Second Act

by Marilyn Todd

  ‘I hope he’th all right,’ Hermione said sombrely. ‘Only when I thaw him earlier, he wath limping quite badly.’

  ‘So would you, kiddo, if you’d shared a bed with Jemima all night.’

  ‘Pig.’ Jemima stuck her tongue out at Doris. ‘Anyway, he wasn’t with me all night, was he, Adah?’

  Adah shook her head. ‘Randy old sod sloped off in the early hours. Thought we wouldn’t notice.’

  ‘Yeah, and the next I see of him,’ Jemima said, ‘he’s asking Erinna to sew him a bleedin’ eye patch.’

  ‘So vere did he get his black eye and a limp?’ Fenja wanted to know.

  ‘Search me.’ Jemima shrugged.

  ‘Yes, but can you imagine how he’ll bill the show?’ Erinna stood up and spread her arms in a perfect imitation of the maestro. ‘Ladies! Gentlemen! All you majestical creatures who have flocked to see our beautifious entertainment!’ She performed the impresario’s deep bow. ‘Allow me to present Caspar’s—Halcyon—SPECTACULARS.’ She raised a mock eye patch. ‘The only show in the Empire guaranteed to knock your eyes out!’

  Their sides aching and their bruised egos massaged at last, the troupe resumed their positions on stage. It was in everyone’s interests to be scene-perfect for tomorrow’s opening night.

  ‘From the top, then,’ Skyles said.

  Adah said, ‘I really think we ought to insert an extra scene where Jupiter soothes the Neighbour’s Wife—’

  She was shouted down by everyone, including Periander. ‘Even if we wanted to,’ Renata pointed out, the voice of reason as usual, ‘we can’t do it without Jupiter, and since no one’s seen hide nor hair of Ion this morning, I suggest we move on. Now, then. Should I be playing the same tune, now the Satyr descends from Olympus?’

  ‘No!’ The cast was unanimous. The revision called for a boisterous horn, not a creeping-around flute.

  ‘Here, will someone please give us a hand with this bleedin’ pulley?’ Jemima puffed, trying to haul the Satyr up to Olympus. ‘It’s too heavy for me on me own.’

  ‘Coming right over,’ Skyles said, making annotations on the script in ink.

  ‘Like now,’ Jemima wheezed, since no one had moved to help.

  ‘Sorry.’ Doris shrugged in apology. ‘Can’t help, kiddo. Pulled a muscle in my side, didn’t I, swinging down from the gallery? Daren’t risk making it worse before the performance.’

  ‘Well, one of you buggers had better hurry,’ she snapped. ‘Me arm’s coming out of its socket!’

  ‘Ach, giff it here.’

  Fenja marched over and, with one Nordic yank, the platform shot upwards, flinging the Satyr on to his backside, his cloven hoofs flailing into the Olympian heights.

  ‘Put that in the script, too,’ Erinna said.

  Twenty-Nine

  Sitting in the VIP section of the Circus Maximus, Sextus Valerius Cotta cheered the charioteers as though he hadn’t a care in the world. To a skilled military tactician, it was vital no signs of uneasiness should be transmitted to the troops and if acting was part of a general’s role, then so be it.

  As two hundred thousand people stamped and whistled as the winner thundered past the post, his chariot wheels smoking, Cotta was acutely conscious that time was running through the sandglass at an alarming rate. In three months, the new campaign season got underway and it had been his intention to have the new regime in place by then. He had allies in six of the ten newly elected tribunes. Had the backing of the plebeians. Knew which generals and naval commanders he could trust. Had plans to deal with dissenters.

  The winning charioteer drew his team up in front of the Imperial box to receive his victory palm. Blowing up the Senate and assassinating the Emperor would not have been Cotta’s first choice. (Naturally.) But for Rome to achieve her true potential, hard pruning was the only solution. New shoots could not flourish without cutting away the dead wood.

  Down in the tunnel, lots were already being cast for who got which starting box for the next race, the Novice Crown, and a swarm of broom boys were out sweeping the sand with their besoms. This time of year, when it got dark so early, there was no time to lose between contests, and under Augustus, the number of races had increased dramatically.

  ‘A people that yawns, Cotta, is a people ripe for revolt.’

