Man Eater (7 page)

Lacing his boot, he recalled the last time he saw her, the wind whipping her curls about as she stood on the deck in Sicily. Wherever she walked, that woman, trouble walked beside her, and that day had been no exception. Barely one hour before she had escaped death by a cat’s whisker, yet to see her in the prow of that freighter, proud eyes flashing, her back as straight as any arrowshaft, it was almost impossible to believe the evidence. A man thought only of the liquid swish of her skirts, the molten folds of cotton over her breasts.

Scheduled to sail with her, Orbilio had instead been called away at the last moment on the Governor’s orders. What had happened during that voyage from Sicily? What had caused her to return his letters? Dammit, the air sizzled whenever they were in the same room together, what had—

‘Dammit, you! Up!’ Harshly he pulled the bedclothes off the slumbering form. The chill night air would wake her more surely than his voice.

The woman in his bed began to groan like an ungreased axle, clawing at the bedclothes, but his grip was the stronger. ‘You’re out of here,’ he snapped, ‘and I mean now!’

He shook bronze into his hand. ‘Ten sesterces should see you right.’

The moaning stopped. ‘Did you say…
ten sesterces
?’

Orbilio rolled his eyes. There was no time to argue. ‘Twenty, then, you money-grabbing bitch.’

More coins showered the bed.

‘But get one thing straight. Don’t sniff round me again, because no one rips Marcus Cornelius off twice. Besides,’ he got hold of the bed frame and tilted, ‘you’re a bloody poor lay.’

The woman tumbled out with an ignominious bump as the bedframe clattered back down.

‘Any whore worth her salt leaves a man with a memory of his night gymnastics, but you—’

He stopped abruptly. Sitting bolt upright on the tessellated floor, outrage bulging her forty-year-old eyes, was the heavy-hipped wife of the ex-tribune, ex-prefect, ex-consul.

Orbilio produced his most disarming grin while his mind turned somersaults.

Quite how he’d ended up with his patron’s wife in his bed remained a total blank. Bu t it was fairly certain that by calling her a whore and a money-grabbing bitch, his
prospects weren’t
as hot as he’d hoped.

Especially when she seemed intent on spitting obscenities at him, interspersed with ‘don’t-you-think-you-can-treat-me-like-this-and-get-away-with-it’ and ‘you-haven’t-heard-the-last-of-me-not-by-a-long-chalk’.

Shit.

He thought he caught other threats, including one that seemed to imply that those ivory-inlaid doors would be slammed in his face assuming he was ever foolish enough to contemplate such a move, but on the whole her tirade was drowned by his feeble (but insistent) protestations.

‘Joke, you say?’

The vindictive bitch was deaf to his excuses as she snapped on her sandals.

‘Well, if you fancy a joke, Marcus Cornelius Gigolo, how about the one that goes: You’ll pay so dearly for what you called me, you scheming bastard, you won’t have those twenty sesterces left to rub together by the time I’ve finished with you!’

With that, she slammed the door and he could hear her clip-clopping over the tiles like some old billy goat, which—having seen her by lamplight, chins sagging and her make-up streaked—she more than closely resembled.

His hands were shaking as he gathered together the rest of his possessions, grateful more than words could express for the long ride ahead. Bacchus, old boy, you are out of my life. Forever. Henceforth it’s milk for Marcus. Goat’s milk, cow’s milk, camel’s milk, dandelion bloody milk, just keep me away from the wine. He adjusted his belt and pulled tight his cloak just as Tingi knocked at the door.

Yet it was not via the door that Marcus Cornelius Orbilio finally made his exit.

It was through the open window, with Tingi’s words still ringing in his ears as he legged it towards the stables.

‘There’s a Master Gisco in the atrium. Shall I show him in?’

V

Prefect Macer might not have been the highest star in the military firmament, but, by Jupiter, he was the brightest. From the elaborate embroidery on his scarlet tunic to the eye-watering shine on his hammered breastplate, the good soldier eliminated any doubts the good citizens of Umbria might harbour as to their place in society once he had entered the scene.

It was clear he also felt his star was in the ascendant.

For the short term, his bearing announced, I might be posted to the back of beyond, but don’t get used to my face.

