Marilyn Todd - Man Eater

‘I d-don’t think I-’

‘Salvian, Salvian, leave the thinking to me. Every great man marks the occasion, even Augustus, so what do you say?’

‘B-B-But the Emperor was twenty-three, he had a p-proper beard to shave off.’

Claudia’s face creased into a smile. To round off the Festival of Mars, which, to say the least, had been overshadowed by events, Tulola intended to give the Tribune that well-looked-forward-to rite of passage every young man hungers for, the First Shave. Poor old Salvian. Railroaded again.

‘Bollocks.’ Barea spat pips into the corner. ‘You’re scared shitless.’

If possible, Salvian turned even pinker. ‘That’s n-not true! Look,’ he shot a tortured glance at Tulola, ‘I only f-followed you, because my uncle said to t-tell you he can’t find a record of your divorce.’

‘Tell him to look harder,’ she snapped. Then, raising one seductive eyebrow at Salvian, she murmured, ‘What it boils down to, sweetie, is whether you want to join the ranks of Real Men or whether you’d prefer to wait until your beard grows like a billy goat.’

Grudgingly Salvian nodded. ‘I suppose so.’

Tulola and the horse-breaker exchanged looks. ‘Come on, then!’ As one, they leapt up, each grabbing an arm and dragging a totally bewildered young Tribune to his doom, laughing at the tops of their voices.

‘Must see this,’ cried Euphemia, racing off to join them.

Claudia pulled back the curtain, saw the cheetah’s face contort into a snarl and quickly jerked it closed again. Jupiter, Juno and Mars, that animal makes Drusilla look like one of those little pink-cheeked cherubs that decorate my bedroom ceiling. Pallas assured me it only eats gazelle, but hell, I’m not going to be the one to find out Pallas makes mistakes.

She retraced her steps across the Judgement of Paris and pulled open the door to find a man leaning against the jamb, his patrician boots crossed comfortably at the ankles. ‘You’re sick, Orbilio, you know that?’

The policeman grinned, uncrossed his legs and advanced into the room, clicking the door quietly behind him. ‘Wrong,’ he said. ‘Sergius is sick. What do you make of that?’

‘Nothing. Would you stop blocking my exit?’

‘First a marigold,’ he remarked, his eyes sweeping over Claudia’s tunic, ‘now a pimpernel.’

‘I’ll have you know, Marcus Cornelius Orbilio, the Prefect says I look enchanting in cinnabar.’

‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he? It’s the same colour as his military tunic-which, incidentally, appears to have been ruined by a mucky mark on the back. You don’t happen to know anything about that, I suppose?’

Claudia’s smile was as innocent as a babe’s.

‘I didn’t think you would,’ he said, scrutinizing Agamemnon’s fight with Achilles. ‘Tell me, doesn’t it strike you as strange that Alis, sweet, doting, follows-him-around-like-a-puppy Alis, is not bothered by her husband’s illness?’

‘She’s merely doing what she always does. Carrying out Sergius’ wishes.’

‘Tulola’s pressurizing her to send for medical help.’

‘She won’t get anywhere. Sergius hates doctors.’ And I’m with him on that. Mistakes they can bury.

‘Does he really?’ Orbilio’s gaze wandered towards the window. ‘The rain’s easing. The smell of the soil after a downpour is exquisite, don’t you think?’

Claudia saw no reason to reply to that. She traced her toe round Paris’ golden prize.

‘I just spoke with Euphemia, too,’ he continued in the same dreamy voice. ‘She said Sergius Pictor was perfectly able to look after himself, he always had.’

‘The trouble with many of the more serious playwrights, they will include soliloquies. So deadly boring, don’t you agree?’

‘I wouldn’t know, I’m an Aristophanes man, myself, but one thing I’m absolutely certain of is that, whatever you might pretend, bored you are not.’

‘Damned well am so, too.’

A corner of his mouth twitched and that irritating sparkle was back in his eyes. ‘You can lie to yourself, but never to me, Claudia. You’re enjoying this.’

She threw up her hands and pretended to look out of the window. ‘I’m amazed asylum owners aren’t queuing back to Narni for your patronage.’

‘Come on. Action-packed adventure? It’s just what you’re made for! Look what it’s done for you.’

She pointed to her neck, wrists and ankles. ‘Seriously?’

‘Beaten, battered, bullied or bruised, you bloom under them all. Danger becomes you, Claudia Seferius, and you damned well know it.’

‘Have you been drinking?’

The merest mention of the milk he’d been swilling lately made Orbilio’s stomach churn. ‘You still haven’t told me what you make of Sergius Pictor.’

He was right, the rain was easing. The sky was lifting, despite the onset of twilight. ‘In my opinion, he’s a clever, strong-minded, ambitious man who undoubtedly knows what he’s doing. Now will you shift your fat carcass?’

‘Certainly, milady, seeing you put it so politely.’ Orbilio prised himself away from the door, but his hand remained poised on the latch. ‘But I’ve just looked in on him, and do you know what I think?’

‘No idea, but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me anyway.’

‘I think Sergius Pictor is being poisoned.’

Sensationalism for its own sake had never appealed to Claudia and she was in the process of saying so when the commotion in the hallway cut her short.

‘Where is he? I’ll chop his balls off!’

The door to the adjoining room bounced off the wall with the force and she heard the cheetah snarl. It was followed by a sharp intake of breath and a surprisingly respectful oath.

The change of mood didn’t last.

‘Come out, you coward. Face me like a man!’ The door to the little room swung open. ‘Where are you, you bastard?’

Claudia smiled at the wiry individual glowering in the doorway. ‘Looking for someone?’

The eyes narrowed. ‘Where is he?’

‘Who?’

‘That randy bastard, Orbilio. Where’s he hiding?’ Claudia’s hand swept backwards. ‘He’s here. No, I’m wrong. It would seem he isn’t here, after all.’

The red curtain shimmered slightly, and this had nothing to do with the breeze from the open window. ‘I’ll cut his bloody balls off.’

‘Yes, I rather gathered you were souvenir hunting. I don’t suppose you’d care to introduce yourself, would you?’

‘Oh. Gisco,’ he said gruffly. ‘The name’s Gisco.’

‘The charioteer?’

The fists unclenched slightly. ‘You’ve heard of me?’

My dear Gisco, you cannot imagine the fortunes I’ve gone through, believing this is the one time you’ll bloody well lose, but of course you never do.

‘Red faction, am I right? Well, I’m sorry, Master Gizmo, but your bird, it would appear, has flown.’ Would it, she wondered, be frightfully rude to enquire why, exactly, he wanted Orbilio’s groceries?

Gisco put his head round the doorway. ‘He hasn’t come out, then?’ he yelled.

‘Nope,’ a voice hollered back, from which Claudia deduced he’d posted a guard at the door. Wonderful. Now she could really start enjoying herself!

‘I know that chickenshit’s in here somewhere,’ the charioteer said menacingly, lifting the lid of a large chest and prodding with the point of his dagger. ‘And when I find him, I’ll teach him to go rutting my wife.’

‘Master Cosmo, if Orbilio can fit into that box you’re so busy emptying, he’s physically incapable of even reaching your wife. Unless, of course, she’s a midget.’

‘Are you trying to be funny?’ he growled.

Claudia held up her hands. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’