Jail Bait

by Marilyn Todd

  ‘Sleep well?’ Orbilio asked, framing stiff lips into a smile.

  ‘Hardly a wink.’ Claudia heaped her plate with cheese and shrimps and ignored the fact that she’d slept like a baby. ‘You?’

  ‘Terrific.’ He saw no reason to mention the cockroaches in the pawnbroker’s attic which he’d been forced to rent since Atlantis was full.

  Behind them the general reminisced about some ancient campaign in Galatia and the fat woman picked her teeth.

  ‘Business first,’ Orbilio began, lacing his fingers and leaning forward, but he was interrupted by the arrival of a brunette practically bursting the seams of her tunic as she sashayed up the banqueting hall, surveying the breakfasters through kohled lashes.

  Claudia could not resist a smile. In Rome—indeed anywhere within the paid eyes of the Emperor—standards these days were close to puritanical. In return for bestowing stability and peace on his people, Augustus demanded purity of mind as well as body, family values to reflect this Golden Age, an example to the conquered masses. No gambling, no spinsters, no sex outside marriage. As a law, Claudia felt it didn’t have a lot going for it. For one thing, the rules patently did not apply to him, the Emperor’s infidelities were legendary, and, for another, whilst he bestowed privileges on men fathering endless baby Romans, there were few crackdowns on those who clung to their bachelor freedom, and certainly his vision failed when it came to philandering husbands. But Augustus was a man, and men will have their little jokes, now, won’t they? Like making marriage compulsory for women. Like not letting them speak in the law courts. Like imposing bitter penalties on adulterous wives.

  Like forcing widows to remarry within two years of the death of their husband…

  For the brunette, filling out her sails both fore and aft, it was unlikely she’d ever heard of moral reforms, let alone put one into practice. Claudia beckoned her over.

  ‘Do meet Marcus,’ she said, pointing to his couch in invitation. ‘He likes women with big chests and small drawers.’

  ‘You’ll have to speak up,’ Phoebe trilled. ‘I missed that.’

  ‘Orbilio here,’ Claudia shouted, ‘said he’s been dying to meet you.’

  She thought she heard the girl purr. Then again, it could have been a deep Security Police growl.

  Phoebe snuggled against him and pouted when he shuffled along. ‘Is he shy?’ she asked, as though Marcus wasn’t present.

  ‘Merely stodgy,’ Claudia explained. ‘Poor chap thinks getting a little action means his prunes have started to work.’ She smiled sweetly at Orbilio, who had sucked in his cheeks. ‘In fact, these days his back goes out more than he does.’

  Marcus turned a laugh into a cough, but Phoebe’s attention had been caught by Claudia’s gown. ‘That is beautiful,’ she gushed. ‘Harebell blue, so elegant. Goes with absolutely anything.’

  ‘And there speaks an expert,’ Claudia murmured, fluttering her eyelashes at a man who had all but disappeared into his handkerchief. Louder, she said, ‘As a matter of fact, this gown was a gift.’

  Across the table, Marcus stiffened. ‘The Spaniard?’

  ‘However did you guess?’

  To emphasize her point, she stroked the silver pendant at her neck, suggesting this, too, was a present from Tarraco, even though she’d won the thing last week in a game of knucklebones behind the Rostrum. As Phoebe helped herself to chestnut bread, Claudia heard Orbilio mutter underneath his breath, although she failed to catch the definition.

  ‘Now, now, Marcus,’ she chided cheerfully. ‘Tarraco is handsome, rich and generous, there’s nothing to dislike about him, surely?’ And thought she heard him mumble, ‘No, but give me time,’ as she slipped into her sandals.

  Phoebe, straining every stitch, sidled up to her conquest, running her hand along his thigh as she tried to feed him a grape.

  ‘You two lovebirds must excuse me.’ As Claudia stood up she heard Phoebe entreat Marcus to come with her, she knew exactly how to please a man in bed, and Claudia thought, no you don’t. Phoebe, despite her outward appearance, was no casual conquest. What she sought was love and affection, and certainly what pleases men in bed is none of those you-still-respect-me-don’t-you recriminating conversations, it’s to roll over and drift off to sleep without hearing either the word ‘love’ or its companion, ‘commitment’.

