Free Virgin Territory by Marilyn Todd Page A

and a small slave girl, no more than fifteen and with skin as dark as a chestnut, crept into the room. Drusilla stiffened.
    ‘Senbi sent me, madam.’
    ‘Why?’
    Drusilla’s ears flattened as she let out a low howl from the back of her throat.
    ‘Hrroww.’
    The girl blinked rapidly. ‘Um—’
    ‘Come on, spit it out. What do you want?’
    ‘Hrrro wwwwww.’
    The girl backed up tight against the door frame. ‘Your maid’s bin taken sick with the fever,’ she replied in one frantic breath, her eyes riveted on the snarling cat. Claudia sat bolt upright. ‘Cypassis?’
    Dear Diana, she was telling Diomedes only yesterday what a treasure that child was!
    She considered the timorous creature flattening herself against the wall. ‘Can you dress hair?’
    An imperceptible shake of the head.
    ‘Cosmetics?’
    A grimace.
    Claudia resisted the impulse to scream. ‘Is it within your powers, do you think, to help me dress?’
    At last, a nod.
    ‘I can try,’ she whispered.
    Good life in Illyria, what have I got myself into? Claudia threw off the bedcovers and marched over to the window.
    ‘For goodness’ sake,’ she said, throwing wide the shutter, ‘pour some water into that bowl and fetch a towel.’
    Drusilla was watching the proceedings very carefully, and only when she was completely happy the intruder wasn’t a kitten-skinner in disguise did she ease up on the growling. The girl’s sigh of relief was probably audible the other side of the island.
    ‘Bring me that mirror.’
    There was no way Claudia intended letting this novice loose on her hair and, without Cypassis’s expertise, she wasn’t going to spend half the morning fiddling with curls and plaits and ringlets and things. She’d wear her hair in a bun at her neck. Simple, elegant—and well under two minutes to fix.
    ‘Now fetch that misty blue tunic, the one with short sleeves and the flounce along the bottom.’
    ‘And which stola?’
    The girl was untrained! ‘For heaven’s sake, you only wear that at formal occasions or when you’re going out.’ Where on earth had the child been? ‘Give me a hand with this belt.’
    As the young slave neatened up the overhanging folds, Claudia asked, ‘What’s your name?’
    ‘Pacquia.’
    From the atrium came a clatter, clatter, crash, followed by loud remonstrations met in return with querulous protests that it was not somebody’s fault, she’d tripped over Young Master Marius’s whipping top. Unlike home, where Leonides would sort the matter out quietly and without fuss, Senbi clearly decided that his presence needed to be felt—and in this case, more than just his presence. Claudia could hear the blow from her room. If that had been Leonides, she’d have his Macedonian ears for breakfast. With garlic on.
    ‘Oi! Pack it in!’
    Good old Linus, putting his oar in now the fuss had died down. Typical of the man, a loser if ever there was one. To some extent Claudia could sympathize because he’d given fifteen years to the business and was still, thanks to the law, without an authoritative role.
    That was the law which made Linus accountable to his father.
    The same law which made Aulus accountable to his father, who had no intention of letting go the legal reins.
    In other words, the same law which gave Eugenius Collatinus absolute control over every person and every thing that he owned, including his family.
    Unfortunately for Linus, Fabius’s return after twenty years meant even the weak position he held had now been usurped. It was an unenviable situation by any reckoning, but whatever sympathy he might have earned was blown away thanks to his blatant whoring, his persistent bragging and his bullying. Like father, like son. Nothing Corinna did could please him and as an outsider, Corinna found no allies in this house, not even in Matidia.
    Especially not Matidia. The old man wouldn’t even delegate the running of the household to his own daughter-in-law, which under normal circumstances