I, Claudia (26 page)

Why on earth did they have to build Rome on seven bloody great hills? She glanced down. These were not the sandals she would have chosen for walking in, either. Bugger, bugger, bugger. Over the heads of the crowds, Claudia caught a glimpse of bright orange. Terrific! Her very own litter was beating a path through the throng—then suddenly she realized it was a cheap imitation. She ducked into a doorway as it went past. Sweet Jupiter it was Marcia, the linen merchant’s widow. Claudia kicked the doorpost. They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, but she’d be damned if she’d let that little cow get away with this. First thing in the morning she’d have her own litter re-upholstered.

She paused to let through a consignment of timber, recognizing the portico as one of her brother-in-law’s projects. Strange, Marcellus being on his uppers. What did he call it, a few unwise investments? Serves him right, she thought. Gaius had been carrying him for years. The lazy sod never put much effort into anything, and that included his marriage. She wondered how far Julia’s awareness stretched. Did she condone embezzling Flavia’s funds? Did she even know about it? One thing was sure. If Gaius finds out he’ll hit the roof.

The last of the timber rumbled past as Claudia wondered why Marcellus was so keen to talk about Orbilio’s behaviour at dinner last night. Until Gaius came home, the five of them—Julia, Flavia, Antonius, Marcellus and herself—had been discussing the banquet for the wedding. Mentally Claudia had been counting off the days (fourteen, to be exact!) when her husband and so-called cousin had come rolling arm in arm through the front door. Orbilio was singing at the top of his off-key voice, something to do with the sexual adventures of a particularly well-endowed youth called Varex, if her memory served her correctly. Strangely enough, she’d got a fleeting impression that he wanted to rush over and kiss her, not a peck on the cheek, but the sort of kiss that lasts for ever. Which only goes to show how stupid you can be at times.

They’d all trooped upstairs to the dining room (that was where Claudia’s breast assaulted Marcellus’s hand), kicked off their shoes and reclined in preparation for eating. Except for Flavia. Until then, Claudia had been only vaguely aware that the girl’s sulky expression had vanished, but in the dining room the child turned into…well, what could, quite honestly, only be described as a tramp. With a sensuality Claudia could never have imagined in the child, she slipped off one sandal (showing far more leg than was decent), then the other and instead of filling the gap between her aunt and her betrothed, the little trollop slid slowly between Marcellus and Orbilio, wriggling her adolescent hips in a thoroughly vulgar fashion. Claudia felt Antonius stiffen with rage, although at this stage Julia and Marcellus were embroiled in the trivia of the wedding arrangements and Gaius was staring solemnly into his glass. His eyes dancing with mischief, Orbilio gave one slow, blatant wink at Claudia as Flavia nestled closer and after that—well! It was sickening to watch them. The little hussy giggled and fawned and made doe eyes at him all bloody night, and he was no better. Flattering her on everything from her fingertips to her toes.

It took a few quiet words to calm Scaevola, whose face was positively suffused by the time the first set of dishes was cleared away. Claudia barely touched her own food. Orbilio’s plate, on the other hand, was littered with chicken bones. That idle strumpet grew bolder and bolder with every course, and Orbilio positively lapped it up. She was shoulder to shoulder with him after the eggs and lettuce, and by the time the fruit was wheeled in, she was running her little fat ankle up and down his calf and lifting his tunic with her toes.

At one stage, Claudia had to put her hand on Scaevola’s arm to steady him when he growled: ‘What the fuck’s her game?’ and began to clamber to his feet.

Quick thinking was called for. She promised him it was the usual case of pre-wedding nerves with dear little Flavia testing her fiancé to see whether he really loved her, which she could only prove by making him jealous, couldn’t he see that? Naturally she also assured him her cousin’s affections were firmly engaged elsewhere, it was something of a family joke, ha, ha, ha, but on this occasion he had to agree to conspire with the bride-to-be on such an important issue, surely Antonius could understand that? From the look he shot her, it seemed unlikely Antonius was convinced on any point, but at least he calmed down sufficiently to continue the meal without making a scene in front of Gaius who, by now, had tears rolling down his cheeks and was mumbling to himself. He needed to buck himself up, he really did. It was bad enough at the villa, though Rollo and the huge amount of work seemed to hold him in check, but since coming home he’d fallen apart. If he wasn’t slobbering in his cups he was wailing to everyone and anyone who happened to be passing that his babies, his babies, look what was happening to his babies. His mother was dying, his children were dead, his grandchild, they were all dead. Dead or dying.

