Wolf Whistle

XIV

Despite Porsenna’s limp and limpet charm, Claudia was in a buoyant mood. The Blemish Rites had proved a rip-roaring success, the idea being that in exchange for a gift of frankincense and myrtle, Fortune renders invisible a woman’s sags and wrinkles. Believe that and you’ll believe anything, but the number of women who “just happened” to be passing with a fragrant white wreath in their hair beggared belief. The aunts had thrown themselves into the ceremonies with relish, and providing the old sourpusses were happy, Claudia was happy. One more night, just one more night, and her life would be her own again.

As morning moved to afternoon, the litters loaded up and yet again Claudia allowed herself to be engineered into sharing the mouse man’s carriage, with its comfy cushions and turquoise screens which screamed of intimacy and privacy. And yet again, Porsenna failed to deliver. Claudia smiled to herself. Poor old Larentia. Finds the perfect foil for her takeover of Gaius’ business, only he’s too weak even to understand what it’s about. When Larentia told him to be charming, he must have dashed out to buy a book of platitudes and, bless him, he’d used them all. However, so long as Claudia smiled in all the right places and nodded appreciatively, Larentia would remain unaware of her puppet’s shortcomings-and that was sweeter still.

From time to time, as the litter wallowed its way towards the Field of Mars, Porsenna’s voice drifted in and out of her awareness. ‘…roll the mice first in honey, then in poppyseeds…keep them caged and keep them fat…the skins alone can fetch a price…’

And from time to time, she interjected a ‘really’ or a ‘no!’ and sometimes a ‘tell me more’, but her mind was elsewhere. Part of it was with the astrologers who’d been hanging round the baths, because on the morning when the sun slid out of Pisces and sneaked into Aries, the time was ripe for mapping out futures, and if this involved vain women parting with silver, who’s to complain? Another part of her mind was with the water organ (star of the concert), and another part was with the Thessalian horse riders who’d be taking on the bulls this afternoon. It had filed Kaeso to one side, blocked out the Market Day Murder and thus it was purely nuisance value when the litter was halted, its path blocked because a cart had caught its offside wheel on the curb and overturned. All around, citizens were cursing.

‘This bleeding building programme! Fine for Augustus to say tear this down, put this up, restore that other one, what of us what lives here?’

‘Scaffolds over half the city, brick dust in yer hair! Do they have to lug great wagonloads of tufa through in the middle of the day? Everyone else makes do with night deliveries, why can’t they?’

Yet one voice stood clear from the sea of shouts, the thrashing of the oxen on their sides, the hundred different dialects. A distinctive canine howl. Claudia felt her blood run chill. It was that shaggy black dog which chased her off the map two days ago. So close, she could even hear him sniffing.

‘I know a diversion,’ she hissed to Porsenna.

‘Then I’d better tell Larentia,’ he replied. ‘Won’t be a tick.’

Too late. Claudia thought. You already are one. Close by, the dog yelped. She fingered her filigree dolphin and wished now she’d left it for Fortune.

‘Listen to me, slimeball.’

Brilliant. That was the moneylender’s voice, and a trickle of sweat snaked its way down her backbone as shaking fingers parted the turquoise cotton drapes. Dammit, his stall was barely fifteen paces away, she could see his balances and his moneybox. Heedless of the weather, the hounds were straining on their leashes. The loanshark grabbed his whey-faced client by the cloth around his neck and pulled the man’s face close to his. Claudia recognized the man he was snarling at. A baker from the Caelian.

‘If you don’t settle up in full, in six days from today, I shall personally tear your ovens down, smash your millstone and hang your kneecaps round your neck.’

‘B-b-but-’

‘Six.’ The moneylender released the baker’s collar. ‘Days.’

Claudia felt her blood congeal. The same fate would befall her, unless she coughed up. Did his thugs receive job lots for kneecaps?

When Porsenna returned, she was buried deep behind a treatise on mouse food.

‘Just a splintered wheel and a few scattered building blocks. We’ll be on our way shortly,’ he said, climbing back in and wiping a splatter of mud from his shoe. ‘I say. You…you can keep that book, if you like.’ He leaned forward earnestly. ‘The most important thing to remember is, last thing at night, leave them fresh water…’

Claudia bared her teeth and hoped he read it as a smile.

