Marilyn Todd - Man Eater

‘Tell me again what Coronis was doing?’

‘Carrying a tray. Right!’ For once, Orbilio, I’m with you.

‘Cheek by jowl, Claudia. Together we’ll nail this son-of-a-bitch, but right now let’s get hold of Blondie and ask her exactly what she was doing at a time when the rest of the household was abed yet the hall was lit like a Vestal Virgins’ vigil.’

How did he get his teeth round that? Claudia tried and got a Vestal Virgil’s wigeon. She hauled herself up the rockface with the aid of the rope handrail. Vested Virgin’s widget. She scoured the groups of slaves and freeborns in search of a familiar blond head. Vesper Virgin’s strigil. Oh, sod it! Let him show off if he likes.

Blast. ‘There she is.’ Claudia pointed to one of the smaller bowls down by the river, where Coronis was stretched out the way Claudia had been, resting her chin on her hands and taking a well-earned siesta. It would have saved a whole load of physical exertion if they’d just turned round and looked behind them in the first place.

‘Two-pronged attack?’ Orbilio suggested, running back down the steps.

‘I’ll take the left,’ she wheezed. It was closer.

All the same, this boy’s-own stuff was quite enjoyable once you got used to it.

Simultaneously they slipped into the saucer either side of the sleeping slave and sat staring upstream until they got their breath back. It’s a pity they don’t have something like this in Rome, she thought. Individual hot tubs, constantly recycled by the warm waters of a river god striving relentlessly to impregnate his water nymph. I could get used to this.

‘I hate to disturb you,’ Orbilio said eventually, ‘but we need you to answer a few questions.’

Claudia drew her knees up to her chin. This should be interesting.

‘Coronis?’ The change in his tone alerted her. ‘Coronis?’

Claudia sat bolt upright. Pushing aside the blond hair waving in the water, her hand froze. ‘Marcus.’

He leaned over. ‘Shit!’

Automatically he reached for the pulse in her neck, although both of them knew it was useless. One look at the girl’s half-opened eyes and protruding tongue was enough.

‘Shit!’ he said again. ‘Her neck’s broken.’ He glanced round to where bathers and invalids splashed and groaned and laughed and fidgeted. ‘It had to be damn quick for no one to notice what happened.’

Claudia hugged herself tight and rocked back and forth in the water. Coronis looked so peaceful…

For a long, long time they sat in the torrent, flanking the dead girl like book-ends, as divers launched themselves into the waterfall, winesellers emptied jug after jug and herbalists touted their foul-smelling unguents. Tonight these people would trek home to their mansions or tenements, or they’d gravitate to the village on the hill for board and lodging and the ministrations of whores. But whichever they chose, they would gossip and grouch, quibble and quip, and whether rich or poor, sick or healthy, it was bed they looked forward to tonight. Not a funeral bier. And the kite still circled and mewed.

Finally it was Orbilio who broke the spell. ‘Now do you believe me?’ he asked thickly, his face twisted with emotion. ‘Now will you believe you’ve been framed?’

In Rome, the crowds jostled the head of the Security Police as they made their rowdy way towards the exit. Not for nothing was it called the vomitorium, because quite literally it spewed spectators out of the amphitheatre and into the streets at a truly awesome speed. Since space inside was limited, the people leaving were, for the most part, those who had queued all night-although for such sacrifice they demanded the very best in entertainment. Today, on the fourth day of the Holiday of Mars, they had not been disappointed. Bulls had been provoked with whips and prods and given straw dummies to toss before the bestiarii, clad only in white loincloths, were even admitted. After the break, four lions had been roused to a fury, first by flaming arrows fired into the sand then by a pack of baying hounds, before another team of bestiarii had been set against them. But the highlight of the festivities, and the reason people had queued all night, was the leopard hunt.

The bulls, the lions, that was just a game, the warm up if you like, in much the same way as the chorus belts out cheerful songs before a comedy begins. Ducking and diving, leaping and lunging, a great deal of skill had been involved this morning, but generally speaking both beast and bestiarii lived to see another day. The leopard hunt was entirely different, and he was glad that his rank secured him a decent seat. For a start, the stage was transformed into a miniature but quite authentic forest. Trees, rocks, shrubs were wheeled in, then half-a-dozen hungry, angry leopards were smoked out of their cages, snarling at the half-thrilled, half-terrified audience. Finally a roll of drums, and out ran the hunters, or venators as they were called. Despite fancy tunics in greens, blues and mauves and despite the fact that they were considerably better armed than their less-glamorous colleagues, the bestiarii, these men had but one thought in their minds.

Kill or be killed.

It was astonishing, he thought, shoving his way up the steps towards the exit, how quickly a large leopard disappears among the branches, its spots mimicking the shade of the leaves to perfection. It was equally amazing how a hush had settled over the whole amphitheatre, leaving just man pitted against beast, the way it always had been and always would be. The leopards might be outnumbered two to one, but they had been starved inside their cages-they could not afford to be reckless. Then, as leopards always do, they began to stalk their victims with an eerie calm. By the end of the hunt, three venators lay dead after giant fangs had punctured their skulls, and four of the cats had gone down for skinning. The remaining leopards were rewarded with live giraffe to bring down, while the venators, two of them badly mauled, received crowns and accolades and were cheered to the rafters.

Overall it was agreed that honour had been satisfied on both sides, time now for a bite to eat.

Marcus’s boss mopped his brow with his handkerchief. Spring had arrived with a vengeance today, and a heavy woollen toga combined with the heat from twelve thousand bodies made it uncomfortable in the extreme. Yet the heat he could take. That wasn’t what was making him sweat.

‘There you are, old boy!’ He felt his cousin’s hand on his shoulder. ‘Not coming back to dine with us?’

‘No,’ he growled. ‘I’ve got work to do.’ Castor and Pollux, when he got hold of Orbilio, he’d hang him on a line to dry, so help him, he would.

‘Fair enough.’ His cousin seemed quite happy about the reply, but then the bastard would. ‘See you at the procession tomorrow, then,’ and with that he disappeared into the crush.

Tomorrow was the final day of the Holiday of Mars, and in many respects the most important day of the month. Once, and long before the Divine Julius had made this final revision to the calendar, the first day of March had the honour, since it heralded the start of a brand new year, but now, while many of the sacred rites were still practised, the full veneration of Mars himself was not felt until the 23rd. Tomorrow.

For the Head of the Security Police, the day held particular significance. In the morning came the Purification of the Trumpets up on the Aventine, where holy water was sprinkled over military instruments to symbolize lustration of the whole Roman army. He, naturally, would be at the fore, and despite his equestrian, as opposed to patrician, background and his lack of military training (he had bought his way to the top, a common practice among magistrates), this was one of those rare chances to be seen, by the populace, rubbing shoulders with the high and the mighty.