Second Act Read online

  Bastard! Double-crossing, dirty, filthy bastard. But whatever Claudia’s feelings towards Captain Moschus, they would have to wait. Butico was advancing across the floor towards her, menace oozing from every well-shod pore.

  ‘Eight thousand, I believe, was the sum I paid you for that wine.’

  The very coldness of his tone forced Claudia’s mouth into a smile. Teeth, teeth, show him more teeth. Let him see you’re not afraid. ‘It’s not what you think, Butico.’ Suddenly there were no more teeth left to show.

  ‘Well, now, I’m sure we can come to terms,’ Butico said smoothly.

  With exaggerated slowness, he flipped one length of cloak over one shoulder, then did the same for the other. Dusk might be falling, but there was no mistaking the gleam of steel on each hip.

  Claudia had been a dancer before she changed her identity and dancers, by their very definition, must be light on their feet, fast and, above all, they have to be flexible. She was past him before he could blink, and suddenly she was cursing the wide open space of the quayside. Where were the sailors, the stevedores, the labourers when you wanted one? Where was the crowd she could lose herself in? Cursing her own stupidity for giving her own bodyguard the slip, she flew down the steps, cloak billowing behind like a sail. Halfway across the precinct, she heard Butico bark a command. Two heavies stepped out from behind the sacred laurel, blocking her path.

  ‘All right, Butico, you win,’ she said, skidding to a halt.

  The heavies turned to each other, grinning smugly. That was all the time she needed. In the split second they locked eyes to congratulate themselves on their intimidation tactics, Claudia dived between their legs. A huge paw lashed out, but the eel was too fast and before they could turn, she was racing across the quayside for all she was worth. Footsteps pounded behind her. Which way, which way? The obvious course was to backtrack, follow the route she’d come by, but goddammit they were running like Olympic athletes and at this pace they would be upon her long before she reached the flower market and the crush of safety. Her only chance was to lose them by ducking and diving.

  She realized her mistake almost at once. Not only were the thugs keeping pace as she ducked and dived round the alleys, Claudia was being sucked deeper and deeper into the slums. Between the tall tenements, the last of the twilight was obliterated. Moans and wails unfurled from every window. A gagging stench permeated the air, a combination of rotting meat, dog piss, sewage and despair. Many of the cobbles were missing, making every step a hazard which threatened to trip her or turn an ankle, leaving her helpless and stranded. On she ran, feeling her way with her hands. She heard screams from open windows. Fists connecting with flesh. Babies bawling, dogs baying, but loudest of all were the footsteps behind her.

  Desperate now, she flung her purse on the ground, scattering the coins noisily over the stones to bring out the slum dwellers and impede her pursuers. Too late. A hand spun her round. Sent her crashing against the tenement wall, knocking the breath from her lungs. In the blackness, she saw the oaf grinning, and this time the grin didn’t fade.

  ‘Well, well, well! Thought you could lose us, didya?’

  The second set of footsteps drew up alongside. Both men laughed. The laugh made Claudia’s blood turn to ice. ‘Touch me again and I’ll cry rape, you fat bastards.’

  One smelled of garlic, the other of straw. They both stank of sweat.

  ‘She did say rape, didn’t she?’

  Oh god, they meant it. She could see the gleam in their eyes, felt their arousal through her thick furs. Even if she screamed, who would come? One lonely scream among hundreds. One more lost soul among thousands. Unseen hands could be heard, scrabbling in the blackness for her coins, but they would not come to her aid. Within seconds, they would disappear back inside the crumbling death traps, unconcerned where the coins came from, only where they were going. Six storeys of hopelessness pressed down upon her as hands clawed at her flesh, fingers probed without subtlety.

  ‘Enough!’

  Butico’s implacable tones cut through the howls of the slums like a scythe. The mauling stopped.

  ‘One thing you need to be aware of, my dear,’ he said quietly. His hand cupped her jaw. ‘No one gets away from Butico.’

  He glanced up at the crumbling plaster, wrinkled his nose at the stench.

  ‘Now, before you so rudely walked out of our meeting, I believe we were discussing the eight thousand sesterces you owe me.’

