by Marilyn Todd
Table of Contents
Copyright
I, Claudia
Dedication
Acknowledgments
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
XXVI
XXVII
XXVIII
About the Author
Virgin Territory
I
I, Claudia
By Marilyn Todd
Copyright 2013 by Marilyn Todd
Cover Copyright 2013 by Ginny Glass and Untreed Reads Publishing
The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.
Previously published in print, 1995.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any means in any form or given away to other people without specific permission from the author and/or publisher. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.
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I, Claudia
A Mystery, 13 BC
By Marilyn Todd
For Kevin
Acknowledgments
To Marjorie Rogers, who may only have slipped into the next room, but who has somehow managed to keep the door wedged open a fraction, I have just one thing to say: Thanks, Mum! For everything.
I
Even for July, the streets seemed hotter and busier than ever as Claudia pushed her way across the Forum, grateful that she didn’t have to walk very often. She’d got the litter to drop her at the arch of Augustus, but there was no escaping the last few hundred paces she’d have to cover on foot. One of the senators—she thought it might be that odious little Ascanius—was waving his arms and ranting on about food subsidies to a gathering crowd.
To avoid recognition, she pulled her palla low over her eyes and pointed her face to the ground. Turning into the Via Sacra, she collided with a small boy in porridge-stained rags, his filthy hands clutching a pig’s head which he’d undoubtedly stolen.
‘Out of my way, you poxy little oik!’
Claudia elbowed him aside and thought she caught the words ‘Up yours, missus’, but when she spun round he’d disappeared into the crush of lawyers, vendors, fortune-tellers and dancers. Dodging a porter’s pole, she turned left into a narrow sidestreet, then, glancing over her shoulder ducked down a deserted alleyway, from which point her sense of smell led her forward.
Jupiter Juno and Mars, how could anyone live in such squalor? Claudia covered her nose and carefully negotiated her way past broken pots, fleabitten cats and the contents of slop pails emptied from upstairs windows. What a din! Babies bawling, dogs howling, women scolding, children squabbling, and, in the midst of this racket, water-carriers touting their wares at full tilt. And the stink! Rotting food, over-subscribed toilets, unwashed bodies, all exacerbated by the stifling heat. Grimacing, she picked her way up the stone staircase. If there was any justice, Quintus would have grown tired of waiting and she wouldn’t have to hang about in this cesspit any longer than was necessary. For heaven’s sake, was it her fault she’d got delayed by the old linen merchant’s funeral procession? Since she was in her own litter at the time, with its distinctive orange canopy, she could hardly pretend to ignore it, could she? Especially since that awful Marcia woman had caught sight of her and pretended to mourn, the hypocritical cow. As if she hadn’t spent half the old sod’s fortune already!
Claudia paused at the top of the steps, where large lumps of plaster had cracked and flaked away. The landlords must positively rake in money from these tenements, cramming in, what, two, three families to a room? You’d think they’d learn, wouldn’t you, but no, every now and again fire would sweep through and roast the tenants alive, or else these flimsy structures would simply crumble and fall. And who really gave a damn about the mangled bodies inside?
Now what directions had Quintus given her? Two flights up, third on the left, wasn’t it? She turned and walked slowly up the second staircase. Good life in Illyria, suppose she’d made a mistake? Suppose it was three flights up, second on the left? The prospect of barging into the wrong apartment was too dire to consider so she shook the dust and plaster off her hem and smoothed her stola. Oh well, she could always try to convince Gaius she was here for humanitarian purposes, she supposed. She tapped on the door.
‘Quintus?’
Silence. She screwed up her eyes and prayed again that his patience had run out. Why he wanted to meet in this sordid place was beyond her. Perhaps the sleaze added a bit of spice—more excitement, greater risk, heavier gamble…qualities Claudia was only too familiar with.
‘Quintus.’ She raised her voice slightly. ‘Are you in there?’
It was unlikely she’d been heard above the din and clamour from the surrounding rooms. She could slip away, say she’d got lost, that Gaius had come home, that she’d been forced to tag along with the funeral procession—oh, she’d think of something. But then again, Quintus was prepared to pay handsomely for his fun and games in this abominable room, and when she owed that bloodsucker Lucan the best part of a legionary’s salary, she couldn’t afford to be too particular.
Juno, that door looks less than clean. Claudia felt a distinct reluctance to put her ear to the wood.
‘Quintus,’ she hissed, glancing up and down the deserted corridor.
For all its squalor it was still better to slip that little scumbag Lucan a few denarii to keep him sweet than risk him calling at the house and making insinuations. Kicking aside a cabbage stalk, Claudia eased open the rickety door offering silent prayers to whatever lowlife gods inhabited this stinking threshold that it was the right bloody one. And if I catch anything from this damned sewer Quintus Aurelius Crassus, you can bloody well stump up for the doctor’s bill, too.
