Virgin Territory

XVIII

‘Who are you writing to?’

Claudia surveyed the small round face which thrust itself in front of her. Marius might well be nine going on ten, but he had yet to add character to his features, which remained typical of rich boys everywhere who have been given everything they want in terms of toys, education, attention and flattery. Everything, that is, except the one thing they truly need. The love and attention of their parents. Perhaps it was no bad thing he’d latched on to Fabius with a single-minded obsession. It might yet be his salvation from a world of sycophants and sybarites, which was where his other uncle, Portius, was heading.

‘My sister-in-law,’ she replied.

In fact she was composing a reply to Leonides, for nothing in the world would have induced her to write to that frightful old bag.

‘I don’t know why girls bother to learn to write.’ He gave a superior sniff. ‘It’s not as if they do anything with it.’

Claudia ignored him.

‘I speak Greek, you know, and I’m only nine. Even boys in Rome don’t start to learn Greek until they’re eleven, do they?’

Claudia decided not to dignify that with an answer either. She just hoped she was around when Popillia trotted out the two sentences she was so earnestly learning by heart.

‘Not that I’ll need Greek in the army.’ He stood stiffly to attention, shoulders back, chest out, chin up.

Claudia’s pen scratched over the parchment. ‘I appreciate your attempts to conceal my whereabouts from Master Orbilio…’

‘Bet you don’t know how to make camp.’

She laid down her pen. Did this boy say bet?

‘How much?’ she asked.

A calculating look crept into Marius’s eyes. ‘My bulla against that ring there.’

The boy knew his precious gems, then. Claudia eyed up the amulet round his neck, the little golden globe given to him at birth which was supposed to protect him until he was old enough to go it alone. It would weigh at least an ounce.

‘You’re on.’

Claudia held out her hand and when he did the same, she made his eyes pop by clasping his wrist, warrior-style. Before he could recover from the shock, she was reciting as fast as she could.

‘Find a place which offers grazing and fresh water, but without cover where an enemy might be able to hide. Mark out the corners with coloured flags before digging first the outer defence then the inner. Only when that’s completed can you pitch tents, erecting the centurions’ tents at either end of the horseshoe.’

She held out her hand, palm upwards to receive the bulla. Spanish gold. Nice.

Marius stomped off, his face like thunder, and Claudia slipped the bulla into her tunic. Was it her fault her father had been an orderly in the army? But back to the letter writing. Poor Rollo. She had absolutely no idea what he should be doing up at the farm, but if he wanted to start dunging fields and fumigating presses, let him have his bit of fun.

‘Is that a l.t.r. to R.m.?’

Dear Diana, what was it about the garden this afternoon? Usually the place was deserted, but so far she’d had to fob off Diomedes (who was fast beginning to resemble a limpet), then Matidia, then Marius-and now Paulus.

‘Y.?’

Paulus shrugged. ‘Just w.d.r.d.’

‘Then wonder elsewhere, this is private correspondence.’

Claudia hoped that if she ignored Paulus he’d find someone else to annoy and she concerned herself with what Leonides could say to mollify the banker concerning the 200 sesterces of his she’d invested on that charioteer in the Circus Maximus. It was a cumulative bet, that one, and she was all set to win a full 600 on the Red faction-until Blue put a hub through the spokes of Red’s chariot on the last-but-one turn. Bugger.

‘Are you going to the t.t.r. in A.g.t.m. tomorrow?’

‘Paulus, unless you move p.d.q., you’ll feel the full force of my foot up your a.r.s. Now hop it.’

Odious child.

‘…therefore suggest you tell the banker…’

Hang about, what did Paulus say? T.t.r. in A.g.t.m. Theatre in Agrigentum. Theatre? Claudia clenched her fists with joy. Theatre! She blew a mental kiss to Hercules, patron of the arts and leader of the Muses. Fun and pantomime, laughter and music. The crush of the crowd, the colours of the tunics, the blare of the trumpets, the click of the castanets. People. Milling, spilling, fighting and thrilling. She could almost smell the freshly painted scenery, hear the rattles of the sistrum. Thank you, thank you, Hercules, how can I thank you enough! Tomorrow-Tuesday-Claudia Seferius will be there. And the change of scenery won’t hurt Drusilla, either. She comes from Egypt. Her blood must be used to travelling.

Only first that damned letter to Leonides. ‘…tell the banker I’m very sorry, but the money is locked in my room and-’ And what? Think, think. ‘…and unfortunately I seem to have come away with the key.’ Well done. ‘Sell the Parthian, he’s been nothing but trouble…’

‘Mind if I join you?’

Claudia’s pen slid from her hand, leaving a thick trail of black ink right the way down her pale blue tunic. She could feel teeth grinding together.

‘Eugenius, what a charming surprise.’

Bugger, bugger, bugger.

Two burly slaves deposited their bantamweight burden in his special ivory chair. Acte tucked the blanket round his legs and over his feet before heading off to supervise the preparation of her employer’s meal. Again Claudia acknowledged the dignity with which she went about her duties, carrying herself straight, her face composed and tranquil, as though she was mistress of the house rather than a slave.