  It was one of the Emperor’s favourite sayings.

  As the magistrate signalled with a drop of his handkerchief for the Novice Crown to begin, the trumpet sounded and Cotta marvelled at the arrogance of his fellow Senators who sat so comfortably on their cushions beside him, believing nothing, and no one, could displace them. Secure in their cocoons of wealth and their positions of authority, they had ceased to ask: never mind us patricians, are the plebeians content? They didn’t question whether erecting a temple of marble was more important than rebuilding death-trap tenement slums. Had stopped caring whether the funds would be better invested in schooling, housing and policing the streets.

  The novices thundered by, kicking up clouds of sand with their hoofs. Suddenly, one of the drivers veered too close to the central stone spine and his competitors crowded him into the wall, overturning the chariot. The two outside stallions thrashed in their traces, their eyes rolling with fear, while mechanics rushed to free the two terrified mares who were trapped in the shaft before they became trampled in the next lap.

  Augustus wasn’t a bad man, Cotta reflected, glancing across to the Imperial Box, where the great man sat in gold crown and purple robes beside the Vestal Virgins. He’d introduced many worthy elements into Roman society, including free games, free public baths, the dole and, of course, his complete overhaul of the army, right down to equipping it with surgeons and vets. Augustus was objective and rational, wily and just, making Cotta more than willing to throw his lot in with this man instead of Mark Antony. (Especially once everyone realized how far that bloodsucking Egyptian bitch, Cleopatra, had got her hooks into him, weakling that he was.) But seventeen years at the helm was taking its toll.

  Augustus might only be thirty-seven years old, but he was softening.

  The eagle was relaxing its grip.

  The Empire was growing flabby and lax.

  Dole tablets didn’t prevent fires from sweeping through the tenements every night and taking a score of lives with them. No amount of Games could heal the diseases that ravaged the slums and made the inhabitants’ lives a perpetual torment. With the contents of his father’s box, though, Cotta could reverse that slide.

  Realgar. The form of arsenic known by the Arabs as Fire of the Mines.

  Sulphur. Produced by roasting fool’s gold and recrystallizing the vapour.

  Honey. Binding the ingredients and rendering the mixture volatile.

  Poseidon Powder. That fine, floury, combustible substance that would change the history of Rome for ever.

  Sonofabitch, who could have predicted it would all come to nought with a body found in the woods? And yet— Cotta shouted encouragement to his team as they passed. And yet— The ghost of his father was in no doubt that Mighty Jupiter himself blessed his plans…

  ‘Note for you, sir.’

  A reverent tap on his shoulder, and a roll of parchment was passed to him by a messenger wearing the Senator’s own livery of amber and green. He broke the seal and read the note carefully. It was from his steward in Frascati, and Cotta read the note again to make sure.

  ‘Yes!’ he said, punching the air, as his team passed the post two lengths ahead of the field.

  Thirty

  ‘Orbilio?’ Claudia rapped on the door of the guest room and, when there was no answer, swept in. ‘Marcus?’ Dammit, now that she had all the proof that she needed, where were the Security Police when you need them?

  ‘Off playing with his harem of little black boys, I shouldn’t wonder,’ Julia sniffed across the other gallery. ‘Pervert! Anyway, sister-in-law, I need to talk with you about Flavia.’

  ‘Not now, Julia.’

  ‘She still hasn’t come home, and as I said at
breakfast, her bed wasn’t slept in—’

  ‘Not now, Julia.’ Sweet Jupiter, he could be anywhere. But she had to find him. Quickly. Tell him he was right about the Halcyon Rapist. That he—

  ‘—but that’s not the worst part.’

  ‘Goddammit, Julia, this isn’t the time!’

  ‘The worst part is that, according to that awful boy with the eyeliner, she went to a post-hotel last night. With a man.’

  Give me strength. ‘Doris is winding you up,’ Claudia said. ‘Now I’ve a hundred urgent things to do, and trust me, Flavia’s fine.’

  ‘You don’t know that, and you don’t care either, you heartless creature.’ Julia got out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. ‘What my dear, kind brother saw in a gold-digger like you, I shall never know.’ She blew noisily into the linen. ‘You’ve never liked us, couldn’t care a fig what happens to us, any of us—’

  Good grief, any more honks and you’d think there were geese on the gallery. ‘Julia, go and lie down. There’s absolutely no reason why Flavia would go swanning off to hotels with strange men—’

  Oh. Sweet Juno. Since when had Doris started telling lies?