Basking in this new-found importance, he’d mustered the entire Pictor household in the banqueting hall first thing after breakfast and was now intent on establishing identities. Barea came from Lusitania, did he? Whereabouts? Which tribe did you say you belong to, Taranis? The Atrebates? Never heard of ’em. Negotiating for bears, eh? Is it true Caledonian beasts fight better? Well, I never—Scrap Iron, isn’t it? What an honour. I must have seen you fight a dozen times…

Claudia found her gaze wandering towards the window. Perfect spring day, no trace of fog. She could make out patches of beans, cabbages, leeks and onions, pens of pigs and goats. Yellow blossoms of the cornelian cherries attracted bees. A reaping machine rusted happily against a buckthorn hedge. Chickens were scratching, oxen were being yoked, field workers were trekking off, hoes slung over their shoulders.

Cats, however, were still thin on the ground, especially Egyptian ones.

Claudia swallowed the lump in her throat, but another filled up the gap. Two days and two nights. Could it, after all, be more than the preponderance of foreign scents that had impeded her built-in tracking device? Could it…I mean, suppose… What if Drusilla really was… It was one hell of a bounce down the hill. Claudia had time to jump clear, but Drusilla? Back in January, one of her kittens worked its wobbly way on to the roof but, before Junius could rescue it, it had slipped. The feel of that tiny, twisted piece of velvet in Claudia’s hands was agony beyond words… And even if Drusilla hadn’t been hurt in the accident, there were the wolves…

Macer had moved on to the traditional where-were-you-when-the-lights-went-out sort of questions, but Timoleon was reluctant to relinquish centre stage. Good. Let the lump of gristle talk all he wants.

Unfortunately for Claudia, there had been no chance for that quiet word in Macer’s ear. No chance to slip him a bung to ease her passage through these troubled waters. Upon arrival, he thrust his splendidly plumed helmet into the hands of a waiting lackey (his sideways expression, incidentally, making it abundantly clear that his opinion of Claudia’s orange tunic ran along parallel lines to her own) and demanded to examine the corpse forthwith.

‘I shall need complete access to the premises and after that I have one or two primary investigations to make before I can begin the business of taking statements. I presume you can accommodate my officers overnight?’ He’d been addressing the head of the household, but it was Pallas who’d whispered ‘Tulola can’ under his breath.

Now, with the early-morning sunshine bouncing off his breastplate, the Prefect wriggled the hilt of his sword in its scabbard. ‘Salvian, round up who’s missing, we don’t have all bloody day.’

A boy with the same thin nose and baby-fine hair, either a son or a nephew, stepped forward uncertainly. Like children’s clothes, his armour seemed designed for him to grow into, it seemed impossible he could be a junior tribune already. He had barely taken two paces when the sound of male laughter barrelled round the lofty marbled banqueting hall.

‘Then Barea said, “Er what?” To which I replied, “Since you’re riding that stallion without a saddle, you err on the side of caution!”’

The voice was Corbulo’s, but the exuberance on the faces of both him and Sergius was instantly subdued by Macer’s frown. The trainer pulled up a stool to Claudia’s left. Sergius took a stand between Alis and her ever-scowling sister.

‘Is that everyone?’ The Prefect fingered his gold medallions. ‘Right, let’s get down to—where’s Tulola? Salvian, lad, you had orders to fetch her, now jump to it.’

The coughs and the shuffles began. Pallas decided to instruct Barea on the seventeen ways to cook sucking-pig, Timoleon and the Celt stared each other out, Sergius laid his hand on his wife’s shoulder. The look she gave him was of utter adoration and this, to Claudia’s astonishment, was mirrored in his own. Euphemia glowered at the ceiling and pulled at her lower lip. What I wouldn’t give to know what’s going through your little noodle, thought Claudia. Or do you pull a knife on every visitor? Across the room, half hidden behind a pink marble column, the driver of the gig huddled among the slaves and servants fidgeting nervously. It was the first time she’d seen him since the accident, and his arm was in a sling.

Macer yawned and plucked a hair from his tunic. ‘May I enquire why you keep the menagerie, sir?’

