SODDING FISH
It was starting to occur to me how much I hated fish. Halibut, Kippers, Sardines – I've never been particularly fond of them. And, I don't know, seeing that flounder coming my way just made something snap.
An animal deep inside was released. I leapt from the path of the second blow, climbing onto Gavius' collapsed bleeding body, to snatch a second fish from the hooks above.
Now armed and ready, I lifted my defiance to a whole new level.
“Give off, Porcia,” I whispered, remembering how close Claudius might be, “what in Hades are you doing in here?”
“What does it look like numbskull – I'm stealing your fish,” she said, looking none too pleasant at being caught in the act.
But I was unmoved, despite the day's bruising my other parts still felt, “Bollocks you are – its sodding mine.”
Taking a teasing swing at me she replied – rather coldly I thought, “Come and get it then.”
I'll show her, my ego growled, while my bowels slackened just a little.
“Alright…I…I will,” I stammered.
Shouldering my weapon and taking a firm grip on the slimy scales above the tail, weeks of tension, embarrassment and rejection worked into my muscles and they became alive with the oppression of unresolved grievances – or so my apothecary once explained as he was stirring up a poultice for my haemorrhoids.
I saw red – I felt rage – I felt – I felt manly.
As if I had stepped from my body, I watched that fish swing about, gaining untold speed as it accelerated towards the redhead's leering face. The impact was incredible, it slapped into her left cheek with an ungodly “schlop” and there it stopped.
Clinging to her skin for precious moments until the mucus covered mess slowly began to slide away. It carefully followed the curve of her fine bones to a petite chin, and there the smelly cudgel dropped towards the floor, leaving a trail of slime down the front of her cloak.
Though her gaze had remained steady and her light frame unmoved by the savage strike, I knew I had made an impact. That she wasn't unconscious on the floor was a bit of a blow, but knowing she knew that I knew she could now bludgeon me senseless was a comfort at least.
Ah, yes – I was fish mince waiting to happen.
“Sod it,” I whimpered.
“You're dead, Calvus,” she snarled.
There weren't any doubts about that.
My move to the hereafter seemed on schedule. She took her careful aim and lined me up for the killing blow with the most wicked gleam in her eyes. I couldn't help thinking the fish was smiling too.
“Any last words windbag?” she offered as some sort of chivalrous charity.
“Yes,” I whispered in reply, then I took a deep breath and shouted, “In the name of Victrix, someone help me.”
In hindsight perhaps it was the wrong thing to do, but you try keeping your head when a fish is pointed at you by a woman who knows how to use it.
The door from the bar flew open beside me, and with the wind of a passing storm the single room-lamp was eclipsed by an enormous shadow that crawled up the walls to the size of a Titan. The behemoth was, of course, Claudius, but instead of rushing to my rescue, he stood there in stony silence and simply began to tremble. That he was speechless was a good thing, that I was between him and the cleavers wasn't bad either.
That with one finger he could probably snap my neck, well, that was an issue I was going to have deal with in the interim.
By the gods he was cranky.
In a roar, which came from down near his little toe and rose until the crockery and me were shaking, the monster finally lurched in my direction with only cold-blooded murder in his eyes. Not losing focus of the dangers I grabbed Porcia from his path with my one free hand and tried to hold her in front of me.
It worked a treat.
She elbowed me in the solar plexus and ran for the other door, fish still in hand. Claudius meanwhile collided with Gavius trying to drag himself out of the way and together, their entwined bodies missed my hunched over form and tumbled across the bench onto the concrete floor beyond, collecting every last dish and saucepan in the wine bar's inventory.
As the clattering, smashing and Gavius' whining subsided, I chanced a glance at the destruction to find my timid colleague recoiling from the thrashing feet and fists of the huge Etrurian as the latter did battle with the vegetable pot stuck firmly over his head. I had to take action and think fast. My planned ill-gotten gains had been stolen. My pride was on the line – again – and damned if some hired killer was going to make me the sesterciless patsy if the Dictator bought it while I was still around.
Smacking the giant twice in the pot with my fish, I kept the barkeep occupied long enough with his muffled foul language and threats – that I was certain weren't idle – to hoist Gavius onto his feet. Seeing the panicking flounder, my cohort was happy to go packing in Porcia's direction. And I was right behind the slacker.