The senator lay face down on the bed, stark naked, his feet bound with a leather strap, his hands held behind his back in handcuffs, the sort they use to restrain slaves. Unlike the long, low, comfy couch at home, this was nothing more than a straw-stuffed, lice-infested mattress which Quintus, quite sensibly in Claudia’s opinion, had covered with his toga. Three filthy cushions supported his stomach, pushing his podgy, white buttocks up in the air. Claudia smiled. Fat chance of him leaving—he’d trussed himself up like a chicken and there was no way he’d get out of this without help. She pulled out the rawhide whip, hidden under her palla, and cracked it.
‘Right, you despicable little man.’
The professional had taken over.
‘Let’s see what you’re made of.’
Claudia let her palla slip to the floor and slid out of her stola. She cracked the whip again, this time a finger’s width from Quintus’s balding head. He didn’t flinch, but she wasn’t surprised. They either jumped like a scalded cat or else they lay perfectly still like something on a butcher’s slab. Given a choice, she thought she preferred the latter, but a job was a job and she did
n’t care to dwell too long on the matter. He’d jump soon enough, when the whip burned his buttocks.
‘What do you say, Mr Senator?’
Off came the tunic, and she tossed her breast band on to the bed where he could see it.
‘Will you plead for mercy?’
His poor manhood hung limp. Perhaps it needed the pain to jolt it into life?
‘No?’
Of course, at his age, it might not ever come to life.
‘We’ll have to see about that.’
Her thong landed on top of the breast band. If he wasn’t excited by now, there was something wrong with him no matter what his age.
‘Take that, you smug, arrogant bastard.’
The whip should have left a raw, red wheal across his white flesh. His buttocks should have clenched. In fact, his short, fat body should have jarred with the pain. Instead, his body remained as flaccid as his manhood.
‘Oh, shit.’
Claudia ran over to the bed. Don’t tell me the silly sod’s had a seizure, that’s all I need! She touched his flesh. It wasn’t entirely cold, but you didn’t need to be a doctor to know this man was going to need the same hired mourners as the old linen merchant. She looked around to see where he kept his money. There was an obsidian brooch tucked into one of his high patrician boots, a soft leather pouch inside the other, containing nothing more than a few copper quadrans.
‘Bastard.’
He hadn’t intended to pay her the scheming little cheapskate. Unless—yes, unless he hadn’t trusted her and had hid his silver under the toga? Claudia’s fingers glided over the wool, ignoring whatever livestock might be inhabiting the filthy straw below them. No coins. She slid her hand underneath his lifeless body.
‘Damn.’
This was her own fault, of course, arranging to meet an old buffer like Quintus without knowing the first bloody thing about him. She wondered who it was who put him on to the exclusive services she offered, because usually she approached punters direct. She straightened up and moved round to explore the other side of the toga.
‘Sweet Jupiter in heaven!’
Quintus Aurelius Crassus, respected senator, loving husband, father of five sons, two daughters, grandfather of a dozen lively grandchildren, had most certainly not died of natural causes.
Quintus Aurelius Crassus had had his eyes gouged out.
II
In the four and a half years since Claudia had married Gaius Seferius for his money, a day hadn’t passed when she’d been neither cooled nor soothed nor refreshed from walking in off the hot, bustling street to the quiet serenity of the atrium. Burning braziers gave off sweet-smelling scents, fountains rippled and tinkled, marble statues smiled in welcome, while cranes and doves and a hundred exotic animals pranced and danced on the walls. Except today.
‘Melissa!’
She snapped her fingers and marched straight upstairs to her bedroom.
‘Melissa!’
By the time the young slave girl came running up, Claudia had already divested herself of every item of clothing.
‘Burn these.’
‘Madam?’
‘Don’t gawp, girl. You heard me, burn them. And, Melissa—see to it personally, or I’ll slit your nose right up the middle.’
Obediently the slave girl gathered up the garments. She was used to odd requests from her mistress, but this was the strangest yet. She would burn them herself, she didn’t trust the other slaves, but oh, what a tragic waste of beautiful apple-green cotton.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, what’s that terrible wailing? Isn’t there anyone in the house man enough to put a stop to it?’
Melissa stuck the sandals under her arm. ‘That’s your daughter, madam.’
‘Flavia? Dear Diana, how many times do I have to tell you, she’s Gaius’s daughter not mine. My own poor dear family—well, you know full well what happened. I don’t need to go over it again. Besides,’ she scowled at the dark haired girl standing complacently in the doorway, ‘I’m nowhere near old enough to have a daughter of fifteen. Now give me a hand with this breast band.’
She waited until the fit was comfortable before asking, ‘What’s the matter with the silly bitch this time?’
‘The bridegroom, I gather.’
Claudia puffed out her cheeks. ‘That awful child’s never been happy about one damned thing in her life. Tunic! I hope her aunt’s here with her.’
Flavia was the youngest of Gaius’s brood and when her mother died in childbirth, she had been fostered out to Gaius’s only surviving sister. Many times Claudia had pondered the conundrum: was Julia frigid because she was childless, or was she childless because she was frigid?
‘I thought you disliked Miss Julia, madam.’
