Second Act (26 page)

Which was a pity, Marcus felt, because he hadn’t got round to telling her that Captain Moschus had escaped from jail.

But then he had a feeling she already knew about that.

Twenty-Eight

‘Who are you?’ A hatchet-faced woman with permanently pinched lips peered through a slot in the woodwork. ‘What d’you want?’

Claudia told her.

‘So?’ the dragon barked back. ‘What’s it to you?’

Claudia told her that, too.

‘Hmmm.’ Shrewd eyes bored into shrewd eyes. ‘Well, you’d best come on in, then. Before the neighbours start gawping.’

The woman, who introduced herself as the victim’s aunt, relieved her of her mantle in a pleasant hallway from which four equally pleasant rooms led off. Fragrant oils burned in a niche, and the hall was decked with holly and yew. A white cat snoozed on a tasselled cushion on a chair.

‘In there.’

The aunt beckoned her into a light, spacious living area with rich tapestries hanging on the walls and bearskin rugs on the floor. The seating was padded and comfortable, apple logs crackled and spat in the hearth, filling the air with their scent.

A year on and the poor girl was still jumpy, and was it any wonder, Claudia thought. Her bastard husband had thrown her out after the rape, proclaiming her an unfit mother for their children, an unfit wife as a result of her subsequent breakdown. Now she was reduced to living off a divorced aunt, and the only good thing to come out of that was at least the aunt was comfortably off. For a year, now, the girl had refused to set foot outdoors, the aunt said, could not be left alone, was terrified of strangers, especially men.

‘I’ve spent twelve months nursing her,’ she warned under her breath. ‘You be careful.’

It was like walking on butterflies’ wings. Round and round the questions went, gradually creeping closer to the target, every moment more painful than the last.

‘He pushed me in the middens,’ the girl said at last, and it might have been an automaton talking, a wooden dummy from whose mouth the ventriloquist projected his voice. “‘
Filth
”,
he said. “
All of you, nothing but filth
,”
and he put his foot on my neck and pushed me under, knowing I couldn’t breathe and I’d have to swallow the muck. “
Go
back to the filth where you belong
,” that’s what he said.’

And that was it. The ultimate violation. The one that preyed on the victims’ consciousness and remained there. That he had made them dirty. Dirt, from which there could never be any cleansing…

‘How could you identify him, if he was masked?’ Claudia asked gently.

The girl tensed, glanced at her aunt. ‘Same as I told the Tribunal. From the smell of aniseed, the way he held himself, his voice, the shape of his hands. Why?’ Her jaw tightened, her knuckles clenched white. ‘He
is
dead, isn’t he?’ She turned to her aunt, her face stark with horror. ‘You said he was executed. You swore—’

‘Yes, he’s dead,’ Claudia assured her, and caught an imperceptible nod of relief from the aunt. ‘I watched the execution myself. Lions. Very nasty.’

The girl relaxed, but only a fraction. ‘Then why all the questions?’

‘The Emperor,’ Claudia lied. ‘He was so concerned for the daughters of Rome, that he asked me to, uh—counsel the victims and help them talk it out of their systems.’

‘Did he send money?’ the aunt asked.

* * *

At home, the revisions to
The Cuckold
were going well. Which, roughly translated, meant that the group hadn’t actually killed each other—at least, not yet. But the amendments were testing the company’s cohesion to the limit. Adrenalin had finally ceased to pump. Last night’s dress rehearsal seemed aeons ago and now they were tired, scratchy, anxious and vulnerable. A perfect breeding ground for egos.

‘No, no,
no
,’ Ugly Phil protested. ‘The Virgin
has
to come on first, so I can walk around the edge of the stage leering at her. It isn’t funny otherwise.’

‘It isn’t funny either way,’ the Virgin protested, amazed that her chaplet was still fast round her bun after the energetic rerun of scenes. ‘Ogling is what perverts do.’

‘Erinna’th right,’ Hermione said. ‘The Thatyr ith thuppothed to be a comic figure.’

‘All right, then. Suppose I creep behind the Virgin on tiptoes?’

‘Creepings is not funny,’ Fenja boomed. ‘Make you look like pervert with bunion.’

Everyone laughed, save Ugly Phil. Hermione tried to force her unruly frizz into the pins. Fenja adjusted Periander’s Cupid wings, which had gone crooked in the melee. The Virgin and the Satyr tried again.

