Man Eater

by Marilyn Todd

  Later, of course, he would take himself off to the baths for a long dip, a spot of exercise, another dip, then a massage, preferably in the company of a buxom whore, each enterprise designed to refresh him both physically and mentally. However, it was this lull before the noonday rush that nourished his spiritual needs, this Golden Hour, where time was meaningless and he could admire the marble on his walls and on his floors and of his statuary, gloat over his successes in the Senate House, brush up on his oratory.

  Here, in the peace and splendour of his own office (he daren’t set foot outside, or his wife would nab him), calmed by the aromatic wine, memories would be awake. Of the Gallic campaigns of his youth. Of the curios he’d brought back from Egypt and Noricum and Thrace. Of the political struggles over the years, triumphs and failures, good times and bad.

  Surrounded by exquisite works of art, he could block his ears to the sounds of the city on the far side of the wall—the cries of the mendicants, the hammering of the restoration work, the brawls, the brays and the barks—and reminisce about his sons, the first two, strapping boys who had both died fighting alongside their Emperor, and about his first wife, fifteen years in her grave. Then he would cheer himself up thinking about the three boys his second wife had given him, because Diana, Goddess of Fertility, had blessed the Quintilian line.

  Nothing but sons, he was proud of them all.

  The youngest was a funny little chap, my word he was, waddling up on those fat little legs of his, chortling away. Only this morning, Quintilian had watched him in the peristyle, racing his toy chariots between the columns. Whose idea was it, anyway, to harness them to mice? Comical, I can tell you, watching the big black one…

  ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘Letter, sir!’ The messenger saluted and closed the door behind him.

  Bloody hell, who let him past? Quintilian looked at the scroll on his desk. It could wait. That idle sod of a secretary could read it aloud after luncheon. Where was I? Ah, the racing mice. Yes, that little fellow of mine’s a real chip off the… There was something oddly familiar about the seal on that scroll. Of course it was upside down, he couldn’t see properly…

  What the buggery?

  Quintilian blinked and sat up straight. Damnation, that was his own seal! He ripped it open and began to read. Mars Almighty, it was from the Widow Seferius. How the hell did she do that?

  ‘To refresh your memory, Vixen Hill was purchased yesterday on your behalf’—no salutation, straight in, he noticed—‘and I ended up with Hunter’s Grove. With me so far, Senator?’

  Quintilian’s frame began to shake with silent laughter. I’m with you, Claudia, my love, my little doxy. But you don’t listen, do you? How many times did I tell you, don’t meddle in business. I’m sorry you’ve wasted your money on a patch of exhausted soil, but you had it coming. Oh, you women, you think you’re clever, getting a surveyor to report on the land, but I’m way, way ahead of you, girlie. The report you saw was a forgery. Surprised, Claudia? Shouldn’t be. For five pieces of silver that weasel who lives under the aqueduct will copy anything, it was easy to change the names of the plots. Give in gracefully, there’s a good girl. So you got a bloody nose? This letter will have got it off your chest—a very beautiful chest, if I may say so, my dear, one I hope to get closer acquainted with in the not too distant future—let’s call it quits, shall we? Think about my offer, it’s a generous one, and besides, you can’t keep the business, can you? In, what, eighteen months you’ll be forced to remarry, it’ll pass to your husband, so you may as well enjoy the money while you’re able. Let us therefore be friends, Claudia. Don’t let bitterness come between us, eh?

  He picked up the scroll and read on.

  ‘I know you don’t approve of women in commerce, Quintilian, but I wasn’t sure you’d stoop so low.’

  Low? A spot of forgery? You should see some of the other tricks of the trade, Mistress Seferius, this is just skating the surface.

  ‘On the other hand, it seemed sensible to take certain precautions. Such as asking the surveyor to make two reports, one verbal and one written.’

  Quintilian’s shoulders began to stiffen.

  ‘Ah, I see you have guessed. For some time, I’ve suspected one of my secretaries of spying—documents rearranged, that sort of thing—it seemed sensible to leave nothing to chance, and that included swapping the names round. It’s not entirely clear what you will be able to do with Vixen Hill, but I’m sure you’ll think of something, Senator. That is a very useful little stream which runs through it.