Sod that for a game of knucklebones, she thought now, dodging a small boy playing in the gutter. Gaius had precious little time to pull himself together. The business was falling apart, he wasn’t meeting clients, he was negligent about deliveries, sloppy over pricing. Heaven only knew what muddle poor old Rollo was having to contend with, but the main thing was, in thirteen days’ time, Flavia Seferius was marrying Antonius Scaevola. If he hadn’t slapped himself into shape by then, by Jupiter Claudia would bloody well do it for him.

For all the hordes crammed into the Circus Maximus, the streets were no less of an ant’s nest. A builder’s wagon, one of the few vehicles allowed into the city during the daytime and that only due to the urgency of the work, was blocking one of the narrower streets and causing chaos. People were trying to clamber over the cart, marble and all, as the driver was torn between fighting them off and goading his oxen, the same oaths encompassing both. Claudia decided to avoid the route in case the weight of the people on top of the load collapsed the axle. Too many crushed limbs for her taste.

As she rounded the corner she collided with a soldier, whose nailed sole ground into her toe. He quickly apologized, but the string of obscenities with which he was greeted fairly took his breath away. She swerved round porters’ poles, shoved a beggar out of the way, heedless of upturning his bowl in the process, and elbowed aside a juggler in mid-juggle. It was truly a pleasure to turn into her own street, away from the congestion, knowing that, inside, the fountains and frescoes, marbles and mosaics could soothe away the foulest of tempers. There was something wonderfully refreshing about the pale blue frieze with its long-necked cranes and elegant panthers—the whiteness of the ostriches, the grace of the antelope—which was missing in almost every other house she’d visited.

The minute she crossed the threshold she realized something was wrong. For once the usual criss-crossing of slaves was absent. There was a strange hush in the air. Her eyes sought Leonides, but it was Junius who shuffled forward to meet her.

‘It’s Flavia, isn’t it?’ She could tell. ‘Don’t tell me! She’s run off with that snake Orbilio, am I right?’

Ashen-faced, the young Gaul shook his head. ‘No, madam. I’m sorry, but—’

‘But what, Junius? I haven’t got all bloody day, spit it out.’

‘It—it’s the master.’

She noticed his eyes had flicked to Gaius’s bedroom. ‘Oh, no, not another seizure. Have you fetched the doctor?’

She flew across the atrium towards the staircase, but Junius ran after her. Strong hands on her shoulders stopped her from going any further.

‘Don’t go up,’ he pleaded.

From his tunic waistband he drew out a letter sealed with wax and imprinted with Gaius’s own private seal of two leaping dolphins. She noticed the boy’s hand was trembling.

‘He’s dead, madam.’

Colour flooded Claudia’s face. ‘Juno, I knew this would happen! That bloody child and her tantrums! How dare she! Where is the little bitch? I’ll give her a seizure, you wait and see.’

She tried to wriggle free, but his grip merely tightened. He smelled of roses. Must have been out pruning. He was the only one in the house she could trust to look after them properly.

‘It wasn’t a seizure,’ he said quietly. ‘The master committed suicide.’

‘Suicide? Gaius? Don’t be ridiculous. Gaius is the last man in the world to top himself. Must have been an accident.’

The boy’s fingers dug into her shoulders. ‘It was no accident, madam. Master Seferius fell on his sword.’

XXIII

Claudia’s litter set her down outside the modest white-fronted house sandwiched between a butcher and a wig-maker on the lower end of the Esquiline near the old temple of Juno. Opposite, a goldsmith calmly pounded his precious dust, impervious to the cries of the pedlars, the beggars, the children pressing in around him. In spite of the circumstances, Claudia hadn’t forgotten her promise to herself, and the litter no longer sported the ostentatious orange so envied by that little copycat Marcia but was draped instead with the palest blue any mercer could lay his hands on. Every spot would show, of course, but that wasn’t the point—was it, Marcia?

