He was very drunk and anger flashed into his face as his mind cleared a little. ‘Slave or freedwoman, what’s the difference? I have many consuls among my ancestors.’
‘And wouldn’t they be proud,’ Claudia said before she could restrain herself. Piso had begun to pull up his breeches, but stopped. ‘You have fought like a hero,’ she went on, for a wildness was coming into his eyes. ‘Worthy of your family and worthy of praise and reward and honours to come. Do not throw all that away in a moment of weakness.’
‘You are right, lady.’ Piso stood as straight and dignified as a man can when holding up his trousers with one hand. ‘It is the drink. I must thank you for stopping me and beg for your discretion.’
Claudia smiled, feeling the tension fading. ‘Of course, tribune.’ She lowered her sword.
‘In the old days men would have sung of you,’ Piso told her. ‘Warrior maiden, never having trained her woman’s hands to Minerva’s distaff or basket of wool, but hardy to bear the brunt of battle and in speed of foot to outstrip the winds.’
‘Poor Camilla,’ Claudia said, recognising the lines from the Aenied and remembering how, long ago, even Ferox had compared her to the Volscian heroine. ‘But we are Romans and so destined to overcome the proud in war and not share her fate.’
‘We are Romans…’ Piso’s face changed like cloud passing over the moon. The rational, educated aristocrat fell away and rage filled his eyes. His left hand shot forward and grabbed her wrist, squeezing and twisting with a strength she would not have guessed he possessed. Perhaps she was tired, for she should not have been surprised like this and the thought brought a moment of panic. She slapped him with her free hand.
‘Bitch!’ he hissed and punched, catching her on the cheek as she tried to twist out of the way. Her sword fell with a clatter that seemed loud. ‘We’re all dead,’ he screamed and taking hold of her pushed with all his weight. ‘All dead! So nothing matters, nothing!’ She tried to strangle him, but his brute strength broke the lock and then he lifted her up onto the table. Her hand found a cup and she flung it at him, but missed and then he had both her arms and was pinning her down, his weight pressing onto her.
‘You’ll do better.’ The words were soft, almost tender and so surprising that she stopped struggling, wondering whether this was all some perverse joke. ‘You are so beautiful. A lady rather than some slut.’ His breath reeked of wine, and pressing her down with one elbow she felt the other hand take the hem of her tunic. He stood beside her, and she kept her legs tight together, but could not work out how to kick him. ‘Steady, girl, gently now,’ he whispered as if soothing a nervous horse. ‘It’s all right, it’s all right.’
Enica pulled her head away from his rank breath and the gaze of his mad eyes, and saw a chance. She relaxed, stopping her struggles.
‘You’re a hero,’ she said softly. ‘A great hero.’
Piso’s head swayed as if struggling to understand the change. He glanced down. The tunic was tightly bunched under the woman, so he began to yank hard at the material until it started to tear. Anger and hate filled his eyes again as the tunic ripped open from hem to neck. ‘And you’re no lady,’ he shouted, realising that she was wearing nothing underneath it.
‘I’m a bitch,’ she said, licking her lips. Piso started to drool, and the feel of it on her skin revolted her, but she had a plan and just one chance, so ignored it. He felt for her legs, and Enica helped him to lift her a little further onto the table top, and let her knees part.
The change in her mood for some reason made his eyes burn with new anger.
‘Bitch!’ he growled and hit her on the face again.
Enica’s legs were in the air and the tribune was trying to wriggle so that his breeches would drop, but the trousers remained stubbornly in place so he felt for them, trying to work out what was wrong. Her right hand reached the bone-covered haft of a table knife on the plate beside her. Piso was staring down at his trousers, then grunted with satisfaction as the breeches at last dropped. Enica crossed her legs, grasping the tribune tightly and used that to lever her torso up, the knife in her hand. Piso’s eyes widened and then the tip of the blade drove into his left eyeball with less force than she had hoped. He squealed, a noise more animal than human and reached up to his face. Enica clung on to him, ripped the blade free, dragging the remnants of the eye out of the socket, and plunging it into the man’s neck. His arms flailed and she let go with her legs, slamming hard onto the table and losing her grip on the knife. Piso staggered, moaning, and when he pulled the blade free a jet of blood sprayed all over her bare skin. Yet the tribune would not die and came at her. Enica half rolled, half fell from the table, losing the rest of her tunic and the dying man dropped onto her. His face pressed against her and she was not sure whether he was trying to bite her or kiss her, and the blood was everywhere so that it was hard to take firm hold and lift him off. She had finally managed to shift the corpse and push herself away when the door opened.
‘Bugger me!’ Vindex said. Bran was behind him, face grim as if he had failed, but then Sulpicia Lepidina pushed past them. She took in the dead tribune, his mutilated face staring one-eyed at the ceiling, and Enica, standing up, naked save for her boots, her white skin half covered with blood. The tribune had fouled himself in his last moments, adding to the stench and the wreck of the room.
‘Are you all right, my dear?’ Lepidina asked.
Vindex undid the brooch on his cloak. Claudia Enica gasped for breath.
‘Are you all right?’ Lepidina’s voice was eerily calm. Vindex held out his cloak and she took it and went over to her friend.
‘I am,’ Enica said, amazed that her words were level. She pulled the cloak around her. ‘I am.’
‘Did that bastard…?’ Vindex could say no more. His fingers were clenching and unclenching in his fury.
‘He tried.’ Claudia Enica managed a thin smile. ‘And failed. My honour is preserved – and he is dead.’
‘Good,’ Vindex said.
‘Perhaps, but he is a tribune and the son of a senator.’ Claudia looked over her shoulder at Lepidina. ‘What should we do? And what should we say? He has fought well in the last few days and won the men’s respect.’
‘Sometimes the truth is not only the simplest idea, but the best,’ Lepidina said, patting her friend on the shoulder. ‘A bad blow to the head can change a man’s character, sometimes forever, and wine does not help. Whatever respect he may have won, the men love you – all of them.’
‘You too, lady,’ Vindex said.
‘Perhaps, but a blind man could see that you are the heart and the head of this defence. So we will say that he tried to rape you and that you killed him. They will hate him for this crime and admire you more for your strength and skill.
‘As for later, his family is in disgrace and he was here to redeem himself and perhaps one day redeem his fool of a father. Whatever is said in public, I doubt that many will miss him.’
Claudia Enica had the odd feeling that what had happened was no more than a dream from which she had woken. ‘I do wonder if he was sent here to die.’
‘Perhaps. Which may mean that some will be grateful, although whether or not they can show it is harder to say. But those are problems for another day, if we live to see it. And to do that we need you fresh and restored. Go and wash again, and put on some clean clothes.’
‘Yes, mother, right away, mother.’ Enica did a little curtsey, making the cloak fall open. Vindex and Bran turned away and she thought how strange that was, especially for the scout.
After she had washed again and dressed in her last clean tunic, Claudia Enica fussed with her hair and then took another look in her mirror. The eyes that stared back at her were the eyes of Cartimandua. She did not smile, for her grandmother had rarely smiled, but she felt stronger.