  ‘Yes, you just relax, Julia. Close your eyes for an hour or two. Then, you’ll see, everything will be fine.’

  Lies, lies, it wouldn’t be fine. There was only one reason why Flavia would go swanning off to hotels. Skyles. And Claudia Seferius had paved the way with her stupid imitation wedding bouquet! Shit. Far from calling her bluff, Flavia had interpreted the gesture as a genuine endorsement, and I don’t care what anybody says. Give a man with Skyles’ reputation a young virgin on a plate, and he’s hardly going to refuse.

  Goddammit, Skyles. I hope it’s going to be a bitter, bitter winter. Because you’ll need those bloody earmuffs when I’ve finished with you!

  ‘You really think Flavia’s playing another trick?’ Julia asked.

  Claudia dredged up the kind of smile any self-respecting conman would be proud of. ‘Positive.’

  Shit, shit, shit. Now who was going to take Flavia off their hands? Her only remaining asset squandered in a sordid hotel encounter. It would cost a fortune in dowries after this! And suppose the silly bitch got herself pregnant…? The only consolation was that Skyles might not have done the dastardly deed yet. If he had, Flavia would be home by now, crowing like a wretched rooster. Which meant if Claudia could get to her first—

  ‘Madam.’ Leonides materialized at his mistress’s side.

  ‘Not now, Leonides.’ There was a grinding of teeth, and they were probably hers. Doesn’t anybody listen around here?

  ‘But madam—’

  ‘Leonides. My sister-in-law is deaf, Skyles is about to be, I’m perfectly happy to make it a hat-trick.’

  Her steward retreated one pace out of range, but no more. ‘The package you were expecting has been delivered,’ he said staunchly. ‘It’s waiting for you in the storeroom.’

  ‘What?’ Of all the stupid timing— ‘Moschus?’

  Leonides nodded mournfully. Call it his Macedonian upbringing, but harbouring escaped jailbirds just before Saturnalia didn’t seem to be his idea of a treat and suddenly there were any number of urgent needs pressing on Claudia. She went through a quick checklist in her head. Skyles, Felix, Caspar and the others were downstairs. Flavia’s virginity could afford to stay on ice a little longer. Orbilio could be anywhere. Fine. Claudia was in just the right mood to scatter Moschus’s ribs from Naples to Messina.

  *

  The Spectaculars had just one evening and whatever time they could squeeze out of tomorrow to perfect their performances. Felix was pretty confident about his. To dance four different roles, three of them female, he wore a tight, white, figure-hugging costume, offsetting its neutrality with four flexible cloth masks. Each mask was painted with a different facial expression and was sown to a wig differing in both style and colour. It took exactly seven seconds to remove one mask and replace it with another, provided he had help from the wings. There could be no mistaking Venus from Helen of Troy in his mime, but he continued to practise differentiating Helen’s passionate high kicks from the goddess of love’s tranquil slides.

  Renata, who took her cues from the bleached blond, rather than the other way around, was too experienced a flautist to rehearse further. Instead, she filled her time experimenting with the vast range of cosmetics in her box, ending up with a thicker mask than the dancer’s. And hers took considerably more than seven seconds to remove.

  Ugly Phil was complaining that the furry leggings made him itch since they’d been washed, had someone put soda in the water, and why is it one of his horns kept going limp?

  ‘Don’t fret, kiddo, these things happen to every chap sooner or later,’ Doris said seriously.

  ‘I prefer it,’ Caspar said, flapping his hands like little fat kippers. ‘It adds greatly to the humouritiousness of the scene. Miser, can you just lead in from where you catch your Wife with the Poet? Oh, and Cupid, suppose we suspend you from a rope so you swing through the air?’

  ‘Isn’t the poor little sod’s voice high enough?’ Jemima said, adjusting her veil up and her décolletage down. With that amount of bosom on show, she ought to do quite nicely for her old age out of this run.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve changed your mind about dinner?’ Skyles asked Erinna under his breath, since the scene required neither Virgin, Soldier’s Mistress nor Buffoon. ‘I mean, I don’t have to wear this.’ He tapped the wooden phallus strapped to his groin. ‘Well.’ He grinned. ‘Not unless you want me to.’