‘Frightful woman. Can’t stand her. Stola, please, Melissa.’
But even a sister-in-law has her uses from time to time. Sweeping into the courtyard in fresh, ice-blue linen, she threw wide her arms. ‘Julia, darling! I had no idea you were here.’
Her sister-in-law, bony, birdlike and a decade older shot her a sideways glance. ‘I thought you were out,’ she said sharply.
‘Oh, you know what slaves are like these days.’ Claudia waved an arm dismissively. ‘I was lying down.’ She tapped her temple. ‘Headache, you know.’
Julia’s eyes became even more hawklike, but Flavia saved the day by bursting into another fit of tears. ‘I don’t want to marry him,’ she howled.
‘Want doesn’t come into it,’ her aunt snapped. ‘It’s arranged and wed him you will. Your father’s fixed a good match with Antonius. He’s a leading figure in the Treasury, isn’t he? Draws a top-grade salary and is an old friend of your father’s as well. What more can you ask for?’
‘He’s old…’
Julia and her sister-in-law exchanged glances. ‘Mature,’ Claudia corrected. Antonius was the same age as Gaius.
‘It’s not fair.’ Flavia began to chew nails which were already down to the quick. ‘First he was engaged to Calpurnia, and when she died he was foisted on to me like some old hand-me-down.’
‘Exactly my point.’ Julia slapped the girl’s hand away from her mouth. ‘Your father thought him good enough for his eldest daughter didn’t he? Give thanks Antonius is still interested in the family alliance.’
Flavia pouted. ‘He wants babies straight away and I don’t. I’m too young.’
‘Nonsense,’ Claudia said briskly. ‘I’d already had one daughter by the time I was your age and was heavy with my second.’
It wasn’t true, of course, but if she stuck to the story well enough, in another year or three—who knows?—she might even come to believe it herself.
Julia moved closer to her sister-in-law. ‘I think it might be the, er, physical side that’s putting her off,’ she whispered.
‘Fennel.’
‘Oh?’ Julia’s eyebrows raised in surprise. ‘Does that make you…more…or less…you-know-what?’
‘I meant for her nerves,’ Claudia snapped.
‘Oh.’ The older woman inched further towards her. ‘Actually, I was rather hoping you’d have a word with her about the wedding. Or to be more precise, about what happens after the festivities.’
‘Certainly not.’
‘But you and Gaius…the age difference…I mean, you’re Flavia’s stepmother, it would reassure her—’
‘No. And for goodness’ sake, do get the child to shut up!’
Deaf to her stepdaughter’s tearful protests, Claudia clapped her hands and called for wine. Flavia’s wedding arrangements were part of her duty. Regrettable, but there you are. She resigned herself to lengthy discussions and prayed Jupiter would send a thunderbolt to break up the proceedings quickly. Instead Julia’s thin claw held out her latest pendant.
‘I wanted to canvas your opinion on this,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure the silversmith has got it right, the balance seems somewhat uneven. What do you think?’
Claudia stood up, vowing to make a really good sacrifice to J
upiter first thing in the morning. Maybe a nice white calf?
‘What I think is that my head’s thumping. I’m going to lie down.’
She’d established her presence, there was no need to prolong the ghastly encounter with this constipated old cabbage.
‘Oh?’ Julia hopped forward and peered closely. ‘Hmm. I suppose you don’t look too well. Very pale.’ The hooded lids finally conceded defeat and Julia gathered up her belongings. ‘And rather waxen, too,’ she admitted. ‘You’re not coming down with anything, are you?’
Claudia shrugged noncommittally. ‘Who knows?’ she said feebly. ‘Who knows?’
The veiled threat was sufficient to send Julia and her snivelling stepdaughter packing with all speed, and Claudia sincerely hoped it might be sufficient to keep the tiresome pair at bay for at least another week. Snatching up a goblet and a jug of honeyed wine, she marched back up to her bedroom and threw herself down on the couch. A small Egyptian cat with a wedge-shaped face and blue, crossed eyes bounded up beside her, rattling with pleasure.
Melissa poked her head round the doorway. ‘Would you like—’
‘Get out!’ Three fat cushions hurtled towards her. ‘And stay out!’
The cat poured itself into the hollow of her shoulder, butting Claudia’s chin with its head. Stroking it thoughtfully, Claudia sipped at her wine.
‘Well, Drusilla,’ she said at last. ‘Have we pulled it off?’
Sooner or later someone would walk in and discover the dead senator, mother-naked and trussed like wildfowl, and the search would be on for his killer. A noblewoman dressed in the very finest cotton would stick out like a snake among sweetmeats in that tenement, and you simply couldn’t count the number of people who’d seen her go in and come out. That stola was the trouble.
‘Still, it would’ve engendered a damned sight more gossip had I discarded that fine and distinguished symbol of Roman womanhood, don’t you think? Anyway, the point is—would anyone there be likely to recognize us?’
Drusilla began to knead gently, the tips of her claws snagging at the fine linen.
