Sour Grapes

by Marilyn Todd

  When she leaned closer, Claudia detected a faint smell of wine and roses, a combination that, even after such a short acquaintance, she knew was far from accidental.

  ‘I don’t belong to one of those Celtish tribes, who believe in reincarnation. As far as I’m concerned, we have one life and it’s short. Pluck the cherry from the tree while it’s ripe is my motto, and my particular cherry’s called Lars.’

  She indicated the man paying his respects to Flavia across the way, whose Etruscan heritage of swarthy skin, stocky build and rather over-long nose was made more pronounced by the flickering lamps. Far from classically handsome, Lars was however not without sex appeal, and his face suggested he smiled a lot. Although, looking at him, lowborn for all his fine clothes, Claudia suspected Lars had a lot to smile about.

  ‘Some cherry.’

  ‘Thirty-seven last week,’ Eunice said proudly, ‘and thank Jupiter the family’s finally come to terms with the arrangement. Why, only last month my eldest daughter came to visit.’

  ‘You moved to Mercurium to be with your husband?’ Somehow Claudia imagined it would be Lars following the money.

  ‘What the hell, I thought, why not take a gamble? My little birds have flown the nest and have lives of their own. I’d only be an appendage in Rome. Thanks to Lars, I’ve a new life, new friends, a new style of living, and of course being happy gives you fewer wrinkles.’

  Claudia could see that.

  ‘Like I said, I don’t regret a single day with my dear late husband, but since the State decrees that we women are incapable of looking after ourselves and need a man to make our decisions for us, it seems sensible to choose one over whom we have some influence, don’t you agree?’

  Eunice had no idea. ‘Lars doesn’t strike me as the sort who’s easily manipulated.’

  ‘Depends on your definition of influence, darling.’ Eunice patted her wig and adjusted the choker of pearls that neatly obscured the crêpe-like lines round her throat. ‘If I’d stayed in Rome, my eldest son would have assumed the role as head of the household, and I am not sure I’ve reached the point where I’m comfortable answering to my own son. Not when I’m still tempted to spank his bare bottom from time to time! Whereas Lars, who is, as you so rightly point out, very much his own man, was a masseur at the hot springs when I met him, and to put it bluntly, my dear, masseurs don’t live this well.’

  In the courtyard, moths diced with death among the hundreds of lamps to drink at the bounty of nectar.

  ‘I bought a delightful townhouse in Mercurium with my dowry, which of course I get back if Lars and I should divorce, so I suppose it wasn’t much of a risk. In return for not being a burden on my eldest son, I get a place of my own, a husband who’s thirty-seven years old and a sex life I’d all but forgotten. Which reminds me—how’s Flavia coping with love’s new bloom?’

  ‘If you can imagine a couple of flabby haddocks staring into each other’s eyes and with about as much conversation, that’s my stepdaughter and Orson.’

  ‘Puppy fat, darling. It’ll burn off once they find something to stimulate their interests.’

  ‘That’s exactly what worries me.’

  Eunice watched her with a wry smile. ‘I suppose it’s occurred to you that you might have made a mistake, throwing them into each other’s arms? That, far from driving your turtledoves apart, it might well turn out to be a case of “till death do them part”?’

  ‘I may have faults, but being wrong isn’t one of them.’

  ‘Personally, I think people worry too much about class,’ Eunice said, nibbling on a handful of nuts. ‘What’s status compared to happiness, I say, because look at Lars and me. Three years down the line, we’re as happy as the day we first met.’

  Yes, but two younger men and two older women in the same town in the same circumstances at the same time…?

  I bought a delightful townhouse in Mercurium with my dowry, which of course I get back if Lars and I should divorce.

  But what happens should Eunice die? Lars would inherit the lot, and suddenly there was a smell of fish in the air which had nothing to do with the salmon being skinned in the kitchens.

  Drifting away from the courtyard to a quiet corner of the garden where the light from the lamps couldn’t penetrate, Claudia settled herself beneath one of the newly planted plane trees and rested her chin on her knees. It was night now, but in daylight all you could see from this spot were neat rows of vines hanging dutifully from their crossbars and the stately elm trees that supported them stretching into infinity. The buds on the vines had only just sprung into leaf, but according to her bailiff, it was still too early to prune. He was waiting until the last chance of frost had passed, something that was monitored, apparently, by the next full lunar cycle known locally as the red-headed moon.

