I, Claudia

by Marilyn Todd

  ‘A longer tunic, my girl, and you’ll have a different kind of trip. Now for goodness’ sake, drink some of this wine and stop wheezing. No, no, you can start fanning when you’ve got your breath back.’

  She’d found Melissa’s replacement at the slave auction on Wednesday. The oil merchant’s widow who Cypassis had served for the past three years was selling up and going to live with her daughter in Capua, and Claudia snapped up the bargain. Gaius expressed surprise at her choice of this big-boned girl from Thessaly, but Claudia had warmed to her instantly, attracted to her wide smile and obvious desire to please. She suspected that had Cypassis been left to her own devices she’d have tumbled not only every boy in her own village but neighbouring villages and surrounding farms as well, leaving them with smiles on their faces and warm memories in their hearts. Maybe it was something to do with the dimples in her cheeks, or maybe it was her bosom, which resembled two diving otters desperate to surface for air, but whatever the reason, Claudia reckoned those memories would have lasted them a lifetime. Reluctantly she returned to the task in hand.

  List three, the list of suspects, remained depressingly long. Although she’d questioned several punters over the last few weeks and cleared them of any involvement, there always seemed to be someone she’d forgotten, another contestant for the title ‘Maniac of the Month’.

  ‘I brought you some cheese, madam.’

  ‘What? Oh, it’s pecorino! That’s—’

  ‘Your favourite. Yes, I know, madam.’

  Claudia nodded appreciatively. This girl had potential, she really did. Within the space of an hour, Cypassis had made the house her home, her eyebrows twitching a come-on to the male slaves, her dimples instantly diffusing jealousy among the women. Another almond shot into the pinks. Assuming those broad hips intended to fulfil the promise made in her eyes, Claudia might need to teach her maid some tricks about contraception, because she was damned if she was going to lose this gem to childbed fever!

  The gentle waving of the ostrich plumes sent ripples of pleasure down her backbone. She leaned back, closed her eyes and began to hum. It was her own special song, the one she had composed years back in Genoa, plaintive, haunting, blatantly sentimental, the perfect accompaniment to the languorous dance with which she always finished her act. Or, to put it more bluntly, the perfect way of ensuring generous tips.

  There was one further nominee for list three, a name she’d been reluctant to add. That of Antonius Scaevola, dammit. She liked Scaevola. For a start they enjoyed a different arrangement, since he was no pervert wanting to be trussed up and beaten, or clamped and humiliated. His was a healthy, energetic libido, all bounce and chortle. But for all that, his two previous marriages had failed to provide him with an heir, leaving him with a zest for procreation, even in middle age. Claudia bit clean through her pen and spat out the tip. Scaevola was pivotal in her plans, she couldn’t think of him as a crazed killer. Dear Diana, what am I thinking of? In less than a fortnight he’ll be married off to Flavia and if he doesn’t get her pregnant on her wedding night he will by the second, I’ll lay odds on it.

  ‘Good morning, my sweet!’

  ‘Gaius!’

  Juno, Jupiter and Mars, look who was with him! Of all people, it was that pasty-faced twit, Balbus, staring at her with a strange half-smile on his face. The sort of halfsmile that is remembering a tune and can’t yet place it…

  In her haste to stand up, the parchment fell to the ground. Faster than she could have imagined, Gaius swooped to pick it up.

  ‘What’s this, then? You? Writing a letter?’

  She could barely speak, her legs had turned to aspic. ‘Oh. Yes. You remember Octavia?’

  He looked blank.

  ‘Octavia whatsername. Husband’s big in olive oil. Lives up on the Palatine. Seven children. Mother’s a cripple.’ What on earth’s making her trot out this drivel? ‘Well, she’s sick—thought I’d drop her a note, cheer her up. Usual thing.’

  ‘Very thoughtful. What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘VD.’

  Claudia, shut your mouth before you swallow your foot altogether!

  ‘So what brings you this way, Gaius?’ She snatched the list out of his hand, surreptitiously glancing at Ventidius Balbus, who was still smiling blandly. Please, please, please don’t let him make the connection!

  ‘Oh…things. Business…’ Gaius trailed off. ‘Bumped into Balbus, you remember him?’ he added by way of belated introduction.

  I do, Gaius, I do. The question is, does he remember me?