By the time we reached the hallway I could hear our plucky peahen's skittering footsteps from the stairway Claudius had not long since come down. Maybe she had an escape plan, I knew I didn't, and more importantly she had the winnings. So up the wooden stairs we went, hoping whatever trouble lay ahead, Gavius would cop it first.
Having not paused to ambush us at the top of the stairwell – not that Gavius could take much more of a pounding – we followed Porcia's fading footfalls down the polished wooden floorboards of the hallway, which was guarded on either side by several heavy oak doors. One of these banged ahead, the latch rattling until it was insensible.
“Good,” my ever-confident mind purred, “old Calvus has gone and caught himself the little bird this time.”
Of course disaster was looming, but I said I was ever confident, not ever clever.
With fleet flopping feet, Gavius arrived in the approximate location of the slam, just in time to discover Porcia's reasoning. Obviously hoping it was me, she swung open the solid seven feet of iron strapped timber with what sounded like a kick. Smacking into my faithful friend – as if fired from a catapult – the door stopped dead. So did Gavius. I didn't though. I was running so fast on the slick lacquered floor, my sliding sandals gave no hint of obeying my frantic efforts.
Fortunately slowly-toppling Gavius was able to assist. Once again the impact drove him into the door, which then bounced into Porcia who was attempting to catch sight of her handiwork.
Both of our fish flew from gooey fingers and into the air as three members of Baebius' – sod him too – Travelling Greek Comedians and Tragedians came together in a rather compromising tangle. Were it not for circumstances, I – as the only one without a concussion – may have wanted to linger splayed across Porcia just a little longer. But then another set of glowering eyes caught my attention. There, not six inches away from my nose – as the rancid odour told me – was her – my – fish.
Not being a slouch by any means, and not wanting to give a bit, my little vixen was quick to see my new goal. Ignoring that she should be as dazed as Gavius – who was having a conversation about bed wetting with his mother at this point – Porcia lunged for the creature just as I did.
It was a fairly even battle as we wrestled around on the floor. After biting me several times she got a better a grip on the flounder's tail and then beat me over the head with it until I couldn't remember my name.
But I was one not to let go, oh no, I got a grip like a limpid on a rather smooth and supple calf. Pity my hands were covered in fish phlegm. With one last kick to a part of me already overly assaulted this day, Porcia was away, scampering again into the room behind the big door. Sliding about on the sticky aftermath across the scene of the heated battle, I tumbled after her.
I arrived inside what must have been the master's bedroom – Claudius appeared to have an unusual interest in leather – to see her already astride the second storey windowsill.
“Bollocks,” I cried as I came to understand her intentions.
Racing to snag her travelling cloak I caught only her delighted grin as she dropped from view. Now to any normal rugged and athletic man – as I would like to consider myself – the drop of fifteen feet to the paving stones below seemed a little excessive. But not to Porcia. Her skirt and cloak billowed up as she fell and she landed sleek as a crouched cat.
With an evil laugh she looked back up at me, and then she spirited away my fish, with nary a care for all my hopes stolen away. Now at this point a lessor man may have given up, sat down on his haunches and had a good cry.
I, on the other hand, would not be such a bad loser – though a little teary.
Because as the thunder from the stairway suggested, my trouble was far from over – Claudius was on the rampage and it seemed he no longer thought I was the Phantom. “Bollocks.”
Returning my gaze to the doorway I spotted Gavius now cuddling the other flounder as though it were a stuffed doll. That boy had a lot of unresolved issues I would have to share around at the next wine bar. But for now I had to help him.
A good-hearted villain can't just give up on a comrade when the going is getting tough. After all where else was I going to find someone with the right balance of stupidity and dogged loyalty to realise I was better than them. I can tell you, such friends are few and far between.
I hurried to the doorway, and got a good hold of the pretzel's free arm.
“No Mama,” he whined, “I want to hold Hercules just a little longer.”
By the gods he was a gabbler. But who was I to argue? With Claudius' angry step-pounding growing ever closer, insane babbling for mercy seemed a reasonable option – or slavery under a Gaul with a pleasant penchant for summary beatings – and Gavius at least had his insanity plea all sewn-up.
