Wolf Whistle

Damn right, he thought, watching her girdle slide to the floor. The greatest threat to the Emperor came not from the army, but from wealthy merchants banding together and for that reason, he’d made contact with Mevia. The hem of her tunic rose with tantalizing slowness to reveal first a pair of finely turned ankles, then her shapely calves. Halting half-way up her thighs, Mevia turned slowly round, watching him over her shoulder as she teased the pale pink linen up over her bottom, then her back and then finally drew it over her head. Sometimes she had information about the activities of her pepper-merchant husband and sometimes he drew a blank. Well, it was his duty, in the interests of the Empire, to pursue every angle, was it not?

Mevia, still in the shape of a letter Y, draped herself lengthwise on the couch. Not a hair out of place, not a smudge to her make-up, he noticed.

‘I like,’ she said, parting her lips to trace the line of her teeth with her tongue, ‘watching the muscles of big, tall men ripple in the lamplight.’

‘Is that a fact?’ he asked, unfastening his loin cloth and tracing his eye over the curve of her breast. There was a time, and not so long ago, when, so long as she was eager, he didn’t give a damn whether his bedmate was wealthy or poor, brainy or dim, giggly or ardent. But increasingly these days he was not so much making love as going through the motions. The seduction was mechanical, an assembly line of flattery and platitudes, with an end product which satisfied the customer if not the manufacturer. And it was not that he was lazy, lax or incapable. It was simply that another woman’s face would float in front of him, a face with proud, flashing eyes framed by tumbling dark curls, and he would yearn to reach out and touch a waist so slender a man’s hands could almost meet around it…not that he’d ever tried, you understand. There are certain parts of a chap’s anatomy that he prefers to remain attached to him, so one does not take liberties with Claudia Seferius.

Absently his mouth closed over Mevia’s nipple, but it was an ache for the girl who threw back her head when she laughed that made Orbilio groan. Whenever they breathed the same air, he and Claudia, it was like a storm before the rain. White lightning crackled between them-electrifying, frightening, exhilarating. A man never knew where the next strike would come, but one thing was for certain. With Mistress Seferius, it was never the same place twice.

As Mevia arched and wriggled beneath him, cooing his name through artificial red lips, a sound, small and insubstantial, cut into his awareness.

‘I can’t help feeling,’ Orbilio rolled off the bed, ‘that before long there’ll be a return to the old custom of husbands running their wives’ lovers through with a sword.’

Mevia surveyed him through half-lowered lids as she propped herself up on her elbows. ‘What makes you think that?’

‘Because’-to her astonishment, Marcus pulled on his tunic-‘I can hear his horse in the yard.’

‘Darling? I’m home!’

‘Run,’ Mevia squealed. ‘He’ll come in the back way.’ She pointed to a door, which was opening even as she spoke.

‘What’-the pepper merchant strode into the perfumed boudoir to find a handsome, tousled stranger standing over a bed in which his red-faced wife lay stark naked-‘the bloody hell’s going on here?’ His hand had drawn his dagger before he’d finished the sentence.

‘For gods’ sake,’ snapped Orbilio. ‘Can’t you see I’m a doctor?’

‘Eh? Oh.’ The dagger sank back in its scabbard. ‘I thought…is it serious?’

‘Tick fever,’ replied Orbilio, clearing his throat. ‘Fatal, I’m afraid, unless we treat it straight away. I…I’ve been bleeding her with leeches.’ He hastily pulled up the covers. ‘But you could help by fetching a mix of alum and mandrake, three to one. Only for gods’ sake, man-hurry!’

Three minutes later and striding in the opposite direction to the apothecary’s, Marcus chuckled to himself. He’d had closer shaves in the past (the auctioneer, for instance, who’d caught him licking honey off his young bride’s back), but there was nothing like the old physician trick to pull a chap out the mire. Worked every bloody time. Orbilio rubbed his hands together and looked up. The clouds were low but not threatening, and he decided to grab a bite to eat from Galen’s tavern before sauntering down to the wharves to see what gems his other, less attractive informants had garnered during the course of the day. He pushed open the door where the steam, the heat, the laughter, the smell of wine and cooking nearly knocked him back into the street. Being market day, he’d expected the place to be busy, but this was ridiculous.

‘This way, sir. I’ll clear a table,’ Galen said, jostling his way through the crowd, but Orbilio put a restraining hand on his shoulder.

‘I’ll be fine here,’ he replied, resting his weight against the wall. ‘Just bring me a pie when you’re able-venison if you have it, otherwise rabbit.’