A flame of excitement flushed Sergius’ face. ‘Just as Augustus has brought peace and stability, you’ll find audiences will tire of watching the same old animals trotting round the arena.’ His eyes were dancing with animation and he leaned forward to emphasize his point. ‘I intend to revolutionize all that, Macer. I shall be the talk of all Rome, there’ll be nothing like it in the whole of the Empire!’

Claudia felt equally fired with enthusiasm, although not necessarily for the same reason. Her accuser’s radical aims put him on the edge of a veritable fortune and the richer he was, the harder she could sue…. Stealing a glance at his wife, clearly hanging on his every word, she wondered what had attracted him to Alis. It was easy to see why Alis had fallen for those saturnine looks, but Sergius? Am I that cynical, Claudia wondered, that I can’t accept he married her for her personality?

‘S-s-sorry, s-sir, I can’t f-find her anywhere.’ The junior tribune clanked across the room to make his report.

‘She hasn’t disappeared into thin air, boy. Look harder!’

Red-faced, Salvian clattered back out and Macer did what he should have done long ago, so they could catch up on their backlog of chores—he began to eliminate the slaves. Forty sloped off straight away, the slavemaster swearing on his mother’s grave they’d been asleep in their barracks and no one could possibly have passed without his notice. Nonsense, thought Claudia. At least half of them sneak past every other night, either to steal from the kitchens or visit the women. But that’s Macer for you. Educated, aristocratic, and without an inkling about human behaviour.

Pallas was explaining to Barea that the best way to stuff a porcupine was with dormice and oysters seasoned heavily with rue when the door was flung wide.

‘I do hope you haven’t started without me.’ Emerald green shimmered across the floor, her Egyptian hairstyle all the more pronounced by a dozen gold leaves woven into it.

The colour drained from the Prefect’s face. ‘Mother of Hades. What’s that?’

His weren’t the only eyes on stalks. Claudia’s could have brushed cobwebs off the ceiling, because attached to Tulola’s wrist by a heavy leash padded a long, liquid feline. Its head seemed strangely small for so powerful a body, its ears deceptively flattened, its eyes surely too high-set? Two black teardrops ran from the corner of each eye, and
its
pelt was
ferociously spotted
black.

The cheetah treated the assemblage to a show of awesome fangs as it yawned, then looked into the middle distance in disdain. Tulola patted its head and, in that second, Claudia realized it was no mere sentiment which attracted Tulola to the cheetah. It was the same predatory instinct in both.

‘Don’t mind her,’ Tulola drawled. ‘She’s quite harmless.’

The cheetah’s expression changed to suggest that, actually, a nice joint of Prefect was just what she fancied. Look how the black tip of my lovely long tail twitches in anticipation!

Macer, struggling to regain his composure, barked, ‘There’s no one else, I presume? We’re not waiting for a husband or something?’

Tulola smiled coyly. ‘Married? Me?’

‘Don’t be so modest, cousin.’ Pallas leaned back in his basketweave chair and crossed his arms. ‘Tell the Prefect about your dear old spouse.’

If looks could kill, Pallas would have been impaled by a thousand spears. ‘That marriage,’ Tulola spoke through clenched teeth, ‘was over years ago.’

‘We’re wasting time,’ Sergius said dismissively. ‘Oughtn’t we to move on to the peeping Tom?’

‘Peeping Tom, sir?’

If Macer was confused, it was nothing compared to what Claudia was feeling. What was he talking about? Had she missed something?

‘The dead man, of course.’ Sergius’ impatience was ill-concealed. ‘I want to find out who he is and let his family know what sort of scum he was.’

Macer pulled a loose thread of embroidery from his tunic. ‘May I ask what leads you to this conclusion, sir?’

It was Tulola who answered. ‘Me. Several times lately I’ve seen a face at my window.’

‘And you recognized this person as the deceased?’

‘By the time I reached the window, he’d vanished,’ Tulola replied.

‘That’s why I sent for you,’ Sergius explained. ‘I’d been increasingly concerned for my sister’s safety—you know how these perverts operate. Starts off with spying and escalates from there.’ He turned to Claudia and spread his hands apologetically. ‘In retrospect I should have brought the army in sooner, I didn’t realize how far things had gone. I really appreciate your staying on to give evidence.’