Man Eater (38 page)

Outside, Claudia stood for a moment on the terracing, listening to the yawns, grunts and chatters that seem common first thing in the morning to all creatures, whether wild, domesticated or human. While Cuddles had been stalking her victim, Claudia’s mind had been completely concentrated, but the second the cat’s death set in, she’d felt an inexplicable tug at her innards which owed nothing to fear and less to relief. Then when Marcus rolled out from under the cheetah, it seemed her raw emotions were mirrored on his own face. He had lurched white-faced towards her, and suddenly all she wanted was for him to open his arms and envelop her… Dammit, she was glad when he threw up!

Her gaze roved the Vale of Adonis, over its ordered rows of vetch and lupin. It was no good for a girl, this sudden rush of sentiment. And to hell with this workman, too, and his penchant for bloody onions. What else could be making her eyes water?

Taking a deep breath, Claudia flexed the shears. Well greased, they moved sweetly, but she did not intend to use them for haircuts.

The door to the north wing would be open by now.

Tulola, naturally, would have an alibi.

Someone to swear she had not unleashed her pet on purpose, and Claudia’s money was on Timoleon. Perhaps she had drugged him the way she had drugged Orbilio?

Pausing by the leopard shed, Claudia thought of her torn and bloodied tunic. Bait, to lure the cheetah, because that’s how they catch these big cats, isn’t it? By staking out an animal? This time, blood was the lure, and Cuddles didn’t care whether her gazelle walked on four legs or two.

‘Pretty kitty,’ Claudia whispered to the leopard.

She could not begin to imagine what hatred lay inside Tulola, what vitriol, but one thing was certain. Within the hour, that bitch will be spilling beans as though there was no tomorrow. Which, Claudia thought, hefting the shears, might well be the case.

‘Oh, yes, you’re beautiful, aren’t you?’

By rights she ought to go straight to Macer, tell him what had happened, leave the army to sort out Tulola. But Claudia needed to know for herself the reason for the killings. The leopard let out a short, guttural protest, more for show than for menace. Was Tulola revenging herself on men who’d rejected her? Salvian had, and he wound up dead. Corbulo had never strayed, and he only escaped because he was rescued in time. Fronto, of course, she couldn’t vouch for, but
someone
had let him inside a locked house—and didn’t Balbilla say he’d been bedding some rich bitch? Suppose, then, Orbilio had also rejected her? That it was Marcus, not Claudia, who was the victim in this latest twist?

So far, so good, but where did Claudia fit in to this jigsaw? Macer might take Tulola to trial, but she needed to hear from Tulola’s own lips why she hated Claudia Seferius so bitterly that she set her up for murder…

Claudia looked at the long, liquid leopard, its yellow eyes blazing with anger. Who can blame you, she thought, being cooped up all your life? Having baby bunnies hop around in your cage is no compensation, is it, poppet? What life is that for a magnificent beast like yourself? She thought of the freedom Drusilla enjoyed, and smiled. By the gods, she thought, these cats are powerful weapons of war—and really you had to admire Tulola’s nerve. Claudia’s eyes ran from the swishing tail, over the powerful ribcage, up over the massive shoulder blades right to its shiny pink nose.

Pink?
The camel shears clattered on to the cobbles. Cuddles has a black nose. And a black tip to her tail. Cuddles has pretty black teardrops that run from her eye…
and Cuddles only takes gazelle.
Claudia stared at the leopard. Leopards spend most of their lives up a tree. Leopards are night hunters. Sweet Janus, leopards can
also
be trained…

She reached for the shears, but a hand clamped over her wrist. A red, painted, Etruscan hand.

‘I can see from your expression, my dear Claudia, that you have worked out my little secret.’

The voice was quiet, barely audible. But the dark grey eyes of the trainer penetrated Claudia’s very soul.

XXXIII

Claudia stared at Corbulo. His mouth was working, he seemed to be telling her what a charmed life she led, but it was not his words she was mesmerized by. Just like the night of the party, he wore his white linen kilt and his fancy, filigree torque. When the sun’s rays rose above the rooftops, it would gleam and shine and glitter and reflect, Macer would be left in its shade. Again, like the night of the equinox, Corbulo’s body was ritual-red, his hair looped, only this time it was bound in a dark blue fillet.

