Wolf Whistle

by Marilyn Todd

  Claudia released the bedrail and wiped the dust off her hands down the pastel lilac linen. Her husband was nothing if not orderly, everything sat in its place. His desk, his inkwells, his basketweave chair. Even his symbol of rank, the equestrian sword, still hung in his sheath on the wall. A lump rose in her throat. Last August. She had walked in and found him slumped upon that very weapon. For a moment, she could still hear the flies and smell the blood…

  ‘Gaius, you silly daft sod.’

  Picking up his clothes-brush, she ran the ox’s tail several times through her loosely clenched fist. That, too, he’d had dyed a typical vivid scarlet, because nothing Gaius ever did was subtle. She smiled. Including haunting, if that’s what he put his mind to. He wouldn’t have settled for a half-hearted clump across the timbers. Gaius Seferius would have done it in style, wailing like a banshee. They’d have heard him as far as the Capitol.

  After the funeral, Claudia had insisted this room remain locked, on the pretext of preserving his memory. (Where else could she conceal the true company accounts?) Only Claudia had a key, and since she gave up housework once she heard it gave you warts, thick cobwebs had congregated on the gilt-encrusted rafters and you could have carted out dust by the bucketload.

  So, no, it was not Gaius’ ghost who’d walked this room overnight. The hairs on the back of her neck curled and prickled.

  Phantoms do not leave their footprints in the dust.

  Phantoms do not leave their imprint on the bed.

  XVIII

  When you think about it, there are only two ways to deal with fear. Let it in, or kick it out. And since Claudia was not the type of woman to allow a canker-worm to eat away her character, she left her fear licking its wounds in a dark recess of her consciousness.

  ‘Why, Claudia, what on earth are you doing with that hammer?’

  Trust Julia to be wandering round, when she ought to be in her room preparing for the banquet.

  ‘Um.’ High female laughter floated down into the atrium. ‘Fannia asked me to fetch one.’ She gave a silvery laugh herself. ‘You know how eccentric she is.’

  Julia’s hooded eyes narrowed. ‘She was always odd, that woman. Told me once, she not only shared a bed with her husband, she actually enjoyed what he…you know. Did to her.’ Her mouth turned down at the corners. ‘Frankly, that hammer doesn’t surprise me.’

  Stifling a laugh, Claudia returned to her room. ‘What’s the matter, poppet? Still hankering after the monkey?’ Watching Drusilla disappear into the night, Claudia wished she could follow. We’ll stay on until after the Megalesian Games, Larentia had said. Claudia pressed the heels of her hands against her eyeballs. Hell, that’s another ten days, I’ll be dead before then. She rubbed the back of her neck and looked out. Poor old Rome! Never allowed to settle down for the evening with a good book and its feet up, already it’ll be cracking its knuckles, primed for the work which lies ahead. Musclemen cranking open the huge city gates to let wheeled traffic through, dressmakers squinting through lamplight they cannot afford because the client’s changed her mind—and pity the poor fisherman, who cannot rely on tides coinciding with daylight.

  Claudia slammed the shutters and wished that had been her mother-in-law’s face.

  It would be hard, the next ten days, but provided no cracks appeared in her facade, Larentia shouldn’t catch so much as the faintest rattle of a closeted skeleton, no matter how keen her goddammed hearing. It was called keeping up appearances, and Claudia was an expert.

  For Gaius, marriage had merely meant another gaudy trophy, a wife to be wheeled out at social occasions and as such their paths had rarely crossed. With Larentia stuck in Etruria, his daughter fostered on Julia (who in any case had few dealings with her brother), deception had been easy to orchestrate.

  Until that desiccated old fossil took it upon herself to test Claudia to the limits.

  She inhaled from braziers redolent with the scent of dried herbs—balm and borage, lavender and mint—and thought, you want hospitality? I’ll give you hospitality. So much so, you’ll be gagging on it, begging to go home to the country. And tonight’s off to a good start. I hadn’t envisaged this, you wizened old crow, but we’ve got acrobats and jugglers, fire eaters and dancers, flautists and tumblers. And just to show you how bloody rich I am, guess whose robe matches the exact colours of the banqueting hall? Claudia twirled round in her feast gown. Searching examination would quickly reveal an ancient nightshift coloured with cheap vegetable dyes, but the old bats were short-sighted and a range of glittery accessories, coupled with oodles of perfume and some second-hand flounces would—

  What was that?