‘Iss worser,’ Fenja said and even Renata, who liked to keep the peace wherever possible, could not disagree.

‘Oi, Skyles,’ Jemima called across. ‘Show Ugly Phil how it’s done, willya?’

But Skyles seemed lost in space, so she tossed her slipper across the atrium to attract his attention. ‘There,’ she crowed triumphantly. ‘
That’s
clowning, Master Satyr. Look how he pretended to wince when it hit him, how his breath came out in a hiss, and it’s only an old felt shoe. Soft as lard.’

‘How did you do that?’ Ugly Phil asked Skyles. ‘How d’you make yourself turn pale like that?’

‘Can’t you see he iss hurt, you damn fool?’ Fenja snapped. ‘Skyles, let uss look, huh?’

‘It’s nothing, I’m fine,’ Skyles rasped. ‘Touch of cramp.’ But his colour still hadn’t come back. His face was as white as Renata’s. ‘Look, this is how I’d play the scene,’ he said, and instead of hobbling round the set leering at the Virgin as Ugly Phil had been doing, the Buffoon cracked his knuckles, licked his lips and with a w
ink
at his audience, set to caressing Erinna’s voluptuous shadow. The more they laughed, the more he put a finger to his lips to silence the chortles, and so the more the audience laughed, and as the Virgin turned, so did Skyles and her shadow, so that the Virgin appeared to be the only person not in on the secret.

‘I still don’t see why I can’t play the Virgin,’ Adah whined. ‘Now Erinna’s got
two
parts in the play, as the Soldier’s Mistress and the Virgin, and me, I’ve only got a brief walk-on.’

‘Swings and roundabouts, kiddo,’ Doris said, buffing his fine oval nails. ‘I’m sure Caspar will write you a bigger role next time, although—’ He leaned back and peered at her backside. ‘Some might say you’ve a big enough roll already.’

‘Up yours,’ she retorted, but there was no sting in the rebuke.

In fact, Adah was happy with the part she’d been given. It was right at the beginning, when the Miser mistakes the Neighbour’s Wife for his own spouse and rips off her gown, thinking he’s about to make love to his wife. As a result of her full-frontal exposure so early in the proceedings, Adah was assured of the audience’s unwavering interest, and therefore she was guaranteed to be the centre of attention in all subsequent scenes, even though the Neighbour’s Wife merely stood in the background wagging a censorious finger. What more can
any
actress ask?

‘One more time, then,’ Ugly Phil said. ‘From where I come on, up to the bit where my horns get stuck in the Virgin’s robe and—here! How about her frock comes off when I pull away?’

‘No,’ Adah squealed. It was too early to introduce further nudity, it would take away the effect of her scenes. ‘The point is to make the Satyr look stupid, stupid.’

‘Hey.’ Jemima paused from combing her red hair through her fingers. ‘Suppose, instead of creeping in, the Satyr comes down on Jupiter’s platform as though he’s descending straight from Olympus?’

‘Jem, you’re a star,’ Skyles said, his hand still clamped over his side.

‘I still think we ought to check with Caspar first,’ Adah cut in.

‘But he’s not here,’ Ugly Phil said patiently, ‘so I vote we incorporate it straight into the act.’

‘Where is he?’ Renata asked, rouging her cheeks with wine lees. ‘Not like him to miss a rehearsal, considering we’re opening tomorrow night.’

‘Never mind Caspar,’ Ugly Phil said, eager to keep his comic profile raised. ‘Let’s get cracking.’

Doris indicated the stairs with an eloquent roll of the eyes. ‘In bed, lovey,’ he told Renata. ‘Catching up after a rough night, he said.’

‘Not from me, he bloody didn’t.’ Jemima let out an infectious giggle. ‘Come on, own up, you lot. Which one of you buggers gave him that shiner?’

‘Not guilty,’ Ugly Phil said.

‘I wouldn’t put it past him to hit himself with a broom handle,’ Skyles said, ‘just so the colour of his eye can match his kaftan.’

‘I hope he’th all right,’ Hermione said sombrely. ‘Only when I thaw him earlier, he wath limping quite badly.’

‘So would you, kiddo, if you’d shared a bed with Jemima all night.’

‘Pig.’ Jemima stuck her tongue out at Doris. ‘Anyway, he wasn’t with me all night, was he, Adah?’