  ‘I don’t have eight—’

  His hand turned into a vice, crushing her cheeks. ‘Plus interest.’ He leaned over, his cold eyes level with hers. ‘You see, me, I like the good things in life. Greek sculpture. Gourmet foods. Vintage wines. You get my drift?’

  She nodded as far as his grip would permit.

  ‘But my boys, here.’ When he smiled, Claudia felt a chill to her marrow. ‘Well, the fine arts, I’m afraid, pass right over their heads, though they still appreciate pretty things. Don’t you, lads?’

  ‘Sure do, boss.’ A paw clamped over Claudia’s breast and squeezed to prove the point.

  ‘My rate of interest,’ Butico said, releasing his grip on her jaw, ‘is thirty-two per cent.’

  ‘Thirty-two?’ Terrified as she was, that was still an outrageous amount.

  ‘Effective the day I handed over the cash,’ he continued smoothly. ‘Which, as I recall, was exactly one month ago, bringing the outstanding balance to—’

  ‘Yes, yes, I can do the maths, thank you very much.’ She couldn’t. Was in no position to think, much less calculate. She just needed to claw back her dignity, regain some kind of control. Pointedly she swatted the paw off her breast, thankful her trembling hand could not be seen in the dark. She felt sick.

  ‘Then we understand one another,’ he said.

  ‘We do indeed. I pay you back, with interest, or you throw me to your dogs as a bone.’

  ‘No, no, no.’ Butico tutted gently, and the sound made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up on end. ‘Either way, I get my money back, Claudia. Whether my boys get to play with you is dependent entirely upon yourself.’

  He brushed bits of crumbling plaster from his cloak. ‘Fair’s fair, after all.’

  He smiled.

  ‘Fuck with me and they fuck you.’

  Three

  Crossing the Forum, her beaver fur drawn tight around her chin, Claudia hoped to Juno that her pinched, white face and chattering teeth would be attributed to the cold. What a mess. What an absolutely bloody awful mess. Oblivious to the fire-eaters that had drawn a crowd over by the Vulcanal, or the crush of hot-pie vendors pressing in around her, the captain’s words echoed in her ears.

  You can trust old Moschus, missus.

  Couldn’t you! You could trust the bastard to go straight to the Temple of Castor and Pollux after leaving her, so that by the time she arrived, it was to find the depository locked up for the night and the records showing all too clearly the sea dog’s mark where he’d redeemed five tokens for a thousand sesterces each. Claudia’s fists clenched. When I catch up with you, Moschus, those will be your ribs scattered over Neptune’s sandy soil from Naples to Messina. So help me, I shall personally break them off and drop them in the ocean one by one—and you can bloody watch me!

  Meanwhile, there was Butico. Eight thousand plus thirty-two per cent interest? Her stomach churned, her limbs felt like jelly and her hands couldn’t stop shaking, so she exchanged a silver bracelet for a flagon of warm wine spiced with cinnamon, and pretty soon her teeth ceased to chatter. The Rostra, the splendid new orators’ platform at the end of the Forum, was eighty feet long, forty feet deep and forested with an assortment of marble, bronze and gilded heroes. Sheltered from the biting wind by the Record Office behind, Claudia leaned her back against the bronze grille of the balustrade and dangled her feet over the edge. Far below, a cosmopolitan sea swirled around the temples and basilicas, the fountains and the arches—revellers, hawkers, bankers and astrologers, dogs, mules, fortune-tellers and ju
gglers, even a string of roped ostriches.

  No point in trying to negotiate with Butico, asking him if he’d accept wine in lieu of cash. She’d already made her bed by double-crossing him, she had to lie in it and the main thing now was to ensure she didn’t end up sharing it with two hulking great thugs. For the life of her, she couldn’t understand why she didn’t just sell this wretched business and be done with. It was why she’d married Gaius in the first place, wasn’t it? For the money?

  Slowly, the scroll that was her past unravelled.