Once, the Field of Mars had been a patch of marshy ground in the elbow of the Tiber fit only for frogs, snakes and mosquitoes. Later it had found a use in horseracing, a place for inspecting the troops, but now. Talk about a facelift. Tombs and temples, halls and colonnades glistening with travertine and marble. Grass, watered to keep it green the whole year round, upon which every outdoor activity under the sun took place. Wrestling, fighting with staves, fencing, you name it, they did it. Agrippa built his baths here as well as his Pantheon and he added a variety of porticoes. There were parks and gardens, groves and sacred fountains, lakes and pools, libraries and obelisks. Whatever the weather, it was packed.

The civil servant who had sponsored the Bull Dance couldn’t run to too much splendour, he’d hired the little wooden amphitheatre just behind the Pantheon and jollied it up with awnings of gold and green and indigo which, on a normal first of April, would be shimmering with filtered sunlight.

Within seconds, the old cats had started.

‘No, no, dear, if you sit there, I can sit beside Eppia, and Fortunata can sit with her mother. Julia, could you move up three spaces…?’

Shuffle, shuffle, wriggle, wriggle. Then it was Fortunata’s turn. ‘Could we have another cushion, here? Mummy can’t see. Might I borrow yours? Yours too, Eppia, please. Still too low? Fannia, pass your pad over.’

By the time she’d stopped fussing, Fortunata’s mother was propped precariously, half the aunts were cushionless, but, by some strange quirk of fate, Cousin Fortunata remained square upon her original padded pillow.

‘Ooh, mulled wine,’ cried Fortunata, as Porsenna dug deep into his purse, but by this time Fannia felt in need of some limelight.

‘This is too bitter, can you add honey? Now they’ve made it too sweet. Porsenna, would you mind? Get them to top it up with spiced wine? Not too peppery. Ugh, now it’s cold. Could…’

‘I’ll go.’ Claudia snatched Fannia’s goblet from her hand, determined to fill the bloody thing with cabbage water and see what she said about that.

Air. Give me air.

The street outside was thronged with queues at every entrance. Claudia pushed her way to the corner, bought an almond bun off the street vendor and took it away to a quiet grove of olives. The seat was set upon an artificial mound. It was a good vantage point from which to watch virile young men, oiled and naked, at work in the exercise yard. She began to nibble the bun. Stuffed with almonds and red, candied cherries, it was still slightly warm from the oven. She had munched less than a quarter when, from the back of the yard, a familiar figure strode into view.

Later she told herself that her eyes had been drawn by the fact that he alone was clothed among the gymnasts, but that was not strictly true. All men going in and out of the baths passed that way. A large majority of whom also wore the long, patrician tunic.

His brow puckered, his face brooding, Marcus Cornelius Orbilio passed the vaulters and weightlifters, his hand stroking an imaginary beard as he turned out of the exercise yard in the direction of the theatre. As Claudia rose, shook the crumbs from her skirts and composed some witty remark to spring upon him, she was aware of a woman walking towards him in the street. Tall, nearly as tall as Supersnoop himself, younger than him, though. And devastatingly beautiful.

To this day, Claudia could not explain what made her draw back into the purple shadows of the olives.

Draped in linens the price of a gelding and dripping with gold and with sapphires, the dark-eyed beauty called out his name. Orbilio looked up, then the expression on his face changed completely. Indeed, Bacchus couldn’t have looked happier the day Jupiter announced he was to be god of wine.

Miss Syrian Linens called his name again as she held out her arms and Claudia watched him run into them. Literally run. Then hug her tighter than a drumskin. They examined each other at arm’s length, and they laughed. Her bangled arm pointed to the theatre. He shrugged an objection. She pouted. He gave in.

Surprise, surprise.

Claudia’s narrowed eyes followed them up the road, arms about each other’s waists, laughing. Happy. With her wrap tight about her shoulders, she watched them out of sight.

Her instinct about Loverboy had been spot on, she thought bitterly. Whether it’s cold commercial negotiations or hot limbs writhing in a bed, sure they’ll dally with the merchant classes, fool with the freeborn, lavish trinkets on girls from the slums. But when push comes to shove, patricians don’t sign a contract outside their own caste.

She threw the almond bun on the floor and ground it under her heel. Blue blood runs thicker than a merchant woman’s scent…