  Claudia laid down her gold torque and listened. There it was again, a soft scuffle from the balcony. Then she saw it. A tongue of metal, so thin it could fit between closed shutters, which could only be the blade of a knife…

  Bloody burglars! There’d been a real upsurge of these bastards since Agrippa died, taking advantage of people’s grief and confusion and growing fat on their thieving. She blew out the lantern. I’ll give you bloody burglary, mate.

  The blade had found the latch and she could hear the tinny scratch of metal upon metal. Picking up a red upholstered footstool by its leg, she weighted it in her hands. Just the job. The latch was lifting as she skipped to the side of the window. Climb up my balcony, would you, chum? The first leaf of the shutter opened to admit a blast of damp air. Claudia could see an inky outline in the gloom.

  Taking a deep breath, she counted out his footsteps in the dark.

  One…

  Two…

  Clonk!

  With a thud, the intruder fell flat on the floor, his long thin knife skidding out of his hand and across the polished wooden timbers to land at Claudia’s feet. As the burglar began to groan, she covered the blade with one foot and kicked him in the ribs with the other.

  ‘How much are you carrying?’

  ‘Uh?’

  ‘Money, jewellery, come on. What’s your trawl so far this evening?’

  You might not rob me, sunshine, but by the gods, I’ll take every copper quadran you have on you. Trust me. I have no compunction about paying the fowler with your pretty baubles!

  ‘Aaargh.’

  ‘Spare us the histrionics, chum. Just hand ’em over.’

  XIX

  The intruder dragged himself on to all fours and shook his head like a dog. ‘For a foggy night,’ he said miserably, ‘I’m seeing one heck of a lot of bright stars.’

  ‘Orbilio?’ Claudia stepped over his back and set light to a couple of wicks. ‘Good grief, man, don’t you know better than to go around breaking other people’s footstools?’ She jabbed the gaping upholstery. ‘The horsehair’s coming out in tufts.’

  ‘Listen, if anyone’s hair’s falling out it should be mine. From stress.’

  ‘There’s a leg loose, as well.’

  ‘Mine, probably.’

  Claudia sat down on the battered footstool and studied her burglar at close quarters. ‘I thought you were a thief,’ she explained, resting her chin in her hands. ‘Or I wouldn’t have hit you so hard.’

  ‘But you’d still have hit me?’ Marcus Cornelius leaned back on his knees. ‘That’s reassuring.’

  ‘What do you expect, creeping around like a common burglar? Didn’t you think to try the front door?’

  ‘Would you have let me in?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well then.’ Gingerly he tested the bump on his head. ‘Anyway, the other way was barred.’ He smoothed his dishevelled mop, then squinted. ‘Is that frock real, or am I hallucinating?’

  ‘Oh no,’ she said smugly. ‘This is the genuine article, guaranteed to knock the old trouts’ eyeballs right out of their sockets.’

  ‘Should you find mine while you’re about it, send them home, will you?’ He hauled himself to his feet and massaged the back of his neck.

  ‘It’s not that bad,’ she chided, shaking out her sleeves. ‘Scarlet, blue, with a spot of green
here and there. What do you mean, the other way was barred?’

  ‘You missed out the yellow, orange, pinks and purples.’

  ‘I asked you a question.’

  ‘I’d have knocked at the shutters, only I heard music downstairs and assumed you were there with the others.’

  Claudia rose to her feet. ‘That wasn’t the question.’ He was right about the music. The best way to defend is by attack and a robust pace demanded robust entertainment, bring on the horns and the cymbals.

  ‘Would you prefer me,’ she asked, ‘to scream “thief” at the top of my voice? “Arrested for housebreaking” might add a certain cachet to your CV.’

  ‘As I recall, you tried to rob me.’ Orbilio poured himself a glass of wine from the jug on the table. It had not reached his lips before the goblet was snatched from his hand and was flouncing out into the cool night air.

  ‘All right, all right,’ he called, as her mouth formed a wide O. ‘If you must know,’ he stepped on to the balcony to join her, ‘I spent last night in Gaius’ bed.’

  ‘You?’

