Wolf Whistle

‘Marcus!’ Every man within a half-mile radius must have halted, not just him.

Waving from a seat sheltered by the sacred lotus tree of Vulcan was his Great Aunt Daphne. Orbilio groaned inwardly. Rumour had it, his grandfather’s sister slept in a bath full of ice and thrived on a diet of cobbles and vinegar. Now she was bearing down like a trireme in battle.

‘Long time no see! Still playing Greeks and Spartans, are we?’

‘If you mean, am I still attached to the Security Police, the answer is yes,’ he smiled. Greeks and Spartans, indeed.

Behind her, four liveried slaves struggled with baskets and packages wrapped in oiled cloth. Rain could not and would not deter Daphne from her purpose. Knowing her, it moved out of her path.

‘I’m all for a boy sowing his oats while he’s single but now it’s time you got yourself a proper job, my lad. Your cousins have magisterial seats, and you’ve a lot of catching up to do, if you plan to take a seat in there.’

She pointed over his shoulder to the Senate House, with the famous letters SPQR engraved on its pediment. Smallest Problem Quick Retreat, he mused irreverently, or Superior Profile Questionable Reasons?

‘My career isn’t a game, Daphne-’

‘Your father never forgave you for turning your back on a good career in law. He’d spin in his tomb to think you were spurning the family tradition.’

A troop of soldiers marching at the double scattered street vendors and pedestrians alike, their armour jangling, their hobnail boots clanking in eerie unison. In the confusion, a porter’s pole caught the edge of a perfumer’s tray and fragrances of citrus oils and lilac, hyacinth and oakmoss exploded as his phials hit the flagstones.

‘There are alternative routes to the Senate,’ Orbilio explained patiently.

‘Come to dinner tonight, Marcus. It so happens your uncle will be entertaining a praetor as well as a retired consul and it will do you no harm to become acquainted with the men who have influence in this city.’

‘Tonight? Sorry-’

‘The praetor’s daughter is ripe for marriage and you’ve been single too long. You need a wife and a family. Marcus, these things count at election time.’

‘I’ve been married once,’ he reminded her. ‘She ran off to Lusitania with a sea captain, remember?’

‘Tch! I told your uncle at the time there was too much inbreeding in that girl’s lineage, but you’re divorced now, nothing to stop-’

‘Excuse me,’ a small voice piped up alongside. ‘Are you Mistress Lovernius?’

Marcus looked down. A sprite, no taller than his shoulder, her fair hair caught loosely in a bright cerise ribbon, smiled up at his great-aunt. Salvation came in the most unexpected packages, he thought cheerfully.

‘Who wants to know?’ she barked.

The sprite held her ground. ‘Mistress Daphne Lovernius?’ Clean clothes on a personable frame clearly passed muster with the older woman, because she nodded curtly. ‘Then I wonder, might I have a brief word?’ The scrubbed face turned speedwell blue eyes upon Marcus. ‘In private?’ Daphne pulled a face which suggested she supposed so and with a great sense of release, Orbilio turned towards the Vicus Tuscus where the tattooist plied his trade.

‘I’d be much obliged if you’d wait for me, Marcus.’

So this is what a thrush feels, caught in the hunter’s net. You could see a way through, but finding it was a different matter entirely…

‘Of course, Daphne.’ His professional smile encompassed the elfin creature as well, and although his great-aunt was clearly baffled by the young girl’s approach, Orbilio could hazard a strong guess. She was perfect for the job. Older than she looked, with her long fair hair and sing-song voice, that wholesome appearance would be her stock-in-trade.

He was damned if he’d loiter in the rain, so he took himself up the steps to shelter inside the soaring temple of Juno’s handsome father, god of agriculture and holder of the state reserves. Poor old Saturn. No sooner had his temple been restored after decades of neglect than it promptly burned down, but Augustus invested the proceeds from a Syrian campaign to create a majestic new building, with columns six times the height of a man and marble and gold in eye-watering abundance. The Great Laws of Rome, inscribed on bronze tablets and illuminated by torchlight, hung on the back wall for everyone to read, but below the shrine, secret and well guarded, sat the treasury. Many a thief had wandered round, paying his respects at the wooden feet of Saturn, working out how to get his hands upon those ingots. None had so far succeeded.

‘Diabolical child,’ Daphne thundered, marching down the aisle to join her nephew. ‘Of all the bloody cheek!’

‘Begging?’ he suggested amiably, his eye’s fixed on a sickle the height of a cartwheel in Saturn’s right hand. A hard-luck story from a well-dressed character often proved remunerative.