  ‘PS: You do realize its source begins in Hunter’s Grove, don’t you? I’ll let you know well in advance when I plan to divert it.’

  XXVIII

  A world away from the Vale of Adonis, with its narrow fertile belt and dark encroaching forest, the Spring of Sarpedon surrounded itself with rich green meadows from which wooded hills rolled gently backwards, growing blue and hazy with the distance. Sacred white oxen grazed and lowed on grass heavy with anemones and dew, larks sang on the wing and peacock butterflies gorged themselves on nectar.

  Unlike the sulphur pools, today was no public holiday. There were no sausage-sellers, no rope-walkers, no acrobats on Sarpedon’s holy turf—and yet it was impossible for spirits to remain low amid such Arcadian beauty. The mechanics for water collection remained well out of sight, ensuring this remained a tranquil place, where bodies and differences could be aired without impediment, a place for promenading and serenading. Tall cypresses cast shade on the lakes, crack willows dangled their fingers in the water, ferns sprang up like children. Blushing maidens wore garlands of blue iris and vervain, young men showed off their prowess at rowing on the lake, the poor scattered handfuls of flour, instead of metal, as offerings.

  When the wagon lurched to a halt in the temple forecourt, Sergius was still expounding about his ideas for the future and if enthusiasm was rewarded in gold, he would be richer than Midas by now, thought Claudia. It had troubled him deeply, seeing his trainer reduced to a ghost—and she realized that Corbulo had not yet told Sergius of his intentions to leave when his contract was up. Either that, or Sergius was confident of talking him round. Any fool could see there was a glittering future in these circus spectaculars. Equally, he would argue, only a fool would walk away.

  Corbulo’s attendance today had uplifted not only Sergius. Everyone’s spirits had been given a boost. That’s not to say they hadn’t barred their doors and windows overnight, but here, out in the open, under a wide and welcoming sky, the general consensus was that the killer could only be one of Sergius’ hired henchmen and that’s the price you pay for taking on transitory labour. He should have employed men from Tarsulae. Never mind there are no young men left, and never mind the locals would have blabbed to all and sundry. It was his own fault, he was told, he’ll know better next time.

  Yet all too quickly the badinage was cut short as news about the Regent spread, and as they crossed the bridge to the island, the tone was sombre. It was Agrippa this, Agrippa that, and Taranis was confused.

  ‘I no understand. Why unrest in Rome?’ he asked, throwing his hands in the air. ‘Why threat of uprising?’

  ‘Exiles,’ croaked Corbulo. It was the best he could manage since someone had tried to restring his vocal chords, though it only partly explained his reluctance to talk. The trainer had changed. Often one does, when confronted with death, but while his was a dangerous profession, there was no comparison with assault from a back-stabber. Some men, Claudia knew, were never the same after a cowardly attack. They turned inwards upon themselves, became sullen, withdrawn, and although she prayed the gentle Corbulo would pull out of it, inside she feared for him.

  ‘How you mean, exiles?’ persisted Taranis, but it was left to Sergius to explain. Behind him, rugs were being spread out on the grass.

  ‘He means folk have short memories. Three generations of civil war are quickly forgotten, they only remember being moved away from their own land to live in the city, and f
or some it’s still an alien culture.’

  ‘They choose to go, no? Is not forced upon them?’

  ‘This is the second generation we’re talking about. Men with time on their hands, men who see themselves at the mercy of state handouts.’

  Yes, thought Claudia. It is never fathers, but sons, who grow restless.

  The prospect of a fierce civil backlash did not seem to bother the Celt particularly, rather the opposite, in fact. She was watching Corbulo, red muffler round his bruised neck, carving away at a piece of wood, when Salvian appeared at her elbow and relieved her of her wrap. His face was set, and yet Claudia had a feeling this had little to do with the death of Agrippa.

  ‘Everything all right?’ she asked, with a significant nod in Tulola’s direction. All morning Tulola had been skewering him with her eyes, and twice Claudia heard her hiss ‘Pansy!’ at him.