Waiting until it was confirmed the master was at home before dismissing her entourage, Claudia stepped into the atrium. One thing about these patricians, they had taste, she thought, looking around. The frescoes were quieter, the shades subdued, radiating calm even in this bustling corner of the city. The predominant colour was ivory, contrasting spectacularly with maplewood inlaid with tortoiseshell and the occasional hint of gold. Vesta’s sacred flame burned in the centre of an intricate mosaic depicting the wanderings of Odysseus. Low fountains gushed in the corner. Even the servants oozed tranquillity. A mournful-looking Libyan with perfect Latin informed her politely he was extremely sorry, the master was engaged with a visitor at present, would Milady mind waiting? No, Milady would not, nor would she care for any refreshment, thank you, or company, or fanning, or entertainment and, no, she was perfectly happy here, rather than in the peristyle. The servant glided away, leaving the atrium once again the peaceful haven expected of it as Claudia’s fingers traced the carved lion that comprised the arm of the chair.

She’d far rather have married into one of the patrician families, she thought. Class had been bred into them, style and elegance came naturally. Her mouth twisted at one corner. Alas, so did suspicion. Forged pedigrees aren’t commonplace, but then again they aren’t such a rarity that the patricians don’t make assiduous checks into a person’s background and Claudia had to admit that, had Gaius been more thorough, she’d never have got past the first post.

Poor old Gaius! To her credit, Cypassis had known how to organize a decent funeral, thanks, largely, to her having gone through the whole palaver quite recently when her old master the oil merchant popped off. The mourning women were that professional you were left with the serious impression Gaius had been closely related to every single one of them, and the dirges—oh, the dirges were sung with such a depth of feeling it left your gut churning. Oh yes, the funeral had been a tremendous success, apart from one thing.

Without doubt it turned out to be the splendiferous occasion Claudia had wanted it to be, the funeral that eclipsed all others when it came to being talked about in years to come. It simply hadn’t been in the way she’d either planned or expected…

Despite Junius’s insistence that she be spared the sight of her husband’s corpse, still
in situ,
on Monday, Claudia lost no time reminding him who was in charge here and marched up to see for herself.

Dear Diana, it was a depressing spectacle.

The heat of the day had intensified the sickly combination of blood and wine, of body odour and bad teeth. Black and green flies had already begun to cluster. Worse, the huge figure of Gaius Seferius seemed to have shrunk by an alarming degree and the bald spot he worked so hard to conceal was shining like a frypan in the midday sun. Quietly Claudia closed the door behind her.

‘Gaius, you silly daft sod, what did you do this
for,
eh?’ She stroked the hair back over the glistening dome. ‘In this scruffy old tunic, too. You should be ashamed of yourself.’

His neck, twisted and turned inwards, ended in a face which, though waxen, seemed placid enough, and the eyes, thankfully, were closed. She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. It was obvious what had happened. He’d sat in the chair, positioned his sword—that splendid symbol of his rise to the equestrian order—then lunged forward. Her eyes roamed his bedroom. Rarely, so very rarely, did she enter his private domain yet how familiar it seemed. Every piece of furniture, every knick-knack, every picture on the frieze screamed of Gaius. From the redness of the decor to the heavyhandedness of the silver-work, from the marble statuary to the leopardskin on the floor, it reflected his flamboyancy, his extravagance, his love of the good life and, perhaps most importantly, the fruits of his labours. Slowly her hand travelled across his writing table, over his rolls of papyrus, the wax tablets, his favourite stylus, the dolphin seal. How typical of Gaius’s attitude to life, she thought. Two dolphins in midleap. She felt a shudder run through her body. What a bloody, bloody shame it had to end like this.

Claudia broke the seal on the letter and opened it out. The page was shaking so violently, she was forced to spread it over the desk before she could read the words.

‘I’m sorry, my sweet, but this is for the best. Love always, Gaius.’

Oh, shit. She sank down on to the bed. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!

Several long minutes had passed before Claudia Seferius stood up, blew her nose, brushed specks of dandruff from her husband’s tunic, pinched her cheeks and strode to the door.