The word ‘ceremony’ screamed from every pore.

‘Why?’ she asked simply.

To struggle, to break free, to scream for help would be useless. He was strong, she could feel the calluses rough on her wrist, and all around, wild beasts roared out their hunger. It was not in Claudia Seferius to submit, to go gracefully, but the need to know held her spellbound.

‘What have I ever done to you?’

She needed, godsdammit, to know.

‘Too late for games, Claudia.’ He pulled on her wrist. ‘You’ve had enough chances.’

Claudia thought of the Fates, those three old crones who weave the cloth of life. One spins the thread, one determines its length and one—she shivered—snips it with her shears. Claudia looked at the sheep shears at her own feet. On no, you bloody don’t, she thought. I’ll tell you when to start chopping!

With her free hand, she grabbed the bars of the leopard’s cage. It snarled and snapped its jaws, but what the hell? At this rate, with Corbulo tugging and the leopard salivating over its prospective breakfast, she’d probably be pulled in two. They could share the damned prize.

The trainer’s expression hadn’t altered, but a dagger had appeared in his hand. Insects slithered down Claudia’s spine. Jupiter, Juno and Mars, this man is unhinged! Unless she released her grip, he was going to slice her fingers off!

‘Let her go!’

The voice was unmistakable, she just wondered what took him so long.

‘Think I haven’t been expecting you, Marcus?’ The Etruscan’s voice was a sneer.

Relieved and off her guard, Claudia didn’t realize what was happening until it was too late. With one expert movement, Corbulo spun her round and threw her headlong into an empty cage, presumably that of the late, lamented leopard in the valley. While she lay sprawled, he shot the bolt and danced round to face Orbilio. Once again, she’d forgotten how light he was on his feet.

The two men lunged at one another, each parrying the other’s knife thrust. For several minutes they dodged and darted, grunting with the exertion, then suddenly Orbilio delivered a swift uppercut and blood spurted from Corbulo’s chest. Reeling, his dagger knocking Orbilio’s knife out of his hand, the Etruscan cried out, staggered, gasped, then pitched forward on to his face.

Orbilio bent to retrieve his weapon. And as he did so, Corbulo—trainer, trickster—bounced up, a long wooden pole in his hands. It was the vaulting pole he used for the horses, and now Claudia knew why it was here. It was another trap. This cunning, evil monster had planned this, as well. He had watched what had happened in the valley, and had waited. Even the wound was a ploy. He’d choreographed his moves in order to sustain a convincing superficial cut.

As though a ballet or a mime had been painted, frieze by frieze, Claudia watched helplessly through the bars of the cage.

Orbilio straightening…

Corbulo behind him, swinging the bar…

The bar connecting with the centre of Orbilio’s spine…

Poleaxed, Marcus Cornelius Orbilio collapsed.

‘Is he—dead?’ she whispered.

Corbulo mopped his wound with his handkerchief. ‘No,’ he said, casting a professional eye over his shoulder as he inspected the side of Claudia’s prison. ‘But I doubt he’ll walk again.’

*

Claudia’s mother was not prone to dishing out advice, but then again she wasn’t one for taking it either. Once, however, when Claudia was about twelve, she had prised herself off the filthy, wine-stained pallet she called bed to impart counsel and wisdom to her impressionable daughter.

‘Only one thing to remember in this life, love,’ she’d sobbed, wiping the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘You come into it on your own, and alone is how you go out.’

Not that Claudia’s mother went out alone. She was accompanied by a liver no self-respecting augur would spit on, plus 164 empty wine jugs.

Claudia knew it was 164.

She’d had plenty of time to count them while her mother’s body stiffened in the coagulated blood from her slashed wrists…

Claudia had not thought of her mother for a long, long time, but now, inside the leopard’s cage, the words shimmered back across the years. You are alone. You can rely on no one but yourself.