  For a moment, he was non-plussed. ‘Mother of Tarquin.’ He ran his hand over his face. ‘You thought it was Magic, didn’t you? That’s why you nailed up the shutters.’

  ‘There was a draught,’ she said, tilting her chin at where the moon would be, had it not been hidden by so many clouds. ‘So I’ll thank you kindly to keep your size tens out of that room from now on.’

  ‘You want me to sleep here?’ he asked mildly, swivelling his eyes towards the bed.

  ‘I’d sooner take my chance with a sex-starved gorilla.’

  ‘I could wear a fur cloak.’ He grinned. ‘And pretend?’

  She wished now she’d brained him harder.

  Fog had risen from the Tiber just like last night and the three nights before that. Along the street, only the occasional hazy slab of light from another window brightened up the gloom, and below, in the street, a man with a Phrygian accent appeared to be suffering pangs of regret at not having bought a new pair of boots, these ones had effing holes in. A few blocks away, the snarl of a lion told of its anger at being caged up for three weeks then paraded through the city after dark, and from the smoke-house across the way came the distinctive smell of sausage, hams and cheeses drying over blackened chips of oak.

  ‘He’s a dangerous man, Claudia.’ Orbilio picked up the glass she’d perched on the balcony rail and threw half the contents down his throat. ‘Unhinged and unpredictable. All joking aside, you cannot afford to take chances.’

  ‘You think that creep bothers me?’ she countered with a nonchalent toss of her curls, and Cypassis would have been mortified at how many worked loose this time.

  ‘Then why do you have bodyguards patrolling the streets? Why nail up the shutters? Think that’ll deter him?’ He gave a short laugh. ‘Magic might not be educated, but he’s as cunning as a fox, and until he’s locked in the dungeons, I’m staying put whether you like it or not.’

  ‘Not.’

  Downstairs she could hear applause for the juggler who had taken over from the rumbustious musicians. No doubt the neighbours would be mighty relieved at the change. Two streets away, the lion roared again.

  ‘Then I give you a choice. He leaned the small of his back against the rim of the balustrade. ‘Me or the military.’

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to be rounding up conspirators and hunting down killers?’

  There was an unseemly twinkle in his eyes as he said, ‘So it’s the army, then?’

  Shit.

  Traffic was beginning to clog the crossroads, exacerbated by the perpetual mist and resultant bad tempers. The night air mixed animal ordure with the smells of ripe melons, charcoal and fleeces and pitch. Torch bearers touted for pedestrians to guide home, a cat, not Drusilla, yowled from the rooftops and a woman in tears pleaded with her man to come home. For Claudia, it might be happening a million miles away. She felt her senses dissolve as she braced herself to ask the question she’d been wanting to ask all along.

  ‘Why are you really here, Marcus?’

  Time stopped. The rumpus faded into silence, banished by the pounding of her heart. She saw his eyes close, his jaw tense.

  ‘You know why,’ he said thickly.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Because—’ She could hear the rasp of his breath, ragged in his throat. Saw a pulse beat in his neck. ‘Goddammit, because I—’

  ‘Yes?’ The slightest breeze would have carried such an insubstantial sound away.

  She heard him mutter. It sounded like ‘oh, shit’ as he spun away, resting his arms on the balustrade, his head hung heavy. Several seconds and a couple of loaded wagons passed as he fought for words. Claudia held her breath and thought her lungs would burst.

  Clearing his throat, Marcus Cornelius straightened up and did not turn to face her. ‘It’s my duty to ensure the safety of every Roman citizen.’ He seemed to be addressing the roof opposite. ‘Therefore, until the threat of your stalker has passed—what was that?’

  ‘My pot of white narcissus meeting a cartload of crockery.’ Silly cow, what did you expect him to say? ‘Wave to the nice waggoner, Marcus, he’s waving at you.’

  ‘He’s waving his fist.’

  ‘Nah, he’s just trying to calm his mules down, the splinters made them skittish.’ Claudia rubbed at her toe. It bloody hurt, kicking that pot, but worth every broken bone in her foot. Stupid bitch.

  His gaze still fixed on a gutterspout, Orbilio upended the contents of the glass in one swallow. ‘So until this maniac’s in chains, I shall continue to camp in Gaius’ room, and you can be assured of my absolute discretion.’

