Wolf Whistle

Yesterday, Leonides managed to pinpoint the whorehouse where she worked. Mean little dive, he said. Stank of stale wine and cabbage water, with stand-up cubbyholes for sex and fishheads in the doorway. So keen was Jovi’s mother to break the sordid cycle, she upped sticks with the first man to ask her-but not before turning her son loose on the streets. Until Leonides arrived, the other whores had naturally assumed she’d taken the child with her.

‘What have you told Jovi?’

Claudia threw up her hands. ‘What am I supposed to tell him?’

‘The truth?’ he suggested quietly.

‘For gods’ sake,’ she cried. ‘The boy’s still a baby! Do you expect me to sit him on my knee and say, “by the way, your mum’s abandoned you, she had a better offer”?’ From the corner of her eye, she caught a movement. Fleeting, but it was there, nonetheless. The unfolding of two tiny hands from where they’d been gripping the stair rail…

Shit!

Her eyes began to sting and the atrium blurred. A week ago he’d been wandering the Argiletum, lost and lonely, and she’d promised him upon her honour she would take him home next day. If only she’d persevered that same night! She might have caught his mother before she flitted off, changed her mind and persuaded the bitch to take the lad with her. At the very worst, Claudia could have prepared Jovi from the start, instead of raising his hopes day by day…

‘I’ll find him a foster home,’ she gulped. ‘A mum and dad to love him.’

‘You love him,’ Orbilio said softly. ‘Why not let him stay?’

‘No!’ The violence of her protest shook them both, but what could she say? That deep down she was scared of loving anyone, except Drusilla? Because cats love unconditionally, expect nothing in return? Because cats never let you down. Or break your heart? She marched down the atrium and out into the scented night air of the peristyle.

Following, Orbilio stared up at the constellations twinkling above them, inhaled the peach blossoms and the wallflowers, and said nothing.

‘Care to tell me?’ Claudia blew her nose, ‘what you did to get rid of the aunts?’

Whatever it was, it was damned effective. The only trace of their visit was a heap of dirty bedlinen when she got home, and Herkie still locked in the cellar. No doubt Cousin Fortunata would return to collect her little diddums, but something made the old bats leave in a hurry.

His sheepish grin was quickly suppressed. ‘Following on from the chalk and ash routine which made you look so poorly, it was but a step to mix flour with wine dregs and,’ he turned to look at a statue, ‘dab it on your servants’ faces.’

‘Larentia fell for it?’

‘Departed the contagion zone at a run.’

Claudia dabbed at her eyes. Oh, Larentia. You really are a silly cow!

The laughter was good. A release. But when it died, taut silence hung in the air.

The garden was rarely lit at night. That would disturb the ambience, and the songbirds in the aviary. There were only ever enough torches to enhance the whiteness of the artemesias, define the outline of the path, catch the ripples of the breeze upon the water in the fishpond. Suddenly the darkness intensified. Claudia became aware of the man standing beside her, of his sandalwood scent, the smoky look in his eyes. She could hear his breathing, saw the rise and fall of his chest in the moonlight, watched the muscles tense in his neck. Her mouth became dry.

He moved closer. ‘Can you really lick the tip of your nose with your tongue?’ he asked softly.

‘Only when I strop with a cuttlefish,’ she whispered back.

The rasp of cicadas was deafening. She smelled the wine on his breath as he stood over her. His eyes were dark, his lips half parted as his little finger reached out and hooked one of her curls. Claudia’s heart was pounding like a kettledrum, and a pain surged deep in her ribcage when he gently released the curl.

‘Marcus…’

He blinked, as though in pain. ‘Yes?’

She looked away. ‘Marcus, I-’ Say it, for heaven’s sake! Just say it! ‘I–I think someone’s left the gate open.’

Striding down the path, she wondered what was holding up her legs. Not her bones. They’d left home.

Marcus Cornelius screwed up his face and pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. ‘Claudia-’

‘Bloody vagrants,’ she said, willing her limbs on. ‘If they don’t block up your doorway, they doss in your garden.’

Silly bitch! She slammed the gate shut. Did you think he intended to kiss you? Look at him, for gods’ sake. Leaning against the pillar, staring up at the stars, not a bloody care in the world…

‘Off, you.’ She addressed the beggar, slumped against the wall. ‘Come on, shift yourself!’ Suddenly her bodyweight trebled, she could not move a limb. ‘Marcus.’

The quiver in her voice alerted him. ‘What is it?’