  No doubt this voluptuous creature would cotton on one day, but until then a lot of men would have a lot of fun bouncing on her well-upholstered charms.

  Orbilio did not look as though he might be one of them. The only man, Claudia reflected cheerfully, who won’t take yes for an answer!

  With a radiant smile, Claudia fluffed the frills and ostentatiously smoothed the pleats of this fabulous harebell gown and, just on the offchance that Hotshot hadn’t quite got the message, made her way very, very slowly up the banqueting hall.

  Now, with luck, he might sod off back to Rome—and take his official bloody business with him.

  *

  In fact, the sun was considerably higher than Tullus’ agent had calculated by the time the courier made his way through the twisting alleys of the Aventine Hill to the house next door to the marble merchant’s warehouse. Lean, tough and muscular, he barely panted, though his throat burned dry and dusty as he handed over the letter to a thin-faced individual bizarrely devoid of character. When he ripped open the seal, only the appearance of two high spots of colour on otherwise colourless cheeks hinted that the news he’d received was the best.

  ‘No reply,’ a monotone voice told the messenger.

  Tullus’ nephew waited for him to leave before reaching for his goblet. It was empty, and so was the jug. He clapped hands for a refill. Wine, godammit, was out of the question. In this searing heat, it made his throat drier than ever, even watered, so now he was reduced to gulping fruit juice like that bloated bladder of an uncle. Bloody hell, his bowels were on overtime, yet his windpipe grated like an ungreased hinge.

  It was his uncle’s fault he was stuck in this sweatbox! Tullus had assured him that sodding strongroom was secure—‘safe as the State Treasury’ were his words—when in reality he might as well have kept that casket under his bed for all the protection it had been given!

  Well. He sipped at the apple juice the dwarf set down and grimaced. There was no point in going over old ground, the damage was done, and with luck the damage was small. He glanced down at the letter from the agent up in Plasimene. The bitch was holing up in Atlantis, was she?

  ‘Not for long, sweetheart,’ the nephew said softly, steepling his long, skinny fingers. ‘Not for bloody much longer.’

  What’s mine is mine, he vowed, and I will have it back, but there’s bugger all time to play with. Already twenty days into May, the bloody Senate sits on the first of next month. His thin lips pinched tight together. For years, I’ve worked towards this goal. Every move, every action has been designed to bring me that little step close and I am so close, Claudia Seferius, so very, very close to fulfilling my self-appointed destiny that I can almost reach out and touch it.

  ‘The fate of the whole fucking Empire is in my hands,’ he breathed. ‘No meddling bitch can be allowed to interfere with my plans.’

  His pen scratched across a sheet of parchment and, sealing the scroll, he rang for his new servant. What a find! Solicitous for his master’s welfare, discreet at all times, willing to undertake a few unusual tasks—what a treasure, this ugly mutant!

  ‘This letter,’ he said, cursing the dryness in his throat. ‘Deliver it personally, will you, to the visitor who called here yesterday.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ The dwarf withdrew, slipped on his outdoor shoes and with a tuneless whistle set off for the apartment house of the fat man who stank of cardamom.

  *

  On the principle that no matter what goes wrong, it can always be made to look right, Claudia rapped on Lavinia’s door. To think she considered her own room luxurious! The old woman’s son had really done his mother proud, and again she wondered h
ow an impoverished smallholder could afford such a treat. Ivory and tortoiseshell, maple-wood inlaid with silver, couches, chairs and tables, silver salvers bursting with hot hams and sausages, bowls piled high with fruit and a basket of steaming, crusty rolls. Maybe his hare-brained ventures weren’t so irresponsible after all? Maybe Lavinia, being a simple country woman, didn’t really understand the wheelings and dealings of commerce? Or perhaps she’d just bred a son with the instinct of an Arab horsetrader! On a table by the window, blue and red counters were set out in a half-finished game of Twelve Lines and Lalo, despite his coarse linen tunic, looked bigger and more handsome as he flapped an ostrich fan dyed green. Ruth, on the other hand, appeared to be moulded into a niche on the wall in an unsuccessful attempt to render herself invisible and the reason, Claudia suspected, were the two harridans breathing over the couch.

  ‘You’ve got to drink it.’

  ‘Got to.’

  ‘How on earth will you get better otherwise?’

  ‘Never get better.’

