XXI

The rain might have moved on, but the air stayed thick and heavy, the clouds low and oppressive. The windows were wedged open, their hangings fixed back, yet still no breeze found its way to Agrigentum. Every minute of the night threatened to suffocate her and by morning Claudia’s shift was soaked through. Even the wine was warm.

She leaned over to fan Drusilla. The kittens, eyes rheumy like old men’s, were heady with their recent transition from wiggling to wobbling and were transmitting squeaks which ranged from smug look-at-me’s to frantic helps and back again, all within the space of five seconds. Their mother was content to let them learn the hard way. Claudia was not.

‘Come on, Smallfry, back to mum.’

She scooped up a little lost wanderer and placed the squirming, bleating bundle on the blanket, where he homed in on a warm, secure teat. Claudia swore Drusilla poked her tongue out deliberately.

‘What about that Varius insect?’ she asked, flapping the ostrich feathers over the cat.

‘Meowr.’

‘No, not a real insect, poppet, pay attention. I’m talking about that little creep who thinks he can pass himself off as my stepson.’ His visit last night had shaken her to the core, although she was far too experienced a trooper to let it show.

‘Why, that’s wonderful.’ Fountains and spring water couldn’t gush more profusely. ‘Did you hear that, Marcus? My dear, dear Gaius didn’t die in vain, he has a son to carry his name and father his heirs. Oh!’ She dabbed at her eye with her handkerchief. ‘I’m quite overcome, you must…(sob)…excuse me.’

Now that was acting. None of those wild, extravagant gestures made in the theatre, where it’s merely a question of throwing your voice and adopting the odd mannerism. This was the genuine article.

‘The question is, what do I do about him?’

Drusilla began to wash Smallfry’s ears as roughly as she could to teach him a lesson for wandering. Claudia could hear the rasp of her tongue on his tiny head and felt for Smallfry, the way he was jerked up and down, poor soul.

‘Mrrrr.’

‘That?’ Drusilla’s ears had pricked up at the scraping sound outside the door. ‘That’s just Urgulania’s slaves dragging the extra tables back out of the banqueting hall.’

She didn’t envy them their job of clearing up, and although the festivities might have peaked, they showed no signs of abating. All this for a local deity whose name began with a C or an F or something.

Cypassis returned, staggering under the weight of a large jug of fresh water. Juno be praised, it was cool. Claudia tipped the whole lot over her head.

‘What’s scheduled for this morning?’ she asked, drying her hair on a towel.

‘Hopscotch and darts, madam.’

The very thought of watching a large party of portly folk playing hopscotch with tunics hitched to their thighs and sweat pouring down their bloated faces, was too dire to contemplate.

‘Shall you be going in to breakfast, madam?’

Claudia pulled on a mint green sleeveless stola. Her face did not show the revulsion her stomach felt at the prospect of food, or the churning inside from her fear of what Varius might do. Think, girl, think! Blame the heat, blame the humidity, blame the noise of moving furniture, whatever the reason, Claudia’s brain had died and gone to heaven. Only the heart-thumping, gut-churning, sweat-inducing fear remained.

‘You stay here and fan Drusilla.’ She picked up Smallfry and kissed him noisily between his spiky, bedraggled ears.

‘Oh, madam! You’re not going out alone?’

‘I shall have Junius and I shall have Kleon,’ she snapped, replacing the kitten amongst its siblings. ‘I shall hardly be alone.’

‘But without a female attendant-’

‘Another word and I’ll slit your tongue clean up the middle.’

‘It’s not decent-’

‘And then rub in salt to stop it knitting together.’ She snatched up her purse, but the drawstring wasn’t tight and coins spilled over the floor. ‘Now look what you’ve done!’

Marching down the atrium, she had to clap twice before her bodyguard materialized.

‘And you two,’ she hissed, smiling graciously at Urgulania as she passed, ‘will be cleaning toilets if you can’t move faster than that.’

‘I’m sorry-’ the Cilician began, but Claudia cut him short.

‘Get out there and hire me a car. Here!’ She fished a silver denarius out of her purse. ‘A nippy, two-wheeled job, Kleon, and make sure it’s not pulled by some sullen nag with a bent back who can barely lift a hoof. And tell the driver to take the tilt off. I want to feel the wind in my hair. Dear Diana, are you still here?’

Kleon blinked rapidly, thought to ask a question and then thought better of it. He was back so quickly, Claudia wondered whether he’d turfed someone out of a passing vehicle and, if so, resolved to promote him the instant they returned home.

‘Get that awning off!’ she commanded the driver.

‘I’m afraid it’s not detachable, milady.’

‘Do you want the damned fare or not?’

The driver stood his ground. ‘I do, milady, but I’m not prepared to wreck the vehicle for-’

Claudia drew a small knife from the folds of her stola and cut the rope. The tilt collapsed at the same speed as the driver’s expression. ‘Hop on,’ she instructed her slaves.

The driver held out his hands. ‘Please, milady! There’s only room for me and one passenger.’

Claudia studied the vehicle. ‘They can sit on the bar at the back.’

‘The car would tip over,’ he said querulously, ‘the mule couldn’t pull-’

Claudia jumped in and adjusted her skirts. ‘Junius. Kleon. Take the day off. And you-’ She turned to the driver, his face contorted with misery. ‘Get some speed up.’

The last thing Kleon heard as the car rattled down the street and out of sight was his mistress shouting, ‘Faster, you idle oaf!’

‘Wouldn’t fancy changing places with that poor sod,’ he said, jovially. ‘D’you reckon she was serious?’

‘What about?’

‘The day off, you daft bugger.’

The young Gaul kept his eyes on the road. ‘You’re new,’ he said, ‘so the quicker you learn Mistress Seferius means precisely what she says, the easier life will be.’

‘Yeah?’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Well in that case, I’m not hanging around this bleeding street any longer. What do you fancy?’

Junius shrugged. ‘I’m not sure what to do,’ he said, staring in the direction the car had taken.

Kleon nudged him in the ribs and pointed. ‘There’s a tart in that tavern who looks tasty. All long legs and big tits. Fancy a nibble?’

‘Not me. Thanks all the same.’

The Cilician leaned closer. ‘Go on,’ he urged. ‘I’ve heard about her, she’s good. Charges ten asses, but she’ll do us together for fifteen.’

‘No. Really.’

‘It’ll be fun. They say she’ll do anything, so if we use our imagination…’

‘What?’

‘You know.’ Kleon gave an exaggerated wink and nodded back towards the house. ‘We can pretend it’s the Mistress.’

He didn’t see the punch which laid him out.

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