress was good—look how grateful she’d been because he’d nursed that floozy Cypassis back to health. She could have taken that grainship yesterday. Why hadn’t she? She hinted her stay concerned business with the old man, but Diomedes knew that wasn’t the whole truth. From what he’d overhead, Eugenius’s business with Claudia (and no one except the two of them seemed privy to exactly what this entailed) was pretty well concluded to the satisfaction of both parties.

  Could her reluctance to go, he wondered, his heartbeat increasingly rapid, have any connection with himself?

  There was one other hint, the most solid yet. If she wasn’t interested in him, why spend so much time in his company?

  Flimsy excuses. First she needed balsam, then she was back to enquire as to the efficacy of chalk in bathwater. She’d even demonstrated a close interest in the tools of his trade, selecting a pair of forceps with long, slender handles, hollowed jaws and interlocking teeth and asking, ‘What’s this for?’

  When he told her they were pilecrushers, it was truly comical to note the speed with which she dropped them.

  Another time she said, ‘They found that child, you know,’ and he pretended not to know about the missing kid. That way she was forced to spend yet more time with him as she recounted the story of the child—a boy, as it turned out—who had been frightened by the storm, ran for shelter then got himself hopelessly lost. He was eventually found over in Fintium by an old fisherman whom he cajoled into taking him out next day, little suspecting there was a storm of a very different kind awaiting his return.

  Diomedes had smiled at the way she’d ended the story by saying, ‘I’d have scalped the little bugger if he’d been mine.’ She injected such energy into things!

  Had he been born either wealthy or aristocratic, it would have been easy. Instead, as a Greek, he was acutely aware of the disadvantages weighed against him. Setting the cook’s horehound infusion to one side, he moved across to his desk and opened an envelope of papyrus. Shaking a dozen or so tiny oval seeds of fenugreek into his mortar, he began to pound them with his pestle. In a poultice, they should sort out Antefa’s boil once and for all. Yes, if only he’d been born patrician!

  His lips pursed instinctively whenever he thought of Marcus Cornelius Orbilio. Everything about the man screamed class. Class and breeding, and he hadn’t realized Claudia knew him so well until he saw the two of them together on Thursday night—Orbilio in his fancy scarlet cloak, Claudia in that sensuous midnight blue creation.

  Impossible to find words to describe the sense of loss, of failure, that he experienced in that split second. They were two of a kind. Same class, same background—what chance did a Greek physician stand?

  That night Diomedes had prayed to Aphrodite—oh, how he had prayed—for help, and to his utter astonishment the goddess dismissed Orbilio the very next day, demonstrating in that one Olympian gesture that there was no stigma attached to being a doctor. It’s a respectable profession, Aphrodite was telling him, requiring skill and qualifications well beyond the abilities of the average man. You should not f
eel shame.

  Thus his spirits lifted and his confidence soared with them.

  But however buoyed up he was by Aphrodite’s support, Diomedes appreciated it was far too soon to moot the subject of marriage. Nevertheless, he worked on it as skilfully as he worked on his remedies. Claudia was young, beautiful, suggestible even, and Diomedes more than most understood the immense power of sex. It could pull a person against their will, draw them like a fish on a line—and women, especially, were susceptible. His Claudia would be no different.

  Content with progress on both his love life and Antefa’s troublesome boil, he decided it was time to stretch his legs. Automatically patting the little stone statue of his healing god, Asklepios, he turned left to follow the dusty track up the hill. The view from his quarters might not be the worst in the world, but even a physician grew sick of certain smells and the stink of urine from the adjacent fuller’s yard was one of them.

  The scenery was breathtaking, the air redolent with pine and spurge and wild rosemary. The African Sea, today as blue as forget-me-nots, tickled the sands under a cloudless sky while sheep bleated contentedly beneath the noonday sun. He would miss this land, he thought, but come spring it would be time to move on. To move on, the way he had always moved on, forever seeking his sacred goal. So often in the past he had been on the point of giving up, fearing his aim to be as unattainable as immortality itself—but now, since meeting Claudia, he was not so sure. He felt his fists clench. If only—

  The raucous cry of a jackdaw cut in and he paused to look down on the villa, its red roof dwarfed by the distance between them. Miniature figures dashed hither and thither, always at someone else’s beck and call. So many of them! When he took on the job, Diomedes had no conception of the size of the Collatinus empire, nor that he would be required to doctor the entire contingent of slaves single-handed. For the most part, his previous positions had entailed little more than pandering to the problems of over-indulgence by prescribing fresh air and exercise and a decent diet. Well, excess was no problem in this family, quite the contrary, but he hadn’t expected to have to earn his living as a slave doctor. Diomedes plucked a blade of grass to chew on and continued his climb.