  ‘Discretion?’ She didn’t dare look at him. ‘The entire plumed cavalry corps racing into battle would have been quieter than your clodhopping.’

  ‘I’ve had a lot to contend with,’ he said stiffly. ‘Pacing helps.’ A long silence followed, and the next time he spoke, his voice carried its normal inflection. ‘When do the aunts leave?’

  ‘When do barnacles drop off?’

  He turned his face to hers. ‘They’re staying? What changed their minds?’

  Her mouth soured. ‘Have you ever heard the expression, generosity killed the cat?’

  ‘You mean curiosity.’

  You kill cats your way. I’ll kill them mine. ‘I tell you, Larentia will die at sea to stop me dancing on her grave,’ she said. ‘And in the meantime, I’m suffocating in a nightmare of domestic trivia.’ Turning on her heel, Claudia returned to the gentle warmth of the braziers and slammed the shutters on the acidic night air.

  ‘That,’ he gasped, diving through the gap, ‘was nearly as athletic as the Bull Dancers.’

  Sooner or later, I just knew you’d get around to flaunting your conquests. Claudia picked up her handmirror. ‘I’m afraid,’ she said, licking her finger and running it over her finely arched brow, ‘that I was far too entranced by Porsenna to notice.’

  ‘So that’s the dormouse farmer?’

  ‘I can’t imagine what you find so amusing. He’s handsome, romantic, chivalrous—and waiting for me downstairs,’ she added pointedly. ‘He said my face is pure poetry—’

  ‘Did he say which lines he liked best? Ouch. That caught me right in the solar plexus.’

  ‘Pity. I was aiming at your head.’

  Marcus picked up the mirror and with a polite bow tossed it back. ‘My head’s in enough trouble,’ he grinned, lifting up the offending footstool and stuffing its horsehair back into the gaping upholstery. ‘Although my backside, I confess, is in worse.’

  ‘You mean your boss found out you’d diverted troops from protecting the Emperor to question passers-by on the Argiletum?’

  ‘Exactly.’ He set down the stool and rested one foot on it. ‘And a fat lot of use that turned out to be. It’s hardly the Esquiline where cohorts of slaves take Milady’s lapdogs for walkies last thing at night. Few booksellers want perfumed poodles at their feet.’

  ‘Cobblers,�
�� she said prettily. ‘The street’s packed with them, too, don’t forget.’

  He shot her a sharp amused glanced. ‘As it happens, shoemakers aren’t much at pet-keeping, either. Two fighting tomcats, a pack of feral dogs, one scavenging fox and a ferret.’ His mouth twisted down at one side. ‘The sum total of a whole night’s work. No witnesses, no whistles—and no gold stars for Marcus. Aren’t you keeping the mouse man waiting?’

  ‘Patience is but one of Porsenna’s endless virtues.’

  ‘Is that a fact.’ Orbilio shifted his weight on to the other foot. ‘It’s not that I don’t sympathize with the Emperor’s predicament, it’s just—’ Passion flooded his vocal chords. ‘Claudia, I can’t stand idle while some butcher slices up Ann—’ He broke off suddenly.

  ‘Ann?’ she probed, perching against the edge of her maplewood clothes chest.

  ‘Ann-other young slave girl,’ he improvised quickly.

  ‘I see.’ Down below, a round of applause ended the lyre player’s first session, which meant the acrobats were due on. Claudia wondered why she made no move to join in the fun. ‘So the killing in the Wolf Grotto this afternoon was the work of the Market Day Murderer?’

  Orbilio topped up the glass from the wine jug and waited until half the dark red liquid had warmed him inside. ‘The official line is, no,’ he said slowly. ‘True, they argue, the victim had a blue tattoo, but she was killed by a single cut to the throat, in broad daylight, and not on a market day.’ He threw back the rest of the wine. ‘Her limbs were not bound, nor had her hair been cut off.’ Lavender from the linen in the chest filtered upwards to mingle with the dried herbs in the air. Leonides would be serving absinthe with the omelettes and oysters very shortly, and Claudia realized with a start that she was hungry. Why didn’t she leave?

  ‘But?’ she asked.

  Marcus Cornelius stretched himself lengthwise on her bed, tossing aside her bolster and folding his hands beneath his head. His eyes traced the painted flowers on the ceiling, and the lines of the rafters.