Wolf Whistle

Claudia snatched it out of the air and fixed it back in place. The man was starting to annoy her with his piercing gaze and lazy, powerful frame. She wondered when he’d slipped her earring off. She didn’t remember him leaning so close, and yet-He was dangerous, this Kaeso. And danger is intoxicating… Well, she would not ask again. Let him make a move. She knew he would. And until then she’d called his bluff by studying his strange collection of animals and athletes, frozen by the carver whether in ivory or marble, pottery or bronze.

‘When I am asked to extinguish a light,’ Kaeso said eventually, rising to his feet. ‘I deem that light of sufficient importance to make my decision with care. Call back tomorrow, and I’ll give you my answer.’ There had been no time to protest as Kaeso hurriedly covered the width of the room. ‘Tomorrow,’ he stressed, over his shoulder, and by the time Claudia had reached the polished cypress door, the garden and peristyle were deserted. She ran towards the gate and tugged it open, but Kaeso was nowhere in sight and when she looked back to the house, Tucca was standing by the yew tree with her fat hands on her hips, grinning horribly.

But that was yesterday. Today, a new beginning!

Claudia stepped out on to her red-painted balcony, and peered down on the street below. Reassuringly noisy, a small boy dangled a duck by its twisted, broken neck and made his sister cry. Sellers of mushrooms and willow, acorns and rueberries funnelled out of the mist towards the Forum. A match-man with his packs of yellow sulphur jostled asses bent beneath herbs and hides and harnesses, and a basket seller balanced his wares on his head with professional ease. Unfortunately for Claudia, the price for wanting Magic off her back was to return to that awful House of Silence, but in the meantime, there was much to cram in. Below, professional mourners beat ash-covered breasts at the head of a funeral procession, probably that of the old Persian tin merchant, he’d been looking grim for ages. In the whole of Rome, she thought, that poor old sod must be the only citizen unaffected by what was arguably the busiest day of the year.

With so many events converging, Claudia had been hard pressed to decide which to choose for the aunts. Resting her elbows on the rail as funereal drumbeats filled the air, she watched the procession pass down the street. Country dwellers mostly, the old boilers were well aware that disease could strike sprouting crops any time and they’d appreciate rites where peasants and landowners, wholesalers and farmers were eager, if not desperate, to placate Venus, the goddess who presided over the month. Then again, Claudia could take them to the Forum, where the Vestal Virgins were out and about on active duty, or to the Capitol, to rituals sacred to Juno, whose holy day this was.

Claudia leaned down and inspected her pot plants. The irises were doing nicely, the blue Attic variety looked terrific beside the yellow Damascans. Of course, being Fortune’s Day she could take the Aunts down to the cattle market, that was always good for a laugh. On this one day of the year, middle-aged matrons were suddenly beset by an urge to see for themselves the stockmen beside their beasts and haymen selling their bales-then, my, my, what a coincidence, I’m right outside the Temple of Fortune. You know, I never realized it was here! Such a tiny temple, must have missed it in the past, and what a lot of girls with yellow hair. Working girls you say? You mean it’s true? Fortune really does protect the harlots? What’s that? Oh, every woman’s sex life? Ha, ha, ha, how quaint. And having scoffed at all the rituals-the washing of the statue, the strewing of the petals-off they’d trot, these women, railing against the scourge of prostitution and the scandal that painted trollops were allowed to roam around in daylight, yet each would wander off a trinket short. Which would have miraculously made its way to Fortune’s tiny altar!

In the end, though, Claudia opted for the Blemish Rites. The aunts wouldn’t have seen anything like it, and would go away soaked with its memory. She moved on along her tubs and planters. The narcissi were looking good, almost as though they thrived in this wretched mist and drizzle, their scent remained quite unaffected. She picked eight snow white and four bright yellow, then added a couple of irises.

‘Drusilla.’ She crooked a finger. ‘Drusilla, come here, please.’

The cat unfurled herself from the foot of Claudia’s couch and trotted over, her tail in the shape of a question mark.

‘I’ve told you before, you little toad, not to use these pots as a litter tray.’

‘Mrrrow.’ Small wonder my white rock rose isn’t flowering. ‘Don’t you dare rub round my ankles while I’m talking. Sit.’

‘Prrr.’ Drusilla leapt up on to the balcony rail, then completed her journey to her mistress’s shoulder. ‘Prrrrr.’