  ‘She’s giving me a hard time,’ the Tribune confided, ‘because I wouldn’t come to her bed last night.’ No stammer? ‘Can’t imagine why,’ he added. ‘She knows I’m married.’

  Claudia’s laugh nearly burst free, but she swallowed it just in time. No, no stammer. Salvian was fast becoming his own man. He’d overtake his uncle in no time, and neither Tulola nor Macer would understand why.

  The clouds on his face passed away. ‘I know who the killer is,’ he whispered, and this time Claudia’s laugh was not restrainable. Growing up he might be, but not fast enough. The expression on his face was just like a six year old’s on his birthday.

  ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ he said, without animosity. ‘It was something my uncle said, which put me on to it.’

  Claudia made a brave stab at solemnity. ‘You mean that, like Macer, you think I dunnit?’

  Salvian handed back her neatly folded palla. ‘Lord, no,’ he said seriously. ‘You have to make allowances for my uncle, Claudia, it’s—well, it’s understandable, I suppose. Not so long ago, he investigated a robbery, where the shopkeeper said he was raided but the injury to his head was nothing worse than a bruise. Later he confessed he’d staged the whole thing to stave off his creditors. I gave you chance to escape,’ he added, ‘and, to be honest, I was surprised you came back.’

  You? You gave me that alibi? Claudia gawped at Salvian. ‘The innocent have nothing to hide,’ she said smoothly. But that won’t stop me pickling your uncle in vinegar.

  Food was being spread on the gaily coloured blankets. A slave chilled wine in Sarpedon’s crystalline waters. Alis and Pallas chased their counters over a chequered board. Timoleon was telling an eager Barea about the preponderance of stud farms which were springing up all over southern Italy. She did not feel like joining them.

  Despite the bridge having no balustrade, Claudia leaned at a perilous angle over the water. It was so clear, you could watch bubbles of air rise to the surface, hundreds of them, each sending out tightly packed ripples which ran into its neighbour, swirling the surface and giving the spring effervescence. Rooks cawed in the sycamore trees and gnats danced over the shallows. Now if we could only transfer this to Rome, she thought contentedly, life would be perfect.

  In the city, of course, water was a perpetual headache. The Tiber stood no chance of meeting the needs of the people, and between them, the aqueducts pumped in a hundred million gallons a day. Yet still it wasn’t enough. Not that she was affected personally, the Seferius household had its water piped in, but for the poor it was a real problem. As part of the appeasement process, she suspected that Augustus would promise more aqueducts, just as surely as he’d promise bigger and better spectacles for his citizens. Which brought her back to Sergius.

  For him, the death of Agrippa could not have come at a better time. She looked round, but he was absent from the group. Oh, there he is, back at the temple. With a casual glance over each shoulder, Sergius paused by the steps, then ducked into a chasm underneath. That he was able to do so was down to the geography of the land, because what was originally a simple shrine built into the hillside to honour Sarpedon, whose holy waters seeped from the rocks there, had been extended over the centuries until it was now a full-fledged temple. So instead of a solid block of rock leading up, a stone stairway had been tacked on, and it was beneath this stairway that Sergius disappeared. Fascinated, Claudia sauntered across. A grove of Apollo’s sacred bay offered her the excuse of shade, and she was ostensibly watching the priest collect the leaves when she caught sight of Euphemia darting between the cottony leaves of the poplars.

  ‘Can I pick some bay for you, madam?’ the priest asked, for the oracle would chew them to induce his trance and deliver his prophecies. This, though, he would do in the temple proper…not under its stairs.

  In the time it took for Claudia to shake her head, Euphemia had disappeared—or had she? Claudia caught a flash of pink just before Euphemia’s tunic was completely swallowed by the chasm under the stairway. Well, well, well. Who’s a naughty boy, then?