  Red-headed moon.

  Claudia rolled the words round on her tongue. Funny how different people call things by different names. To her, it was merely a moon that waxed full at the back end of May. To those involved in wine production, however, this moon was the difference between a harvest or a famine on the vine.

  Same thing, different viewpoints.

  To her the dodges she’d had to resort to, to keep the Guild of Wine Merchants at bay, were simply survival tactics. Whereas, to the Security Police, forgery, fraud, tax evasion and those other little things which were far too petty to mention, constituted a criminal offence. The Security Police were quite wrong. Claudia had every intention of repaying her creditors once funds started flowing, and heaven knows the Empire’s money box wasn’t creaking on its hinges for want of a few paltry back taxes. Indeed, the State coffers were quite capable of waiting another year, if not two, and no doubt would have been perfectly content to do so, had it not been for a certain patrician.

  Marcus Cornelius Orbilio.

  Three more words to roll around on her tongue, except these left a sour taste in their wake. Like rocks that split open beneath the plough to reveal the skeletons of creatures long-dead, Marcus Cornelius had the word ‘ambition’ fossilized in his bones. Young, tall and unnecessarily handsome, he employed centuries of inbred charm to snare any prey he couldn’t ambush through more orthodox methods. Indeed, Claudia had almost fallen into his trap herself. Back in Aquitania, she’d been this close to making a fool of herself and she thanked every Immortal up on Olympus that he and that ridiculous floppy fringe of his—that mop of dark wavy hair, his impossibly bronzed skin and deep rich baritone—were setting up their own branch of the Security Police in Gaul. Good luck and good riddance, quite frankly. Already his features were erased from her memory, including that faint smell of sandalwood that always seemed to surround him.

  Across the dark Tuscan landscape, a barn owl swooped silently over the vines like a ghost. Ah, yes, ghosts.

  Who was this wind walker who went to great pains to ensure no bad luck befell Larentia? She shifted position. Indeed, who suggested to her in the first place that an epidemic was going round? It took Claudia about ten seconds to establish that Larentia was no more senile than she was, so who would her mother-in-law trust enough to swallow such garbage? Candace? If so, how on earth did she convince her that bad luck was contagious? Aromas of honey-roasted lamb filtered out from the kitchens, but Claudia’s mouth didn’t water.

  And what of Darius? What of this man whose voice had trodden the path to Hell? For once she was able to rule out the Guild, because why court Larentia? It would have been easier, and drawn far less attention, to woo Claudia direct, but why had Darius paid for these renovations? If he had no intention of living here after his marriage, why cover the cost of works on somebody else’s estate, especially works that were ornamental rather than critical? Whether he was the horse-breeder he claimed or a fortune-sniffing rat, he’d have gone through Larentia’s finances with a flea comb. He’d know every last detail of Gaius’s will, be well aware that the widow inherited every penny.

  ‘Shit.’

  Watching the three-quarter moon slip behind
the hills, she suddenly understood why Darius had made a play for Larentia and not her. And knew that nothing on earth would stop him from marrying the old bag.

  Roman law was ambiguous on many issues, but as Eunice so rightly pointed out, the subject of women wasn’t one of them. Regardless of status, they were under the protection of men from the moment they were born. First they were their father’s chattels, then their husband’s, and finally, if widowed, they became either a son’s or the closest male family member’s. In Larentia’s case, she was officially under the protection of her son-in-law, Marcellus, Flavia’s foster father. But Marcellus was weak. He was also impoverished. Ever since Gaius’s death, the family had relied on Claudia for support, which meant that on the face of it, Larentia’s marriage to Darius would simply transfer that responsibility, taking Larentia off Claudia’s hands.

  But in a world where women are the property of men, Darius could argue that Claudia, as his wife’s widowed daughter-in-law, was his responsibility as well. Bang goes her inheritance, as the head of the family takes over through the back door, something that would be impossible if he’d knocked on the front.