  Erinna couldn’t help laughing. ‘No, Skyles. I haven’t changed my mind.’ She picked up a lyre and began to strum.

  ‘One day a stranger

  Rode into our valley,

  Ravaged with scars of hard battles long past. ‘

  ‘You wrote that song, didn’t you?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And I know who you wrote it about.’

  The string snapped with a twang. ‘Really?’

  Skyles glanced round the Spectaculars. Made sure their collective attention was occupied. Shifted his weight on to his other foot. ‘If you don’t want to eat, there are sword swallowers in the Forum. Fire-eaters, snake charmers, dancing monkeys, even some trick where a boy climbs up a rope and disappears.’

  ‘No means no, Skyles.

  His eyes, they were weary,

  He was tired of running,

  But the law was behind him and catching up fast.’

  Being a string short didn’t seem to deter her.

  ‘I’m persistent, Erinna.’

  ‘Pissed, you mean.’

  ‘Nowhere near enough.’ He stroked his jaw. ‘Look, if it’s the women after the shows—’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sakes, Skyles, I know they’re just conquests and don’t mean a damn thing.’

  Anger flushed his craggy face. ‘Is that what you think? That I shag ’em to prove myself to the lads?’

  ‘What, then?’ she asked, but she was talking to herself. Stiff with anger, the Buffoon had stormed off.

  *

  Claudia, who had been observing the exchange from the gallery, swept down the stairs.

  ‘My compliments on your black eye,’ she told Caspar. ‘In fact, I think it’s the best shiner I’ve seen since my cook’s wife caught him in bed with her sister.’

  ‘My motto, dear lady, is that if one has something, one should have only the very best.’ He leaned forward and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘I also possess a magnificentious bruise on my hip bone, if only you would care to verify the matter?’

  ‘Thanks, but it would only get me overexcited and compromise my widowed status.’ Claudia brushed away the feather of his turban from where it was tickling her ear. ‘Is Ion back yet?’

  ‘Misfortunately, madam, he is,’ the little man intoned solemnly. ‘Jupiter returned two hours ago in the highest of dudgeon and the lowest of temper, and is growling like a bear with two sore heads. My advice
, dear lady, is not to approach the grizzly for a while.’ He affected a mock injury. ‘Those of us who tried have been severely mauled.’

  ‘What’s eating the moody sod, anyway?’ Jemima asked.

  ‘He’th thulked before, but never like thith,’ Hermione said.

  ‘One can only pray he comes out of it in the next hour,’ Caspar added miserably. ‘Before our talented company launches into a full—and I might add final—dress rehearsal.’

  ‘He normally comes out of his sulks quickly, then?’ Claudia asked.

  The company exchanged glances among each other and shrugged. ‘We’ve no idea,’ Periander said. ‘Most of us only met up in Frascati. Ion joined us then, too.’

  Frascati was of no interest to Claudia. She had business waiting down in the storeroom. But as she ducked under Jupiter’s platform to Olympus, she could hear Skyles apologizing to Erinna under the stairs.

  ‘About those conquests,’ he said. ‘I know you’ll think I’ve spent the last ten minutes trying to come up with a better explanation—’

  For the first time since she arrived in this house, Erinna’s expression hardened. ‘You don’t know one damn thing about what I think,’ she snapped.

  Catching Claudia’s eye as she stomped off, Skyles winked. She thought it was probably the hardest bit of acting he’d done in his life.

  *

  ‘Leonides.’ Claudia beckoned her steward over. ‘Post my bodyguard at both exits,’ she said, ‘and have two of the biggest, burliest slaves stand guard beside them.’

  ‘Now, madam?’

  Claudia nodded. ‘Until further notice, no one leaves this house without my permission.’

  ‘But suppose you’re not here?’

  ‘Then, Leonides, they don’t leave at all.’

  *

  With so many things happening at once, there was one crucial factor that Claudia had overlooked. Captain Moschus’s personal hygiene. Dear Diana, if anything was guaranteed to turn the olive oil in the storeroom sour, it was three days in an overcrowded jail. Rancid wasn’t the word.