Very quickly she would be exposed as an impostor and whilst they would not dare imprison her, he did not doubt that at some stage — and soon — a tragic accident would befall her, her food poisoned, perhaps, or a snake might find its way in to her bed.
As the storm thrashed and writhed overhead, Orbilio thought of Junius. His vehement defence, his passionate protection, contrasting so starkly with the cool stare, the solid, unwavering stance. He pictured the hard blue eyes, the sandy hair, the solid musculature. It would be the cocky bugger's arrogance, rather than his dignity, which carried him through his ordeal in the dungeons and on Saturday, goddammit, the Gaul would walk with back straight and eyes uplifted into the baying crowd and, even as the jaws of death clamped over him, he would not blame his mistress for what befell him.
Marcus rubbed at his temples and acknowledged the pain in his chest for what it was. Jealousy. The thought of the boy pressing his lips, his hands, his body to Claudia's skin pierced him like a dagger through the heart. And maybe it was because he didn't want the Gaul to end up a martyr that Orbilio's eyes misted up, but whatever it was, Mother of Tarquin, he didn't want the boy dead. Not like that. Yet there was sod all he could do. Eight legionaries guarded his doors, vigilantes patrolled in the streets.
Junius was destined to die.
Claudia's life was in danger.
And Marcus Cornelius was powerless to act.
In desperation, he reached for the wine jug.
Tingi!' He called louder, and only partly to be heard above the pounding of the rain. 'TINGI!'
'What?' The steward came running. 'What is it you want, sir?' His eyes took in the pitcher of wine which had been full just a half hour previously, and the lopsided, foolish grin plastered on his master's slack face.
'Why, Tingi, old friend, I want what everyone else ish getting, this shecond night of the Games.'
The steward took a step back from the blast of the wine fumes.
'I want entertainment,' Marcus said, punching a limp fist into the palm of his hand, 'and if I'm not allowed out to enjoy it, by the godsh, I'll bloody well have it brought here.'
From the vestibule and from the courtyard came the sound of sniggering.
'By entertainment,' the Libyan frowned, silencing the guards with a glower, 'you mean…?'
'Women, Tingi.' Marcus reeled forward and clapped him on the shoulder. 'By entertainment, I mean women. Big, tall, lusty, busty girls. I want them to be able to sing, to dance, to tell dirty jokes, I want girls who can drink me under the table and then bonk me to oblivion, two at a time.'
'Two at a time?'
'Whatsha matter? Have I developed a stutter?'
He appeared to have developed a weave, though, and groped for a pillar which would support his drunken weight.
'There's only one course of action under circumstances like these. Throw a party.'
'Sir!' But the steward's protests were waved away.
'Hey…' Marcus slid gracefully down the pillar. 'Thish is my party, all right? I want my boss to know what a bloody good time I'm having under house arresh and that I don't give a tosh. So you jush make sure there's plenty of wine, Tingi, my old son, and even more plenty of women.'
The last words the smirking legionaries caught before he passed out were, 'Big women!'
Chapter Nineteen
Claudia had misjudged Mentu. He was not like the man in that Macedonian legend who came to clear rats from a village and ended up piping the children away. There was a whole cross-section of ages and skills and abilities milling around inside the Pharaoh's commune.
The storm had, miraculously, held off for the journey, although it seemed to be following them northwards at a steady pace and, being a valley, once it arrived, would set in for hours, swirling round and round as it gathered in strength, faded, then gathered in strength once again. Meanwhile, the heat throbbed like a Nubian drum, and the viscous breeze sucked out your vitality and carried it away over the hills. Stiff-limbed, she clambered down from the trap. Long-horned cattle huddled in groups to protect themselves from the flies. Wilting fieldhands trudged home with the last wheelbarrow-loads of the day, but it was the scale — the sheer organisation — which took Claudia's breath away.
So many people! Somehow she'd imagined fifty or so gullible souls lured from the bright city lights, universally young and stupid, whereas there were ten times that number here! Claudia's opinion, she appreciated with the benefit of hindsight, had been influenced solely by the gospel spreaders of the Forum, cranks and fanatics like the two who'd accompanied her today, and by the fact that her fifteen-year-old stepdaughter had joined up with the Brothers.
Mentu's vision was never so narrow!
Every age was represented, including toddlers who had doubtless been born here, yet most astonishing was that
Mentu's specious ramblings had actually attracted craftsmen: weavers, carpenters, wheelwrights. Claudia had passed a potter's kiln, a brewery and, adjacent to the bakery, a flour mill, whose quern was turned by a sad-looking mule in a collar. On the drive in, she'd caught the distinct tang of a charcoal kiln in the woods as well as the less pleasant smell of the fuller's yard. She'd heard the thud of an axe, watched huntsmen return home with nets full of pigeons and a deer slung between two shouldered poles.
Her gaze roamed round this idyllic pear-shaped valley nestled in the soft, Etruscan hills. Fields stretched its length and breadth, there were orchards, pastures, beehives, olives, cattle, sheep and goats. You couldn't pick a city matron, plonk her in the country and then expect her to know how to clip and shear and geld, oh dear me, no. Animal husbandry required specialist skills, as did farm work, building maintenance and hunting.
Wily old Mentu had left nothing to chance.
He did not see this commune as a flash in the pan.
Yet, sinisterly, the commune was devoid of human discourse. Small children should be piggy-backing, hopscotching, skipping with ropes or rolling hoops, squealing as they punched each other's lights out in the dust. Instead, they sat in obedient silence, huddled over their counting frames, skeining wool or shucking peas and beans. Mentu would doubtless call it duty. Anyone else would suspect that subservience was being drummed into them from the earliest stage and that the adults fared no better. Sure, there were plenty of discussions about which-size-nail, how-many-onions, who-borrowed-my-awl, and can-someone-help-me-find-my-thimble floating about, but how odd that no one was debating politics, slandering their neighbours, climbing on their pet high horse or passing on unsound rumours as folk are prone to do in village groups! No faces here were red from exasperation, creased up in laughter, or rejuvenated by the latest gossip. By and large, members walked silently, heads bent and quiescent.
'To be sure, we're not all from Rome here, y'know!' The ripe brogue of Brindisi rose above muted accents ranging from Naples, Ancona, Cremona. 'Come. I'll help you wash and change, and then I'll show you the ropes.'
The brogue belonged to a stout, middle-aged woman whose greying hair was never going to be contained by something so insubstantial as a bun. Wisps stuck out in all directions, like a hedgehog who'd found himself caught between pestle and mortar or struck by a particularly spiteful bolt of lightning.
'That's the Pharaoh's quarters over there, me lovely.'
Setting a predictably gentle pace across from the stables, the woman indicated the far wing of a well-appointed set of buildings. Once, this had been a traditional villa set in the heart of its rural estate. However, instead of four blocks built round a rectangular courtyard, one wing had been demolished completely, the two long ones extended and a jumble of wooden buildings clustered between. Even so, Claudia reckoned accommodation would be pretty cramped!