Adah shook her head. ‘Randy old sod sloped off in the early hours. Thought we wouldn’t notice.’

‘Yeah, and the next I see of him,’ Jemima said, ‘he’s asking Erinna to sew him a bleedin’ eye patch.’

‘So vere did he get his black eye and a limp?’ Fenja wanted to know.

‘Search me.’ Jemima shrugged.

‘Yes, but can you imagine how he’ll bill the show?’ Erinna stood up and spread her arms in a perfect imitation of the maestro. ‘
Ladies! Gentlemen! All you majestical creatures who have flocked to see our beautifious entertainment!’
She performed the impresario’s deep bow. ‘
Allow me to present Caspar’s—Halcyon—SPECTACULARS.’
She raised a mock eye patch. ‘
The only show in the Empire guaranteed to knock your eyes out!’

Their sides aching and their bruised egos massaged at last, the troupe resumed their positions on stage. It was in everyone’s interests to be scene-perfect for tomorrow’s opening night.

‘From the top, then,’ Skyles said.

Adah said, ‘I really think we ought to insert an extra scene where Jupiter soothes the Neighbour’s Wife—’

She was shouted down by everyone, including Periander. ‘Even if we wanted to,’ Renata pointed out, the voice of reason as usual, ‘we can’t do it without Jupiter, and since no one’s seen hide nor hair of Ion this morning, I suggest we move on. Now, then. Should I be playing the same tune, now the Satyr descends from Olympus?’

‘No!’ The cast was unanimous. The revision called for a boisterous horn, not a creeping-around flute.

‘Here, will someone please give us a hand with this bleedin’ pulley?’ Jemima puffed, trying to haul the Satyr up to Olympus. ‘It’s too heavy for me on me own.’

‘Coming right over,’ Skyles said, making annotations on the script in ink.

‘Like
now
,’
Jemima wheezed, since no one had moved to help.

‘Sorry.’ Doris shrugged in apology. ‘Can’t help, kiddo. Pulled a muscle in my side, didn’t I, swinging down from the gallery? Daren’t risk making it worse before the performance.’

‘Well, one of you buggers had better hurry,’ she snapped. ‘Me arm’s coming out of its socket!’

‘Ach, giff it here.’

Fenja marched over and, with one Nordic yank, the platform shot upwards, flinging the Satyr on to his backside, his cloven hoofs flailing into the Olympian heights.

‘Put that in the script, too,’ Erinna said.

Twenty-Nine

Sitting in the VIP section of the Circus Maximus, Sextus Valerius Cotta cheered the charioteers as though he hadn’t a care in the world. To a skilled military tactician, it was vital no signs of uneasiness should be transmitted to the troops and if acting was part of a general’s role, then so be it.

As two hundred thousand people stamped and whistled as the winner thundered past the post, his chariot wheels smoking, Cotta was acutely conscious that time was running through the sandglass at an alarming rate. In three months, the new campaign season got underway and it had been his intention to have the new regime in place by then. He had allies in six of the ten newly elected tribunes. Had the backing of the plebeians. Knew which generals and naval commanders he could trust. Had plans to deal with dissenters.

The winning charioteer drew his team up in front of the Imperial box to receive his victory palm. Blowing up the Senate and assassinating the Emperor would not have been Cotta’s first choice. (Naturally.) But for Rome to achieve her true potential, hard pruning was the only solution. New shoots could not flourish without cutting away the dead wood.

Down in the tunnel, lots were already being cast for who got which starting box for the next race, the Novice Crown, and a swarm of broom boys were out sweeping the sand with their besoms. This time of year, when it got dark so early, there was no time to lose between contests, and under Augustus, the number of races had increased dramatically.

‘A people that yawns, Cotta, is a people ripe for revolt.’

It was one of the Emperor’s favourite sayings.

As the magistrate signalled with a drop of his handkerchief for the Novice Crown to begin, the trumpet sounded and Cotta marvelled at the arrogance of his fellow Senators who sat so comfortably on their cushions beside him, believing nothing, and no one, could displace them. Secure in their cocoons of wealth and their positions of authority, they had ceased to ask: never mind us patricians, are the
plebeians
content? They didn’t question whether erecting a temple of marble was more important than rebuilding death-trap tenement slums. Had stopped caring whether the funds would be better invested in schooling, housing and policing the streets.