  When they saw Claudia one of the women straightened up, a signal for the other to copy, as surely she had done all her life. They had to be sisters. There was an age difference, six, maybe five years, but the similarities were not confined to mere dress or hairstyles. Both sported matching double chins and piggy eyes and flesh that knew better than dare wobble, but never had the incongruity of their simple, rustic lives clashed more violently with the luxury of Atlantis. Cheap cottons stood out against slinky damasks, natural fibres screamed beside rich, expensive dyes.

  ‘Fabella and Sabella,’ Lavinia said coldly. ‘Fabella is married to my son.’

  Claudia felt a sudden rush of sympathy for the son.

  ‘It’s this medicine,’ Fabella said. ‘She won’t drink it.’

  ‘Won’t,’ echoed Sabella, with a sad shake of her head. ‘And she’s hardly touched her breakfast.’

  ‘Heaven knows what my hubby’ll say, when he finds out his money’s been wasted.’

  Try not mentioning it.

  ‘And we’re due for our massage any minute.’

  Claudia beckoned the sisters towards her. ‘It’s this pampering,’ she whispered. ‘Gone to Lavinia’s head.’ She clucked her tongue sympathetically. ‘Won’t touch a thing unless it’s served off gold.’

  ‘Never!’ they chorused, tutting their joint disapproval.

  ‘Look, why don’t you two trot off to your massage and I’ll arrange the necessary plates and goblet?’

  Not so much trot off, she thought, more off on their trotters.

  Behind her, Lavinia let out a sigh of relief. ‘I don’t know what you said to them,’ she cackled, ‘but I’m indebted. Frightful pair.’

  Claudia drew up a chair and by the time she’d turned round, Lavinia’s elegant coiffure had turned into a fluffy white fleece. ‘You old phoney.’

  ‘We’re all frauds here, dear.’ As though it was a cat, the old woman stroked the wig in her lap. ‘Every single one of us.’ She cast a knowing glance at her visitor, who found that for once in her life she couldn’t stare someone out.

  Instead, Claudia reached for a pomegranate with a studied show of nonchalance. ‘I don’t suppose you heard any strange sounds in the night? Screaming, for instance?’

  Lalo and Ruth exchanged glances. ‘Nothing,’ they said.

  ‘Liars, the pair of you,’ Lavinia snapped back. ‘Where were you two, eh? Out with it, because neither of you was in Atlantis last night.’

  ‘I—’ Lalo began to fidget with the handle of the fan, and Claudia noted that his knuckles were bruised and swollen again. ‘I spent the night in Spesium.

  ‘More fool me, I went looking for him,’ Ruth flashed back. ‘Never found him, either.’

  ‘We’ll talk about this later,’ Lavinia said, dismissing them with a curt nod. ‘So, then.’ The wizened face broke into a smile. ‘What can I do for you this fine, sunny morn?’

  ‘Oh,’ Claudia breezed, ‘I just dropped in to ask whether you plan to attend the Agonalia in town.’ The spring festival of lambs was a highlight on most rural calendars, particularly in a month devoid of celebrations.

  Lavinia put aside the wig and scratched the side of her nose. ‘I think you know the answer to that,’ she said pointedly. ‘So why don’t you dispense with the formalities and tell me the real reason why you came?’

  Claudia grinned and curled her legs up in the chair. ‘I want to know how you managed to avoid compulsory remarriage when you were widowed at the tender age of thirty-two.’

  Lavinia’s sigh was like water trickling through a sluice gate. ‘So that’s how the land lies.’ She nodded slowly several times as though wrestling with a decision, then finally cleared her throat. ‘My husband was an old man, but do you know, in seventeen years of marriage he never showed Lavinia a single scrap of kindness. Who’d have thought that, in dying, the old sod would do so well by her?’

  A gnarled finger beckoned Claudia closer. ‘My sweat went into that land and I tell you straight, I wasn’t prepared to let the grove pass to another slave-driving bastard. So,’ she lowered her voice to a whisper, ‘Lavinia surrounds herself with busts of the dear departed, commissions several portraits of the old goat, says prayers for him several times a day…’

  ‘In public, of course.’

  Lavinia wetted her lips with the tip of her tongue. ‘It’s a hard man who would force a grieving widow into his bed and even the Prefect—’ one sparkling blue eye closed in a wink ‘—even the Prefect of Luca agreed that, under such harrowing circumstances, the rules ought to be waived.’

