I, Claudia by Marilyn Todd Page A

doing, Minerva, I can smell it! Her toe thudded into the woodwork. That Minerva’s always had it in for me, ever since the day I was born, and I’ll bet she was chuckling her bloomers off yesterday.
    It had been a real pig of a day. First she’d been scared spitless by that Thracian psychopath. (When I’ve paid off Lucan, I’m going to get you for that, you bastard!) Then, having sponged herself down and tidied herself up, Claudia had decided the best way to regain her equilibrium was to lose herself in the street bustle. What better way to unwind than in the cries of the pedlars, the smells of the cookshops, the banter of the street barbers urging young dandies to have their hair curled like Nerva the charioteer or dyed like Totila the gladiator? She paused to watch a cobbler astride his sturdy bench, hammering at his last, as she savoured the rich, acidic smell of the leather when a shadow fell over her.
    ‘Ligarius! Good grief, have you been on the sand with the gladiators?’
    ‘Oh, this.’ A huge hand gingerly explored the cuts and bruises. ‘Fights come with the territory if you keep a tavern.’
    Only the sort you keep.
    ‘Well, I do hope you get better soon. Nice meeting you again, Ligarius, cheerio.’ She gave him a smile and tried to move on.
    ‘This is a quiet place. I thought we could talk.’
    She felt the afternoon temperature plummet. What did he mean, quiet? ‘Ligarius, have you been following me?’
    The big man shrugged. ‘I only want to talk.’
    ‘And I thought I made it plain last Thursday: I don’t.’
    ‘But the old days…’ A hand fell on her arm. ‘We had some good times, Claudie.’
    Any minute now and someone would see them together. She jerked her head and ducked down a sidestreet. Behind them the clanking of the huge grinding stone of the bakery drowned any conversation from would-be eavesdroppers.
    ‘How much?’
    ‘Pardon?’
    ‘Don’t play games with me, Ligarius.’ This was what he’d been building up to at the games, just before Marcellus interrupted. ‘How many sesterces will it take before you don’t want to talk about the good old days?’
    The smell of freshly baked bread seemed horribly incongruous.
    His bearded face puckered into a frown. ‘Don’t be daft, I’m not trying to blackmail you. This is the first proper chance I’ve had to talk to you face to face.’
    The sound of her breath coming out nearly obliterated the creaking and thumping of the millstone. That was Ligarius all over. All heart and no brains. She wondered what or who Jupiter was thinking of when he dished out Ligarius’s organs, because something had certainly distracted him.
    ‘Hey.’ He nudged her. ‘We had some good times together, you and me.’
    ‘Nonsense. You used to drool over that little scrubber, what was her name?’
    ‘Antonia. I married her when you went away.’
    ‘More fool you. So what’s the problem? Left you, has she?’
    ‘She died.’
    ‘Oh!’ The big ugly lump looked close to tears. ‘Oh, Liggy, I’m sorry! Really I am.’
    Dammit, they were good times. Times when she could laugh, times when she could cry, times when she could feel pain.
    ‘Me too. Mind,’ the sound he let out was half-hiccup, half-laugh, ‘she could be a right shrew when she wanted. Worse than you, sometimes.’
    ‘Watch your mouth, Ligarius. I have a serious reputation to uphold and I can’t afford word getting around I’m second best.’ She stuck out her tongue. ‘Still as sharp as ever, see?’
    ‘Hey, remember that striping you gave Lefty for pinching your bum when it weren’t him at all? Poor sod never drank in my tavern again after that.’
    ‘Talking of which, whatever happened to that old sea captain who used to fancy himself so much? Strutting around like a peacock—totally unaware we’d nicknamed him Bumface, poor bugger.’
    ‘And what about that Sicilian woman, eh? Remember her? Big as a barn door, used to drink the men under the table and fight ’em