Wolf Whistle

Julia was at once grateful, delighted and flattered and thumbed through the tablets and scrolls, calling out the figures for her mother to digest, her hooded eyes fair closed with excitement at the prospect of bringing down her sister-in-law. She had not forgotten the night, in this very house, when her own husband had made his advances. True, he’d come back from the encounter with a squashed and bleeding nose, but the insult had still stung. Her husband lusted after the bitch.

Literate Julia might be, though. Numerate she was not. ‘Well, Mother, what’s the verdict?’

‘It would appear,’ said Larentia slowly, ‘that the accounts are not only in apple-pie order, Gaius’ business is thriving.’

‘Shit.’

‘Precisely.’

‘Have you checked out her debts with the bankers and moneylenders?’

Larentia kicked the tripod brazier which was counteracting the dampness in the room and her mouth soured. ‘What debts?’

‘Shit!’

‘ Precisely!’

They took a long, lingering look at the intricate ivories on the shelf, especially that exquisite figure with a fawn round his shoulders and a peacock by his side, before moving into the dining room, where the life-size bronze of Venus served only to depress them further. The table was piled high with swordfish and salmon, peafowl and venison and at least five types of cheese-and was surrounded by a gaggle of excitable hens.

‘… she gave me a beautiful little cameo for my birthday, I’ll show it to you later…’

‘… my dear, I have it on the highest authority, this year’s colour will definitely be coral…’

‘Fannia, have you just eaten that whole tray of quails eggs?’

The servers, to-ing and fro-ing with yet more silver platters, were truthfully able to report to Verres the cook that the gourmet dishes he’d prepared were much appreciated, especially the fricassee of antelope, although his peppered flamingo tongues were going down a treat.

And all the time, Jovi continued to hack. ‘Why don’t she come, Passi?’

Cypassis, having no answer, stroked his wracked shoulders and cooed into his hair. Even a five-year-old knew that, by now, there wasn’t one square inch of Rome that had not been covered in an attempt to reunite him with his mother. Messages had been posted, criers were calling, and in the warrens where Jovi lived, word travels fast. Tight-lipped, Cypassis unhooked the balled fists from her tunic and led him away to the corner where the oil jars were stored. Two dark ovals stood stark on her sky-blue cotton tunic, their wetness cold through her undershift.

‘Passi, have I been naughty? Am I being punished?’

She fell down and hugged his hiccupping shoulders. ‘No, Jovi, of course not.’ She could feel him gulping against the lushness of her hair and her bones dissolved with pity. ‘You’re a good boy.’

Verres the cook, passing, rumpled the little lad’s mop and offered to show him how you bone a hare then stuff it with truffles and oysters, if he liked? The head embedded itself deeper into Cypassis’ neck.

Steam spiralled from bubbling saucepans. The cauldron which hung over the fire gurgled contentedly, and fat from the goat on the spit hissed as it dripped on the charcoal. A kitchen maid strained carrots in a giant iron ladle, then dipped bream into white wine and parsley, wrapped them in cabbage leaves and laid them on the hearth. A shanty started up, and before long the whole kitchen was alive to the rhythm, voices joining in whether they knew the words or not. Cypassis patted his convulsions to the beat as almonds were ground in a mortar and smoked sausages were cut down and fried. And she thought what a contented, happy scene it was, were it not for Jovi.

As another tune took over, she considered his mother’s options. Too ill to claim her child, would she not send someone in her place? Cypassis could not understand abandoning a five-year-old to strangers and confusion. Who’d do such a thing? Tears streamed down her cheeks and filled her dimples right until the moment Verres the cook caught his finger on the gridiron and swore, with great fluency, in at least seven different languages.

Even Jovi laughed.

*

Up in his attic, the man who called himself Magic had his head bent low over the page. The light from his smoky tallow picked out patchwork walls blistering in the damp, cobwebs trailing from the ceiling and the remnants of a meal which had long since congealed. Six storeys below a dispute over a right of way was turning acrimonious, but for him, such things were trivia. A weight had been lifted from his heart, there was no time to lose. He smoothed out a clean sheet of parchment and flipped open the inkwell.

‘my beloved soon shall we be free — ’