  ‘You are indeed looking lovelier than ever, Claudia.’ There was little enthusiasm in his voice, but his eyes bored into hers and she decided no, she wouldn’t have slept with him back in Genoa. Starving and desperate she might have been, but never suicidal.

  There was a brief lull, then Claudia’s prayers were answered when a short, bald-headed man came puffing up.

  ‘Ventidius, what luck! I was just on my way to your office.’

  Apparently some property that Balbus had been interested in purchasing had suddenly come up for sale, and so linking her arm through Gaius’s, as much for her own support as for his, Claudia made what she hoped were polite noises at Balbus’s departure. As she fell into step with her husband, she thought again he looked old. Really old. His eyes were sunken, his cheeks seemed to have collapsed and several times recently she’d stumbled upon him sobbing like a baby.

  ‘You look tired, Gaius. I think you overdid it yesterday.’

  ‘Oh, don’t fuss. It was only a mild seizure, the doctor said so. Besides, what would people think if I missed the Festival of Wine? What good would that be for business, eh?’

  ‘Seferius wine tells its own tale, Gaius.’

  ‘Yes, but to miss the augur pronounce the vintage? Claudia, how could I not attend?’

  She snorted. ‘With Flavia’s wedding coming up, you should take it easy, conserve your strength…’ She paused as a thought struck her, and indicated to Cypassis by a gesture to hang back so she could speak more privately. ‘Gaius, exactly what are you doing out here this morning?’

  ‘The, er, library, my dove—’

  She stiffened and snatched her hand back. ‘Liar! You’ve been to one of those foul little backstreet parlours, haven’t you?’

  ‘Don’t look at me like that, I’ve been discretion itself. We agreed—’

  She made no effort to hide her contempt. ‘Don’t tell me what we agreed, Gaius, you conned me into marriage.’

  ‘Hardly conned, Claudia. I didn’t realize you wanted children, I thought after three you wouldn’t want any more.’

  ‘They died, Gaius.’ Dammit, now she couldn’t even remember how old this fictitious brood was! ‘Of course I wanted more.’

  Tears filled the big man’s eyes. ‘My son—my babies, Claudia. There’s only little Flavia left. You can surely forgive a man his pleasures now and again?’

  Claudia scrunched her list into a ball and pummelled it.

  ‘Your letter…Claudia, what about your letter?’

  ‘What about it?’ she snapped, hurling it into a grove of lotus trees. ‘Couldn’t stand the woman, anyway.’

  If Orbilio was half as clever as he made out, she wouldn’t need the bloody list. She’d kill the bugger long before it got to the confession stage, even if it meant poison.

  Gaius stood staring at her, his face haggard but his jaw set. ‘I’m sorry you feel I’ve let you down, but this is the way it is, Claudia.’

  ‘I accepted that long ago, but if I find it’s anyone I know’—the unspoken name hung in the air between them—‘a day won’t pass when you don’t live to regret it, Gaius, you have my solemn promise on that.’

  XIX

  Paternus the lawyer was dictating to his scribe when the stranger arrived.

  ‘I bring a message from your brother, sir. Says it’s a matter of exceptional delicacy and under the circumstances he would be obliged if you would treat it with the same confidentiality you bestow on al
l your cases and mention it to no one.’

  The messenger then coughed politely. ‘Including your scribe, sir.’

  Paternus leaned back and rubbed the furrows in the bridge of his nose. He didn’t recognize the messenger, but then again he rarely did. This one wore the long, dark hair of a Cretan. He didn’t like Cretans.

  ‘You purport to be from Caius Paternus, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Are you employed by him?’

  ‘Oh, no, sir. Freelance. The name’s Milo, should you ever need my services. No message too complex, no distance too…’

  The look in the lawyer’s eye quelled his sales pitch.

  ‘Well, Milo,’ Paternus’s reedy voice made the name sound unclean, ‘perhaps you would be so kind as to furnish me with the address from which you were dispatched?’

  ‘The large red house up on the Aventine, sir. The front part is let as a poulterer’s, there are two—’

  ‘Yes, yes, that’s quite sufficient.’

