Wolf Whistle

He had trained in the gymnasium, he had trained on the field, why shouldn’t he hope to outfight them? But four against one were bad odds, and in his heart all he could realistically hope for was that (a) they planned only to hurt and not kill him; and (b) he could inflict some serious damage before he went down.

For several minutes, Orbilio managed to hold his own, fending off the punches and the kicks. He heard a rib crack under his fist, a nose crunch, then a well-judged kick in the balls brought the odds down to three. He was leaner, fitter, faster than his assailants, and all it needed was just one other person to walk down the street and the alarm would be raised. But it was that time of night, when anyone who was going anywhere would have got there by now and when it was far too early to go home.

As the blows rained down. Marcus could feel his defences growing weaker. His face was wet with his blood, he could taste it, and now whenever the cube landed a punch with the knuckleduster, he cringed as it connected. When he slipped on the cobbles, a shower of hobnailed boots kept him down, and before long it was all he could do to curl up into a ball and let his ribs take the battering.

When the kicking stopped, his aching lungs released a groan of relief, but the respite was brief. All four thugs fell upon him, each grabbing an arm or a leg and lifted him high off the ground.

‘Right, boys?’

Despite one eye blinded by blood, Orbilio realized with surprising calmness what was about to take place. He’d been wrong about their intentions, the beating was no more than a preliminary. These bastards meant murder.

‘Say your prayers, arsehole!’ sneered the cube.

Powerless to resist and buggered if he’d give them the satisfaction of begging, Marcus Cornelius Orbilio could only watch as they ran him head first towards the solid wooden door that fronted Weasel’s whorehouse. Vaguely he wondered what his father would say, when they met up in the Afterworld.

He imagined he’d be cross.

III

The second Claudia set foot through her own front door, she was swamped. Could she enjoy the fragrances of lavender and myrrh wafting from the censers? Could she ease up and relax among the tall, marble columns, the gaily painted friezes, the array of potted ferns? Could she hell.

First Leonides, her beanpole of a steward, thrust his way forward. Then Cypassis, her big-boned maidservant, all but throwing her arms around her mistress with relief. Junius, the head of her bodyguard, his handsome face unaccustomedly drawn, appeared at her elbow, urging Claudia to next time please, please, not leave him stationed two streets back. Finally Drusilla, her blue-eyed, cross-eyed cat, saturated with anxious vibrations, launched herself to cling round her neck, a living fur collar. Claudia’s ears buzzed with the babble of voices-male, female, human, feline-until suddenly they all stopped at once,

Drusilla’s reaction was to dig her claws deep into flesh. Leonides’ was rather more pragmatic. ‘What’s that?’ he asked, wrinkling his nose.

‘That,’ replied Claudia, carefully extracting the cat, ‘is a Jovi. To whom I have promised a hot pie, a hot bath and a dish of honeyed apricots, so Junius? Would you mind?’

‘Me?’ The young Gaul jumped as though scalded.

‘Come, come, the fleas’ll wash off. And I did promise our friend here a lesson in martial arts. When he grows up he intends to guard the Emperor personally, don’t you, soldier?’

‘Yes, ma’am!’

Since Jovi had not yet learned how to jump to attention and salute simultaneously there was an awkward sprawl of limbs, yet in the short time it took for Junius to scoop the wee lad off the floor, the Gaul had been won over. Dangling him backwards over his shoulder, he carried his mucky, chuckling charge away to the kitchens.

Claudia turned to Cypassis. ‘Stop snivelling, girl! Rumours about setting dogs on me? Utter rubbish. I was simply making arrangements for Gaius’ aunts, you know how fussy they are.’

Personally she’d order funeral biers for the whole damned lot, but she presumed that was out of the question. The Thessalian girl sucked back her tears and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

‘That’s better. Now, fetch my pale lemon tunic, the one with long sleeves, and a fresh set of underwear, then meet me in the bath room. Oh, and bring a wrap, will you? My sunflower yellow one.’ Heaven knows, I need something cheerful after those gloomy alleyways. ‘I’ll need a comb and the mirror with the lotus-shaped handle, and my skin feels dry, so that little alabaster pot, the one which smells of camomile when you open the lid, fetch that, too.’

A long soak, a dab of scent, what more could a girl ask for?

‘A slab of ham and some sausage would go down well, and there’s bound to be a crusty loaf hanging about. I’ll need wine, red please, to wash it down, one of the fruity ones for preference, and see whether the cook’s managed to get his hands on one of the new season’s melons, will you? They should be in from Egypt by now.’