‘Love letter?’ Eugenius asked, ‘accidentally’ brushing the curve of her breast.

‘Not exactly,’ she replied, landing a stinging slap on the wizened hand, and eliciting a throaty chuckle from its owner. How did Acte cope with the groping? Probably didn’t notice, it happened so frequently.

‘I’m writing to my sister-in-law to enquire about the health of my dear stepdaughter. Such a sweet girl, I miss her dreadfully.’

Like hell. If I never see that miserable frump again, it’s still too soon.

‘Wasn’t she jilted at the last minute?’

Claudia did not wish to discuss that particular matter. Not now. Not ever. Neither did she intend to allow the conversation to turn itself on to the subject of marriage, which it invariably did whenever Eugenius was present, the crafty old sod.

‘Eugenius, there’s something I wanted to ask you.’ She smiled so sweetly, he couldn’t possibly take offence at the sudden change of subject. ‘That blue dye of yours, the one that comes out the colour of wild anemones, I was thinking about using it as a livery for my slaves.’

That should set tongues wagging in Rome. Having all your servants dressed in the same colour was by no means uncommon, but a blue as arresting and vibrant as this should send more than one patrician cross-eyed with envy. Including Eugenius? He clearly prided himself on his bleaching techniques, even the family wore white-but then it’s cheap, isn’t it, you miserly old buffer?

Eugenius sucked his teeth. ‘There’s enough fleeces in the clipshed,’ he said at length. ‘I’ll arrange for some to be spun into cloth and dyed-providing,’ he laid his hand over hers and squeezed, ‘you accept it as a gift. From an old friend of your husband’s.’

A bribe, you mean. And actually, Eugenius, this is the first time you’ve mentioned Gaius-and I’ve been here nearly a fortnight.

‘I’d be honoured.’ She leaned forward and tapped him playfully on the knee. ‘And in return I’ll send you some of our finest vintage wine.’

One taste and you’re hooked, my old son. My livery is a one-off, whereas you… You’ll be placing orders for my wine year after year after year.

‘Did you say something, my dear?’

Claudia shook her head. ‘No. Why?’

‘It sounded like “gotcha”, and I wondered whether it was another of those strange local oaths.’

She trusted bending down to recover her reed pen would account for the rush of blood to her face. The ink had run out to form a black, tarry puddle right in the middle of the path.

‘I never got the hang of the local patois.’ Eugenius had his eyes closed. ‘When Aulus was born, I was employing translators because at that time no one on the island spoke Latin, it was a straight choice between Greek and Sicilian.’ Here we go. First it would be how he came here with his pregnant bride at the age of nineteen because he could see Sicily was losing its old identity and he wanted to get in at the beginning of the new one. Then it would be how this wasn’t an easy island to grow fat on.

‘Not that this was an easy island to grow fat on.’

‘You surprise me.’ Now how far had she got with that letter to Leonides? Had she covered that business with the banker yet?

‘Oh no. Augustus might have solved the language difficulty, but he created problems of an altogether different kind when he gave away prime tracts of arable land to his war veterans. That didn’t concern me, of course, I’d seen this coming, which is why I exchanged my grain fields for pasture.’

‘Had you?’ Yes, she’d covered the banker.

‘Then there was the tax situation. Five per cent on everything that comes in, five per cent on everything that comes out.’

‘Really?’ Ah, she was sacking the Parthian, that was it.

‘My biggest problems, though, came about when Augustus scrapped the tithe system in favour of stipends, because these were then assessed on landholdings.’

‘Terrible.’ No doubt the trouble was over a woman. That stupid Parthian couldn’t keep his dongler to himself if his life depended on it. Which in the case of the Iberian, it well might.

‘So we have to send cash instead of goods, and he’s levied a poll tax on top.’

‘Never!’ However, if Leonides kept his mouth shut about the reason behind the sale of the Parthian, it ought to raise five hundred sesterces.

‘Did I tell you Augustus came to Sicily eight years ago?’

The first stop on his tour of the Empire. ‘No.’

‘It was his first stop on a tour of the Empire…’ Faced with the prospect of liquidating five hundred lovely sesterces, Claudia switched Eugenius off completely. With a sum like that she could repay her most pressing debts, although it would be foolish not to set aside a hundred, because if she was back in time for the Victory Games she could double her investment. There was always a mock battle or two, and she’d never put her money on the wrong side yet. So if she kept, say, two hundred to one side…

‘…which nets me only 3 per cent, whereas you’ll be netting nearly 10 per cent, won’t you?’

Claudia was on the point of admitting she frankly had no idea of the profit margin, when what he was saying sank in. Seferius wine brought in an annual profit of 10 per cent.

Ten per cent.

Profit.

She would need an abacus to work out exactly what that meant in terms of bronze sesterces, but she didn’t need an abacus to know it meant a lot.

‘Eugenius!’ She jumped up from the bench, threw her arms round him and kissed his papery cheek. ‘Have I ever told you how wonderful you are?’