  So it wasn’t an error. Paternus chewed the inside of his lower lip. Would wonders ever cease? he asked himself. He hadn’t heard from his brother in—what?—oh, it must be seven, eight months now, that’s right, December. And now, like one of Jupiter’s thunderbolts, he sends a message out of the blue. Well, Caius can go to hell, he thought. That business over the slander case had driven such a wedge between them that, personally, he’d be quite happy never to see or hear from his brother again.

  He looked down his long nose at the Cretan, treating him to one of the interminable silences for which he was famous in court. At the same time he could sense, rather than see, his scribe’s interest picking up moment by moment. Should he decide to despatch the fellow, no doubt he’d have his wretched ear to the door, given half a chance. Servants are like that these days, no breeding, no dignity. In court, Paternus’s silences were tools to impress and unnerve. Today, however, he was thinking. In particular, he was thinking about Publius Caldus, the latest official to fall victim to this crazed killer. Outside he could hear the chants of children reciting their alphabet, the rattle of a chariot on the stones, the crush and chatter of the market. The sweet smell of fruit ripening in the hot sunshine filtered in through the open window. It wasn’t wise to be left alone these days, he thought. Not wise at all. On the other hand (and he was a lawyer, after all), it had to be argued that Caldus had been killed just days previously and the last murder was how many weeks ago?

  Five? Six? Paternus pursed his lips. Why not take a chance? Good heavens, the man was hardly likely to pull out a dagger and kill him in his own office, was he? He smiled to himself. Ridiculous, he thought. Utterly ridiculous. Yet it was a sad reflection that a man grows wary of venturing out alone and has to think twice before being left with a stranger. It was all very well Callisunus giving assurances that it was only a matter of time. What consolation was that to the banker’s widow, or indeed the hundreds of law-abiding Romans holding down responsible posts who were unable to sleep at night for fear of a maniac? Overreaction was becoming the norm.

  ‘There are some papers to collect from old man Roscius,’ he said to his scribe, finding a certain pleasure in watching the fellow’s face fall. He glanced at the messenger. He can wait, he thought. Let him sweat. Paternus himself waited until his scribe had not only left the room but crossed the Forum and passed under the Arch of Augustus before turning to the Cretan.

  ‘Very well, then,’ he said wearily. ‘Let’s have the message.’

  Milo was used to waiting, it was part of his routine. The fact that this snotty-nosed lawyer was trying it on didn’t bother him one bit. He was only one of the equestrian order, after all, and although Milo himself could never hope to aspire to the ranks, nor in all probability his son, his grandson—the third generation freeborn—might manage it. So this clever dick didn’t bother him one iota.

  ‘First, your brother said to give you this.’

  Slowly—almost insolently—he reached into his pouch, drew out a seal and passed it across to Paternus. When the lawyer realized what he was holding he sat up straight and looked the messenger in the eye.

  ‘You know what this is?’

  Milo nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

  Paternus wiped his bony hand across his mouth. Remus, this was the sphinx. The seal of the Emperor himself! My, it must be a serious matter indeed for Caius to be involved at this exalted level. And just what was the extent of his brother’s involvement? As an aedile, he organized some of the games. Had Augustus approached him that way? Or could Caius, out of charity and brotherly love, have dropped his name into the Emperor’s ear? Paternus nodded slowly. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad time to bridge the divide. After all, they were kith and kin, weren’t they? And to be honest, when Caius accused him of pocketing half the damages on that wretched slander case, one couldn’t say he was totally wide of the mark.

  ‘And the message, Milo?’

  Oh, attentive now, are we? When the Emperor’s involved! Suddenly the name Milo isn’t so offensive to your fastidious tongue.

  ‘The message, sir, is could an envoy of…the owner of the seal meet you in your house at noon? You will understand the sensitivity of the issue, your brother said. Would you please dismiss your slaves and leave the side door unlocked for the envoy to slip in.’

  Paternus glanced at the seal. No doubts concerning its authenticity. Only Augustus used the sphinx and the penalty for forgery was…death.

  ‘Naturally. Anything else?’

  Poor weedy sod was actually licking his lips. ‘Yes, sir. You must be certain not to speak of this to anyone, even your family, and I am to deliver your assurance back to your brother forthwith by returning the seal to him.’

