Wolf Whistle

Annia leaned over and began to tug on the heavy wooden chest. ‘No, no, I can manage,’ she puffed, slipping the retrieved band on to her finger. ‘And before you ask, Claudia.’ With a hefty shove, the chest scraped back into its place against the wall. ‘As far as I’m concerned, it’s their own fault those girls died. They knew full well there’s a maniac after us, they should have taken more care.’

Little Miss Popular.

‘Isn’t that taking responsibility a tad far?’

‘Not at all.’ On went a bracelet. ‘I am in danger, ergo I take precautions. Between Marcus and your Gaulish bodyguard, I’m as safe as the state treasury and it’s up to them to do the same, don’t you agree?’

‘If you feel so secure, why don’t you help flush out the killer?’

‘For one thing’-Annia slipped a tiara over her long, golden hair, and they both shone in the lamplight-‘I’d just as soon stay here with Marcus, and for another’-she fished out a gold hare inlaid with enamel and clipped the brooch to her spotless white tunic-‘when I do see Arbil again, it’ll be wearing sapphires and pearls and to buy slaves of my own. I think sapphires will suit me, don’t you?’ she asked, preening herself in the mirror.

Claudia wondered whether to post a placard outside, ‘Murderers Please Note: Blue Dragons Found Here’. Tempting. Very, very tempting.

‘There’ll be another market day in two days’ time,’ she reminded her acidly.

‘I know that,’ Annia chirruped. ‘But don’t worry yourself, Claudia. Marcus will look after me. Yes, yes, he’s up at the Imperial Palace, you told me-but you see,’ blue eyes widened as though addressing a small child, ‘Marcus is my cousin.’ The voice matched the condescending expression. ‘He’d never let anything happen to me.’

And dammit, she was right. As long as Annia was in Rome, Hotshot would be there, emperor or no emperor, coup or no coup, behind her all the way. And the little cow wouldn’t give a damn that he was jeopardizing a golden career for an obligation born from eighteen years of bitterly repressed grief. She’d believe it was her birthright.

‘You know, my mother’s side all have Greek names,’ she continued, clipping on a silver ear stud, then swapping it for gold. ‘So I’m thinking of changing mine. How do you like Iris? Or does Helen sound more regal?’

*

Around that time of the night when drunkards awake, lick dry lips and muddle their way home, a candle burned in a corner and Nemesis’ cornelians twinkled like stars on a frosty night each time the flame swayed in the darkness.

‘Agrippa’s death was a sign from the gods,’ a voice whispered, buffing the maroon cloth over the hilt. ‘A sign that our mission is blessed.’

A finger tested the blue steel edge of the blade.

‘The gods took Agrippa in sacrifice to keep the army busy, because while they run around pampering the Great Catamite, we are free to fulfil our destiny.’

A puff on the candle extinguished the light.

‘By the time Augustus wrests back control, we shall have finished our work and no one shall be the wiser, and think of the power it bestows. Power over life, power over fools, power over all of fucking Rome!’

A contented sigh rang round the room. In just two days, it would be market day again. Farmers setting out their stalls, spreading out their cheeses and their cabbages, their fleeces and their eggs.

‘So many people think they’re clever, when they’re not.’ One hand made a clutching motion, the other slashed the knife through imaginary golden tresses. ‘But I know where she lives. And, Nemesis, my faithful friend, I know just how to lure that fair-haired bitch away.’

XXIV

On the morning of the sixth day of April, and exactly one week since she was chased round the slums by the moneylender’s dogs, Claudia prepared to board her litter in the pre-dawn chill with a completely clear conscience about leaving Annia behind.

‘Madam?’

Claudia looked up to see Cypassis, her nightshift flapping as she ran, her enormous bosoms bouncing like ripe pumpkins in a sack.

‘Madam, please! You can’t go alone!’

‘Junius,’ she said, pushing aside the fine linen drapes, ‘is meeting me at the post house beyond the Collina Gate. Go indoors, it’s cold.’

‘Who’ll pin your hair?’ The single plait bounced in agitation. ‘Who’ll fix your ribbons and fastenings? Who’ll brush your clothes?’

‘Who’ll cuddle Jovi, mop his tears and clear up after his pet if you’re tagging along?’ Bloody monkey. It spits, raids the kitchens, poops on the beds, yet will it surrender? The Sahara would flood first.

‘I suppose so,’ Cypassis said doubtfully, but inside she knew her mistress was right. Jovi was clingier than ever, rarely letting her out of his sight. She sighed as she helped Claudia into the litter. ‘I think I must look like his mother.’