  ‘Over my dead body,’ she hissed. ‘Over my dead body, you bastard.’

  ‘You want to be careful using phrases like that.’ Soft as a shadow, Darius stepped out from behind one of the peach trees and his teeth shone white as he smiled. ‘Someone might be tempted to take you at your word.’

  *

  ‘I say, Terrence. Terrence, darling, do come and meet Claudia.’ Eunice lowered her voice and whispered in Claudia’s ear. ‘He is the most eligible bachelor. His father was in silver or gold or something, so he’s absolutely filthy rich, owns most of Tuscany and at least half of Umbria, and he throws the most lavish bashes you could ever hope to attend.’

  ‘Pay no attention,’ Terrence laughed. ‘It’s only half of Tuscany and a quarter of Umbria, and the only gold my father saw was through his role as a banker. But Eunice is right on one point. I’m a sucker for extravagant entertainment, and for that reason, if nothing else, I hope you’ll join in my celebrations for the Lamb Festival, though I should warn you. The whole town is invited and by the time it finally winds down, what started off as cute little lambs have usually grown into ropey old muttons. Mercurium likes to have a good time.’

  ‘A debonair party-throwing landowner, who’s still unmarried in his thirties,’ Claudia murmured, as a slave topped up her wine.

  ‘The law has an abundance of loopholes, providing one knows where to look.’ Green eyes appraised Claudia’s glistening tiara, the emeralds at her throat, the gold earrings shaped like chariots, then slowly followed the soft curves of her dusky pink robe.

  ‘And one certainly seems to know where to look,’ she said sweetly.

  One eyebrow twitched amused acknowledgement. ‘Claudia, I think you and I should get together for—’

  ‘Terrence!’ A young woman with the same sandy-coloured hair and enormous round eyes came rushing up. ‘Terrence, have you heard?’

  ‘My sister,’ he said, and though his smile never wavered, there was a distinct edge to his voice. ‘Thalia, this is Claudia.’

  ‘Oh.’ Thalia’s pale skin suffused in a rush of pink. ‘I’m so sorry. How rude of me to barge in.’ She curtsied in apology. ‘Only Larentia didn’t mention you’d be here—I mean, that’s not to say she said you weren’t welcome—I mean, of course you’d be, it’s your house…’

  ‘That’s a delightful pendant you’re wearing,’ Claudia gushed. Anything to put the poor girl out of her misery.

  ‘You think so?’ Far from lifting her spirits, Thalia’s lower lip started to tremble. ‘My husband bought it for me. I’m wearing it tonight because—’

  ‘Her late husband,’ Terrence corrected. ‘Died of an apoplexy last year. Thalia, what was it you wanted to tell me?’

  ‘Did I? Yes of course, I remember now.’ Her eyes widened to saucers. ‘Oh, Terrence, it’s terrible. That body that washed up on your land the other day? I mean, you do remember that poor boy, don’t you?’

  ‘One does not easily forget bloated, fish-nibbled corpses beached on one’s pastures. What about it?’

  His testiness merely added to her awkwardness, and Thalia hopped from foot to foot as she wrung her skeletal hands. ‘Well, it seems it wasn’t Tages the shepherd, after all.’ She turned to Claudia. ‘Tages is the boy who went missing in that violent storm last weekend. He’s old Etha’s grandson, and she’s raised him ever since his mother died giving birth—’

  ‘Thalia, would you please come to the point.’

  ‘Sorry.’ She ran a nervous tongue round her lips. ‘The thing is, Terrence, Etha was called to identify her grandson, only it wasn’t Tages at all.’

  ‘Thank you, we’d gathered that.’

  Thalia shot Claudia a flustered smile and mouthed the word ‘sorry’ again. Claudia suspected it was a word she mouthed a lot.

  ‘Anyway.’ Thalia gulped. ‘It was Rosenna who eventually identified the corpse as that of her brother, Lichas. Oh, Terrence, isn’t this simply dreadful? I mean, those poor children in Mercurium. Where are they going to get toys from, now the toy-maker’s dead? And who would do such a thing? He was such a nice boy, that Lichas. Who’d want to stab him like that?’