  It revealed a young girl taking elocution lessons—and the identity of a noblewoman who’d died in the plague. Of that same girl exchanging marriage vows with a man nearly three times her own age. Signed, sealed and delivered, what more could a girl from the slums ask for? Son of a humble road builder and a self-made man himself, Gaius hadn’t noticed any shortfall in the social niceties. All that concerned him was that he had a beautiful, witty young wife to parade and, had Claudia died before him, no doubt he would have had her stuffed and mounted on his office wall. But of course she hadn’t. Instead, and with unaccustomed expedience, it was Gaius who’d whistled up the Ferryman to take that long ride across the River Styx. That had been fifteen months ago, shortly before the sixth anniversary of his wedding, and, to the horror of his blood relatives, he bequeathed his trophy widow the lot. Large house in Rome. Vineyards in Tuscany. Investments in housing, in shops, in numerous commercial enterprises.

  Happy ending? Dream on.

  Before his ashes were cool, the Guild of Wine Merchants were muscling in to take over his patch. They tried everything. Buying her out, bullying her out, cajoling, seducing, flattering, beseeching, and all to no avail. At first Claudia hung on out of stubbornness. Gaius might have been bald and fat and in the grip of terminal halitosis, but dammit, he’d worked his whole life to build up his network of trade. Those vultures should not be allowed to simply move in and pick the bones clean. She would be the one who decided what and when to sell. Gradually, though, she saw how profitable the wine business was. By hanging on to it, not only could she continue to live in the style to which she’d grown accustomed without dipping into her capital, it would be one in the eye for the Guild of Ghouls.

  Only it wasn’t that simple. Normally fiercely competitive in the marketplace, the bastards put their differences aside and united. Anything to force Claudia Seferius out of business.

  Over her dead body!

  On the platform behind her, a living statue painted head to foot in white lime was posing motionless in imitation of the genuine articles lined up on their plinths. Small children tried lobbing pellets and stones to distract him, but the statue remained a study in muscular rigidity.

  It wasn’t that Claudia was felonious by nature. She drained the last of the warm, spicy wine. Hand on her heart, she would not have ripped Butico off had her hand not been forced. To survive the cut-throat world that she’d inherited, she was having to meet dirty trick with dirty trick and her current strategy was to undercut the Guild with prices so low that buyers simply couldn’t say no. Seferius wine was synonymous with quality, so why not get the punters hooked, then gradually increase the price to market levels? So far, so good, and Claudia had a stack of purchasers lined up for the next vintage. Unfortunately, she was selling at such a thumping great loss that resources were currently stretched to breaking point. And now, of course, it was Saturnalia.

  Below her dangling squirrel-lined boots, a cart delivering bricks locked wheels with another delivering cotton in the tight space in front of the sacred lotus tree. Within no time, fists and bales, insults and cobs were flying over the Forum as both drivers claimed right of way. Mules bucked in the harness. The donkey with the cotton cart brayed and kicked anyone who tried to intercede. Claudia lifted her gaze to the Palatine.

  Saturnalia, when it was customary (compulsory) for merchants to cross the palms of their clients with silver. Five to six pounds in weight, to be exact. Apiece! Dear god, how was she supposed to find that kind of money with Butico’s shadow looming over her? Silver was the yardstick against which clients measured success, and if she didn’t deliver, they would smell a rat and default. The business would sink without trace.

  The stench of conspiracy was all over this scam, but by heaven, she would not let the Guild win this battle—

  ‘It’s funny,’ a melodious baritone murmured in her ear, ‘how nothing travels through the universe faster than a rumour.’

  Claudia turned in time to see a pair of red patrician boots easing themselves over the grille, followed by a long patrician tunic encased in spotless white patrician toga. Terrific. That’s all I need. The Security Police.

  ‘I tend to think of rumours as fires,’ she said. ‘Ignore them and they fizzle out.’

  ‘Then I must have been a blacksmith in a previous life,’ he replied. ‘Or maybe a bathhouse stoker.’

  He smelled of sandalwood, with just the faintest hint of the rosemary in which his clothes had been rinsed. The unmistakable scent of the hunter—

  ‘What do you want, Orbilio?’

  ‘Who said I wanted anything?’

  ‘Then why are you attaching yourself to me like a rash?’

  ‘You could always try rubbing ointment all over me and see whether I vanish.’

  The eyes might be twinkling, but make no mistake. Petting a starved lion in the arena carried less risk.

  ‘Isn’t there a law against the harassment of grieving young widows?’ she asked, as he made himself comfortable on the stonework beside her.