  She paused in the temple precincts to read the inscriptions engraved in the walls, some admirable, some sickly sweet, one or two comic. A flock of pigeons pecked among the cobbles, plump as only temple pigeons can be when they’re fed on caraway to ensure they never stray, and rows of hyssop waited patiently for when it was their turn to be gathered to purify Sarpedon’s altar. A fountain representing the river god sang praises in his own language, a woman wept with relief after consulting the oracle. On the surface, life was simple here, continuous and peaceful—right now, it was hard to imagine such beauty, such sanctity could be sullied by a murderer walking among its willows and its cypresses…

  Back on the island the wine flowed freely, jokes and laughter with it. Only Marcus Cornelius and the trainer seemed impervious to the atmosphere—and one could be forgiven.

  ‘I shall have to look you up when I’m in Rome.’ Tulola directed one long finger towards Orbilio.

  ‘Do that,’ quipped Claudia. ‘His residence has something no other patrician family possesses.’

  ‘Oh, yes. What’s that?’ she asked.

  ‘Fleas.’

  Even Miseryguts responded to that one.

  As she tucked into cold salmon, chicken legs, and antelope studded with peppercorns, Claudia’s banter revealed nothing of the turmoil within. Her trial was barely three days away, now, yet she had heard nothing from the lawyer. Had the messenger delivered the letter? Would Symmachus shrug off the threat of exposure? Supposing he was ill, and couldn’t travel? Claudia had no doubts of her acquittal, but the scandal would completely ruin her wine business. That she was female was sufficient to knock sales on the head. That she was a female with a penchant for cold-blooded murder was the final straw.

  Sipping the chilled red wine, she refused to acknowledge defeat. A lot could happen in three days…you only had to look at the last week to see that. But there was work to be done if she intended to rebuild the business. Realistically, she’d need to appoint an agent, someone clients could deal with on a daily basis without feeling this preposterous sense of emasculation. In no way would this affect her control over the business, but at the party the other night, Corbulo had given her one hell of an idea.

  What was wrong with a little diversification now and then? Not in the way Corbulo suggested (cattle and cabbages, indeed!), but her surveyor had sown the seed. Thrasian grapes? Why not? Seferius wine was renowned for producing full-bodied reds, what was wrong with fruity whites? And since we can’t shift this year’s plonk, why not keep it another year and flog it abroad as vintage? Some could be turned into raisin wine—now that’s really catching on as an after-dinner tipple…

  ‘You caught them, didn’t you?’

  She hadn’t heard Pallas approach, but that wasn’t surprising. He moved fast, for his bulk, and she recalled the speed with which he dashed off when he saw Macer coming. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Sergius and his adulteress. You caught them in flagrante.’

  ‘How did you—?’

  Who was he spying on? Sergius? Or me? From the corner o
f her eyes she could see Pictor, his arm wrapped round his wife and with the same look of devotion plastered upon his handsome face that he always wore. Euphemia sat on a fallen tree trunk, one leg over the other, watching the boats on the lake.

  ‘Darling girl.’ Pallas reached for an artichoke. ‘I know everything that goes on round here.’

  Claudia stood up. He was tall, Pallas. She had to crane her neck to look into his eyes. ‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ she asked quietly, unable to disguise the amusement in her voice. ‘You’re the peeping Tom.’

  Pallas tipped his head back and roared so loudly that Timoleon and Barea had to start their arm-wrestling all over again. ‘Me?’ Tears rolled down his fat face. ‘My dear child, Eros forsook me long ago.’ For an instant, his expression hardened. ‘She intimated at a certain lack of proficiency on my part.’

  Eros might be many things, but Eros was not a ‘she’. ‘Are we’, Claudia hazarded, ‘talking about your wife?’

  ‘To be accurate,’ he said bitterly, ‘the word she used was “pathetic”.’ Then the old Pallas bounced back, gossiping for all he was worth. ‘No, no, it’s Euphemia who steams up the windows. Trying to find new ways to keep her stud entertained, and who better to learn from than Tulola?’

  Sergius didn’t know, or he’d never have called Macer. ‘Honestly, Pallas, I’ve never been to a house with so much intrigue under one roof.’ Claudia paused to nibble a handful of raisins. ‘You don’t believe the murderer is one of the henchmen, do you?’