I dragged him and the fish into the bedroom and quickly shut the door. Then what?
I have to admit I was at a loss. Throwing a babbling Gavius out the window did cross my mind. There was a good chance he wouldn't remember the fall anyway. Still perhaps the maddened barkeep would expect such an escape. I had little to work with, but being an actor used to forgetting his lines, I made something up.
There at the end of Claudius' unmade bed was a large wooden bedding box. Maybe it was washday, because when I opened it I only saw a couple of shoes. This was good. Between the musty toe jam and whatever else was stuck to the mouldy leather, my friend and his fish – or whatever he thought it was – had a reasonable chance of eluding a search. After all, who would think of looking inside a piece of furniture so unpalatable for hiding?
So into the box went Gavius and flounder – at least we might have something for breakfast – it was a tight fit but with a couple of good stomps and sitting on the lid, I got the latch fastened again.
This was just as Claudius arrived outside the great door.
I won't say stopped, as the residue from mighty fish battle, caught the big man completely unawares. Trying to stop, I heard his sandals squeaking on the polished floor, followed by the sudden rumble of an earthquake that shook the entire building.
I might have laughed had I known exactly what the Etrurian expletive was that he screamed. But I remembered what my amused self should have been doing instead, like finding somewhere bloody good to hide.
“Bollocks.”
There wasn't much in the way of choices. The wardrobe was not only obvious but packed with used tunics and moths. That he also owned two togas caught me by surprise, but some people can hide their money well. Throwing myself out the window crossed my mind. Porcia had survived. Then again to run away from that jump made her something more than me – immune to horrible pain and agony.
It was also about this time that I heard his private gang of thugs bursting into the street from the door below. Landing on them – or beside them in a pool of burst organs – was not my best option.
The answer came as my eyes darted from one dark corner to the next and my adrenalin filled panic forced me flat against the wall to see if I had gained the sudden ability to pass through it. The latch on the huge door began to rattle and the voice of an elephant echoed down the corridor outside.
Once before I had been caught in this dire situation – the dark brothel and Senator debacle – and I recalled what hadn't worked that time. Naturally this was the solution. I shot under the huge bed.
No sooner had I started to hold my breath and I was staring at Claudius' toes – I can tell you a pedicure would not have gone astray.
The crashing sandals were rampaging about the room as the barkeep raced to the open window and then back around the room, all the while spitting out cusses and curses about Roman actors and Rome in general. He was not a happy man. I heard a violent search of the wardrobe – I told you it was too obvious – a kick of the camphor shoebox – apparently the dull thud Gavius gave off was normal.
And then an enormous arm swept under the bed towards me – this was where things had gone wrong before. Drawing in my stomach as a worm crawling under a door, his fingers barely missed me.
Another obscenity was barked and he was back at the window.
The barkeep screaming to his muscly enforcers that there was, “a short Sicilian spec of spineless substance to be chased down.”
Rather harsh I thought, I'm not that short – or Sicilian for that matter.
And then he called out something quite odd I thought, telling the heavies in the street – as if they should care, “Now I must be off to bed again…Understand?”
I knew I didn't, but I suppose Claudius wasn't asking me. Suddenly, the mattress above me sagged down, pressing my head hard into the floor. Well, that explained the unmade bed I suppose, the jolly giant was one those early-to-sleep-early-to-rise-types.
As my nose snuffled for some air in the dusty floorboards a thought occurred to me how this would look. A struggling actor, his wealthy fish pinched from him by a girl, and then asphyxiated beneath a barkeep's saggy bottom. Hardly an end to be immortalised on a gravestone – although my Pa's favourite inscription, “he died doing what he liked” sent a shiver down my spine.
One at a time the monster's sandals were kicked off with two loud bangs, then the bedding moved about a bit more and I heard some obsessive mumbling about me, the fish and dimwit Populists. Fighting an urge to sneeze and hoping his last meal wasn't boiled cabbage and garlic – and soon finding out it was – I sighed to myself and tried to think of what I'd do to Porcia if I ever saw her again.
Under the circumstances, that really didn't help either.