  ‘Edict five-eight-three, sub-section twenty-two, paragraph six and a half,’ he said happily. ‘Provided the widows are grieving.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘I thought so.’

  Ah, yes. The more urbane, the more dangerous…

  From the corner of her eye, she watched him comb his mop of dark, wavy hair with casual hands. Noted the crisp, dark hairs on the back of his forearm. And contrasted them with fifteen years of penniless exile.

  ‘So then.’ He folded his arms over his chest and leaned his back against the metal grille. His legs were long enough for his feet to rest on one of the gleaming bronze prows set in the wall of the Rostra, trophies from ships captured in Rome’s naval victory at Antium. ‘How’s business?’

  Claudia’s gaze swung to the tall, gabled building to the east of the Rostra, with the letters SPQR over the door. Ambitious as he was cultured, determined as he was handsome, Marcus Cornelius Orbilio had his sights set on a seat in that building some day. The question was, how soon was that day? The more results he chalked up, the closer his maiden speech in the Senate—and let’s face it, a nice juicy fraud would close the distance considerably.

  ‘Senators Please Queue Respectfully.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘The letters,’ she said. ‘I was wondering what they stood for. “Small Profits, Quick Returns”? “Sleeping Politicians’ Quiet Recess”?’

  ‘I always thought it was “Sharks, Pimps, Quacks and Rogues”.’

  ‘Yes, but you’re biased. Half your family sits there.’

  ‘That’s slander,’ he protested. ‘My kinsmen are far too busy rogering their popsies to waste time on trivia like laws and foreign policy. Anyway.’ He brushed an imaginary speck from his toga. ‘You never did tell me how you’re coping, a lone woman in a pit of hungry tigers.’

  ‘If you mean the Guild, you’ve read them wrong. Underneath the stripes, they’re just a load of pussy cats. Did you know, they’ve invited me to join them?’

  ‘Can you smell something?’ he asked, twisting his head to look over his shoulder. ‘Only I thought I smelled a bull on the Rostra. One that hasn’t been house trained.’

  ‘Good heavens.’ Claudia pointed towards the sacred lotus tree lit by torches. ‘I do believe I see my best friend Antonia down there. Must dash, Marcus, so lovely to see you again.’ Skipping nimbly over the balustrade, Claudia ran across the platform and skipped down the steps withou
t a backward glance. Strangely though, despite the shouts of the hawkers, the cries of the alms-seekers, the cracks of the bullwhips and the creaking of carts, the only sound she could hear was the echo of Orbilio’s words inside her head.

  ‘One day, Claudia Seferius.’ He hadn’t even bothered to unfold his arms or uncross his ankles from where they were resting on the bronze prow. ‘One day, you’ll realize that I’m the best friend you have.’

  Come into my parlour, said the spider to the fly.

  Pausing to let a chariot pass, Claudia laughed. Honestly, Marcus Cornelius. Do I look like I have wings?

  Four

  For a woman on her own, the Forum after nightfall was safe enough. Reeds burning in sconces on every plinth and wall illuminated the place like a midsummer noon, and the greatest risk to Claudia’s person came not from pickpockets or muggers, but from a hobnailed boot crushing her toes or a poke in the ribs from an elbow. Which was not to say the same philosophy applied to the streets leading off! The further from the Forum, the greater the danger, and not just from pickpockets, either. There had been talk of Augustus setting up a corps of vigiles. Servants of the State who could police the dark alleyways and backstreets and protect travellers from the gangs of roaming thieves and footpads who valued silver more than human life. But so far only a few vague political promises had materialized, and Claudia decided to invest another bangle in a litter to take her home. There was a stand near the prison, on the corner of Silversmith’s Rise, and it was here she set out for.

  It wasn’t coincidence, the Security Police turning up this afternoon. Somehow, Orbilio knew the Artemis hadn’t sunk in any storm. She edged her way round a knot of kilted Syrian archers and past a Gaulish merchant selling silky deer-skin tunics. He’d know exactly whose mythical cargo she’d been carrying and was most likely on his way to Butico’s right this minute, with a view to getting him to testify against her. Wasted journey, chum. Butico wasn’t the type who’d write off his investment in the name of justice. Butico would want his money back, plus interest. Then he’d testify against her.