  She paused to let the impact of her words sink in, then added airily, ‘I hear there’s an excellent portrait painter staying in Atlantis at the moment. Now run along, there’s a good girl, Lavinia’s getting tired.’

  The hell she was.

  ‘But be sure to tell me everything that happens in the town,’ the old woman called after her. ‘Lavinia likes to keep abreast of what goes on.’

  XIV

  The origins of the Agonalia, like so many rustic festivals, had become blurred with the passage of time. Undoubtedly its roots were entrenched in some ancient thanksgiving ceremony for flocks which had not only survived, but procreated to boot, therefore what better time to display newly shorn wool and for priests to bless lambs—but quite why a ram, the bringer of said good fortune, should fall to the sacrificial knife, no one was sure. Indeed, until recently, the festival had been confined to private rituals conducted by smallholders clubbing together to propitiate their local deity…in the old days, before that arch revivalist Augustus stepped in.

  He had conquered Rome’s enemies without and within, the dark days of war and civil war were now over for good. He had disbanded his part-time peasant army in favour of hand-picked professionals and since that meant the land was no longer abandoned for months on end, agriculture prospered with a vengeance, inspiring Augustus to resurrect firstly the old celebration of May Day and then raise the profile of the Agonalia, thus doubling the number of jollies in an otherwise dull and unlucky month. Romans throughout the Empire embraced the addition of two more state holidays, and Spesium was right at the fore. Flowers decorated walls, balconies, statues and columns, they were woven into chaplets and garlands and wreaths. Tumblers in gem-bright tunics entertained swelling crowds to a backdrop of flutes and castanets, rope walkers drew gasps, beggars drew alms, artists drew scenes on the pavements—of shipwrecks they had seen off the coast of Achaea, of a three-legged dwarf in Damascus.

  Claudia’s audience with Lavinia meant that although she missed the sacrifice itself, her arrival coincided with the point where the haruspex was examining the ram’s vital organs in order to pronounce good or bad auspices. Because the area around Lake Plasimene had been deserted for two hundred years, there were no obvious indications as to who should receive this noble offering, so the obvious candidate was Spes, Goddess of Hope, after whom the town was named. And as befitted her status, Spes had a temple approached by fifteen
marble steps, two rows of Corinthian columns at the front, and a storehouse of gold and silverware inside. As Claudia inched her way into the crowd, a hush had descended and even the dancers and acrobats broke off their shows to await the announcement.

  ‘Hmmm,’ said the gut-gazer. Men with their hair garlanded and women with theirs streaming free shuffled forward. ‘Hmmm,’ he said again, nodding with practised ambiguity. ‘Hm, hm.’ Solemnly he picked up the dripping liver and weighed it in his hands from left to right. He peered, he prodded, he even smelled the wretched thing, then he harrumphed a little more, re-examined the heart and kidneys, and muttered dolefully, ‘This bodes well. Spes has favoured us.’

  Heaven knows what the man was like when he encountered a bout of the miseries, but the proclamation was enough for the crowd. Roars broke out, cheering and clapping, and the music started up again, with a trumpet thrown in for good measure, and then the lambs were set loose, scores of bleating, silly, bright-eyed creatures skipping down the street, unaware their dad was being roasted on the fire. Ropes had been stretched across the upper storeys of buildings along the main thoroughfares from which sheets of every hue were hung to provide rainbows of shade—

  ‘If you suffer from insomnia,’ Kamar whispered, chomping on a piece of sacrificial mutton, ‘I can prescribe a poppy draught.’

  Claudia looked up at him, his turtle face as lugubrious as ever. Was it her imagination, or was there steel inside that silky offer? Beside him stood a mouse of a woman, his wife, whose badly disfigured face, rumour had it, resulted from falling into the fire as a child. One rather had the impression that the burns had been the first, rather than the last, of this woman’s burdens. ‘Insomnia?’ Claudia asked.

  ‘Chronic sleeplessness,’ he said. ‘The inability to fall asleep; waking and being unable to get back to sleep.’

  I know what it means, you sour-faced oaf.

  ‘Only one couldn’t help noting you do not siesta and were abroad in the early hours of the morning,’ he explained.