  ‘Then, Milo, you must give him that assurance.’ Paternus passed the seal back, watching it disappear into the messenger’s pouch. ‘Tell him—oh, tell him my lips are sealed. It’s a joke, man. Sealed? Seal?’ Remus, these Cretans had no sense of humour. ‘Great heavens, it’s nearly noon now.’

  He stood up and reached for his toga.

  ‘Yes, sir. Will that be all, sir?’

  Damn the fellow, he was hinting for a tip!

  ‘Yes, Milo, that will be all.’

  Bloody money-grabbing Cretans, all the bloody same.

  ‘No, wait.’ Paternus pressed a silver denarius into the man’s palm. If, as he suspected, the Emperor needed legal assistance outside his usual sphere—and this implied fraud (or worse) within his own household—then the name of Paternus would be on everybody’s lips and he didn’t want to acquire a reputation for being a skinflint. A denarius was excessive, he knew that, but the alternative was a measly couple of asses, it was all he carried.

  ‘Help me on with this, will you?’

  ‘Of course, sir. Thank you, sir.’

  Milo’s estimation of the man hadn’t altered, he still found the lawyer an arrogant, pompous snob, but a denarius was a denarius. He could still afford to help this little worm with his toga before delivering the necessary assurance to the man’s brother with time to spare, and hopefully—you never know—generosity might be a family trait.

  Once the Cretan had left, Paternus hurriedly tidied his office, rolling up his papers and locking them in his private chest. It was always possible, of course, the word envoy was a euphemism…? He toyed with the idea of leaving a note for his scribe but decided against it. What was an hour or two out of the office? The scribe could handle the next client, he’d probably begin work on the Roscius case without being told, anyway.

  Paternus was whistling by the time he’d dismissed his slaves, going so far as to slip them a few quadrans each so they could pass the time shopping, because he could afford to be generous, this commission would set him up for life. He changed his tunic, slapped on some of his wife’s perfume—lightly, of course—and laid out wine and fruit in readiness. Simple pleasures for the Emperor, he remembered. Nothing fancy, nothing showy. Not that he expected Augustus to turn up in person, but it never hurt t
o be prepared for every contingency. He began to pace the atrium. The Emperor would approve, seeing that the decor was in keeping with the African campaign. Was it noon yet? Couldn’t be far off. He glanced out of the window. The street was teeming, as usual, nothing out of the ordinary. But then again, if the Emperor was planning a low-key visit, there wouldn’t be anything unusual, would there? He checked the bedroom. Ridiculous! As if his wife had crept back unannounced! Besides, she was always at the baths until one. He thought he heard a noise and darted back into the atrium. Nothing. Must be noon. Must be! Now, why did he need to check the boys’ room? They were both at school. Jupiter, he’d never seen the house so empty! A man can hear his own footsteps, hell, he can even hear his own breathing. Should he have worn a toga, as a mark of respect? It was customary for a man to dispense with the formality under his own roof, so might not Augustus think he was overdoing it? No, the clean tunic was fine. It was well after noon now, what had happened? He could feel the sweat on his palms, down his back, between his toes. Well, he’d just check there was no one left hanging around in the kitchen.

  ‘Jupiter, you made me jump!’

  He hoped the flatness in his voice was attributed to nerves, rather than the disappointment that he felt on not seeing the Emperor in person. However an envoy was still an envoy, and—oh, for pity’s sake, what was the man’s name? He shouldn’t have let the fellow walk in without being greeted with the honour due to him, what was the matter with him? So absorbed in the Emperor and possible, reasons for the visit, he wasn’t paying attention.

  ‘Welcome, sir, to my humble—’

  ‘Ssshh!’

  The visitor put a finger to his lips. Paternus had spoken to him often enough, he was a client, for heaven’s sake, albeit some time back, but for the life of him the name eluded him.

  ‘Ah!’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘You’ve come about the…delicate matter?’

  The man nodded and glanced round. ‘Where can we talk?’

  Paternus ushered him into the small dining room, the most opulent room in the house with its walls of pink marble and a hunting scene mosaic. He could feel his face flushing with pleasure at being picked for this most supreme honour. Just as well he’d followed the instructions to the letter. Had but one slave been in evidence, the Emperor would have written him off as indiscreet. Paternus rubbed his hands together. He always knew he’d make it big one day. How many times had he told that disbelieving wife of his that he’d make the big time soon?