In a rare moment of dependence, she had waited for Marcus Cornelius Orbilio to spring to her rescue and the price she paid was heavier than she could ever have imagined possible. As a result of her selfishness, a young aristocrat lay crippled for life, his career in tatters, his pleasures just memories. No more jousting on the Field of Mars, rousting on a Saturday night. Never again would he feel the throb of horseflesh between his legs, the thrill of a woman, the pulse of a long, hard run.

It would, she reflected bitterly, have been better to let him take his chances on Thursday with Gisco and that famous gelding knife. Was it really only three days ago? A lifetime had passed since then.

Head buried in her hands as she knelt on the rough wooden floor, Claudia was denied even the luxury of self-pity. The crate, like everything else, had been planned in the most meticulous detail. It was a transport cage. It was on wheels. And Corbulo had not been inspecting the box, he’d been harnessing it.

The ceremony, whatever it might be, was about to begin.

He paused to staunch the blood from his chest by dipping his handkerchief in a barrel of drinking water and pressing it hard against the wound. As the red ochre drizzled away with the blood, Claudia could see the Etruscan’s neck, unlined and unmarked. Now she knew what had happened that night in the hay store. It was Corbulo who had stolen the yellow tunic, Corbulo who had flitted so furtively round his own territory. The bastard had timed it to perfection—the gurgles, the drumming of his feet against the door. Croesus, he’d even painted the purple marks on his neck, because who’d check for treachery in the heat of cutting him down? He’d have balanced himself on a hay bale, judging his jump to the second they burst through the door.

And Salvian, young, innocent Salvian, had realized this. Macer told him about the robbery which was no robbery, and Salvian connected it with the hanging which was no hanging. Corbulo wore a scarf to the Springs…maybe it blew away a fraction for Salvian to notice the lack of evidence, maybe Timoleon’s jibes set a train of thought in motion, or maybe, just maybe, Salvian was smarter than anyone had given him credit for. She could imagine the scene, the junior tribune marching up to arrest the trainer and, tragic as the outcome was, Claudia smiled through her tears at the young man’s confidence. Had he lived, he would have been a man to be reckoned with. As it is, his wife and unborn child still had every right to be proud of him.

The cage was cramped, she could sit, kneel or crouch, but it was impossible to stand upright. Claudia scanned the compounds for other signs of life. The slaves would be well into their stride by now, the family would be up, the field workers breaking their fast for the day. But Corbulo worked alone. He was famous for it. What would bring someone here? Claudia did not believe in lucky flukes, but prayed for one anyway.

The cage began to roll forward, rumbling past bears and lions and camels. She could hear the mules whinny and snicker, and then she was bumping faster and faster. She saw the stiff neck of the giraffe, saw its silly, gormless face watching her. Did Corbulo realize the road block was still in place? Surely Macer, if no one else, would still be looking for her? Or had Corbulo taken care of that, as well? The elephant swung his trunk through the gap in his wall. The elephant? Sweet Juno, they weren’t going down the hill, they were going up! Forget the Via Flaminia, he was using an old Umbrian path that went straight over the hill. Where was he taking her?

‘Is this some Etruscan sacrifice you’re planning?’

Not that they made human sacrifices, the gentle Etruscans, but with Corbulo’s mind unhinged as it was, you could never tell. They began to bump downhill, the mules galloping at the crack of the whip. Wildly Claudia clung to the bars, her knees clattering painfully on the wooden boards.

‘I’ve tried, Claudia,’ he yelled back at her. ‘The gods know I’ve tried to make you pay for all that you’ve done to us, but each time, you’ve escaped by the luck of the gods, you and that tosser policeman. Did he really think he could outwit me?’

No, but I did. And it’s because of me he lies crippled. Faster and faster the mules and the cage clattered down the hill. Leaves whipped the sides, weeds and grasses caught in the woodwork. Claudia’s hands were bleeding from the splinters in the bars.

‘This wasn’t how I’d planned it.’ He was shouting. ‘I’d hoped to make you pay while I sat back and watched.’ She heard a hollow laugh. ‘Instead we’ll have to go together, but at least I die a true Etruscan.’ Claudia pulled at the bars. They were too thick to snap. What is it, this obsession with Etruria?