  ‘I don’t suppose anyone wants to stab anyone, Thalia. Look, why don’t you go and tell all this to Eunice, there’s a good girl? You know how she loves a good gossip.’ He turned the full light of his attention back to Claudia. ‘Where were we?’ he asked smoothly.

  ‘As I recall, you were on the point of explaining why you, rich, successful and not unattractive, were still unmarried in your mid-thirties.’ Claudia shot him a radiant smile as she planted her goblet in his free hand. ‘But Thalia saved you the trouble, because now I quite understand.’

  *

  Of all the improvements Larentia had made to the villa, the folding doors in the dining hall were the most impressive. Gaius Seferius had never underestimated the importance of entertaining clients in the growth of his business, and to that end had indulged the room with the same sumptuous marbles and exquisite mosaics that covered his town house in Rome. Indeed, it boasted the same overhead contraption to shower fragrant petals on to diners between courses. Those couches that weren’t solid silver were of finely carved satinwood. The cushions were universally damask.

  But for all its luxury, the hall at the villa could not compare to the spaciousness of its city equivalent, because at heart the villa remained a working farm. But by knocking out the exterior wall and replacing it with a concertina of woodwork, the room suddenly doubled in size as it spilled on to the terrace (perfect on warm late-spring evenings like this), bringing a sense of light and capaciousness to festivities that had been hitherto lacking.

  Claudia speared a piece of crispy roast veal and concluded that Gaius might well have come up with such an idea in time, but his mother? The wife of a road builder who rarely left Tuscany? Larentia was parochial in outlook, parsimonious by nature, and since the hall wasn’t used from one year to another now that her son lay in his grave, such expenditure would not have crossed her mind. Once again, Claudia wondered why Darius had bothered.

  Watching him winkle a snail out of its garlicky shell, she did not accept Larentia’s explanation that from friendship love had grown—at least, not on his part—and she wondered how cold a heart needed to be in order to string an old woman along. Her glance moved to Larentia, laughing (yes, laughing) with Terrence and Eunice on the opposite couch as she wolfed down fattened goose liver, stuffed partridge and suckling pig. She noted once again the radiant glow to Larentia’s face, the artful way she’d applied cosmetics, the new interest in fashion and hair, and for only the second time in her life felt a pang of genuine sympathy for her mother-in-law.

  ‘…three years old and drops dead in the harness. Pfft.’ Larentia snapped her fingers. ‘Just like that.’

  ‘Donkeys are plentiful around these parts, darling.’ Eunice patted he
r hand. ‘I’m sure the miller will find a replacement without any trouble.’

  ‘I’m sure he will,’ Larentia retorted, ‘but that’s not the point. You know his brother’s wife walked out on him the day before, don’t you? Took the children to Rome to stay with her mother, and how’s the poor man going to visit them there? I ask you, he’s a smith. Smiths can’t leave their forges. Mark my words, bad luck begets bad luck. Candace?’

  The black sorceress looked over from where she was conversing with Thalia. ‘Larentia?’

  ‘Next time you’re in town, would you cast a spell for that poor miller?’

  ‘Poor is the word,’ Candace drawled. ‘In my experience, millers are unable to afford my protection.’

  Who could, Claudia thought? The woman was dripping with gold tonight, in the form of bracelets, armbands, earrings and pendants, tiaras, brooches and anklets. When she moved, she sounded like a rat-catcher’s bells.

  ‘I’ll pay,’ Larentia said, before realizing that her purse-strings were tied by the person reclining on the couch opposite, and that that person was not leaping in with offers to finance a charlatan’s whimsies.

  ‘My treat,’ Darius cut in swiftly.

  Candace cast him a long, slow, feline look. ‘I am not a performing pony,’ she replied at length, straightening her serpent-shaped armband. ‘I target every ounce of energy on Larentia, who knows only too well how walking with the spirits drains me.’ An unusually chastened Larentia nodded as the sorceress leaned towards her. ‘Do you really wish me to transfer those energies,’ she asked quietly, ‘and dilute the spells that protect you?’