Marilyn Todd: Man Eater

‘Ah!’ The big man’s nose wrinkled ominously. ‘Unfortunately my stock is not that high with the man of the house-’ He let his voice trail off.

‘But you’re related?’

‘The connection is not as close as you might imagine.’ Pallas put a slice of pear in his mouth and chomped away for a while. ‘And I’m afraid Sergius leans to the impression that I have outstayed my welcome.’

‘Why? How long have you been here?’

He shot her a glance from the corner of his eye. ‘Two years.’

Laughing aloud is not generally prescribed to heal bruised ribs, but Claudia couldn’t help herself. I’m beginning to like you, she thought. I’m beginning to like you very much.

Across the room Alis clearly felt some decision ought to be made about the bowls, but before she could determine the verdict for herself, the green jug took the matter into its own handles and crashed to the floor.

‘Everyone ignore me,’ she quivered and Everyone obeyed. Claudia by letting a slave through to brush up the slivers, Pallas by cracking a snail shell.

‘Have you seen Tulola’s harem?’ He impaled the unfortunate mollusc on the point of his knife.

‘That ragbag collection of animals? Not yet.’

‘Darling girl, the beasts are Sergius’.’ His chins shook in amusement. ‘I’m talking about the men.’

Alis took advantage of the shocked pause. ‘Oh dear, I did so want to get a matching set for dinner. Why couldn’t it have been the yellow bowl?’

‘For gods’ sake, woman, a man’s been murdered! Claudia and I are trying to converse!’

‘I’m sorry, Pallas. Sorry.’ She twisted her face in a girlish gesture which had the unfortunate effect of making her look closer to thirty-eight than twenty-eight. ‘Pretend I’m not here.’

He did his best. ‘Not that her odalisques stay long, you understand. Our dear cousin bores easily.’

Claudia felt her pulse quicken. ‘Are you saying the dung-beetle was one of them?’

‘Wander round the west wing some time, it’s quite an experience, but as much as our Tulola goes for the rough trade, she hasn’t sunk that low.’

‘By rough trade, you mean…?’

‘Britons, Iberians, Germans. The ruff-tuff hairy types whereas me’-he peered down the neck of his tunic and pulled a face-‘I’m simply a martyr to depilation.’ Claudia flung herself on the couch opposite him. ‘What about the Negroes?’ Who could forget the sight of their sweat-drenched bodies harnessed to Tulola’s chariot?

‘She goes through, how shall I put it, phases.’ Pallas swallowed the remainder of a sausage before elaborating. ‘Last year, for instance, she was into tattoos. Kept a whole string of Scythians, and you know how partial they are to body art. The black boys, I’m afraid, she picked up at auction.’

To use as toys, the bitch. ‘So if he wasn’t one of Tulola’s conquests, who was the man in my bedroom?’ Pallas let out a soft belch and refilled his long-stemmed glass. ‘How should I know, darling? Never seen him before in my life.’

How odd. Claudia helped herself to wine, but it was the strong stuff and she merely sipped, although her mind was working faster than a goldbeater’s hammer. ‘Sergius has asked me to stay for the Prefect’s questions, and,’ not that she’d hang about once Drusilla turned up, ‘I was wondering how long it would take him to get here.’

‘Macer?’ The fat man picked up a pickled onion and began to eat it like an apple. ‘His barracks are in Tarsulae-’

Her ears pricked up. Tarsulae was the town where they’d spent the night before last, Claudia, Junius and the driver. She’d never forget that dump so long as she lived. In fact, her legs still bore a cluster of itchy red lumps from the damned bedding.

‘-which, as you know, is the only town for miles since the new road was built.’

‘I don’t suppose anyone could give me a hand with these crocks, could they?’ wailed Alis.

‘Looks good on his record, a manor that size,’ Pallas continued. ‘Even though the population is somewhat disproportionate.’

Tell me about it. In the fifteen years since the Emperor diverted the Via Flaminia, most of the locals had uprooted themselves and their families in order to be in at the start of the new prosperity. And, make no mistake, prosperous it was. Since Augustus had brought an end to three generations of civil war, trade had virtually doubled and whether you were a butcher or a banker, a midwife or a marble merchant, you could be assured of one thing: a damned good living on the far side of those mountains.

What sort of crimes would the military this side of the range be used to dealing with, Claudia wondered. Fiddling weights and measures, petty pilfering, adultery? No, no, those were civil cases. Patrolling the roads? Fat chance. To call those goat tracks roads would be like calling an ulcer a beauty spot, and as for the Old Road, well. She hadn’t seen many patrols yesterday.

Lazily she tossed a hazelnut from hand to hand. Such a simple matter, this, and more than likely the culprit would be some grudge-bearing slave, so why, why, why this compulsion for the military? Surely Sergius could sort it out himself? She didn’t know their purpose, but she’d seen his private security measures-big buggers who probably munched ears for breakfast, washed down with the blood of babes. Not so much slaves as mercenaries, twenty or thirty of them, and men like these weren’t cheap to run.

Indeed, you couldn’t hold your own in this neglected backwater without some degree of commercial nous, much less flourish, and precious little was required in the way of mathematics to deduce that one diverted road plus fifteen years of mass migration ought by rights to equal a decrease in fortune. Yet, she tapped her knuckle on the arm of the couch-this is solid bronze-and as for the upholstery-surely this particular shade of violet is unique to certain aloes? A strain that will grow only on the Isle of Socotra? Which happens to lie smack bang in the Indian Ocean?

The sudden realization as to why Sergius had called in the army sent a thousand spiders abseiling down Claudia’s backbone.

She remembered the glance she had caught of her handsome host as she followed Tulola to change her bloodstained nightshift. Although fleeting, she had interpreted the expression as that of a man mining for lead and finding a thick, strong vein of gold in its place. Now she was not so sure.

For all his outward signs of hospitality, Sergius believes he’s harbouring a murderess! No wonder he was so solicitous. Be kind to the nice lady and she won’t stab you…

The hazelnut clattered on to the floor and came to rest on a maenad’s nose. Why Claudia’s hand was shaking, she had no idea. Good grief, I’ve nothing to fear, it’s not as though I stabbed the wretched man… The little filbert splintered under Claudia’s dainty tooled sandal as she recalled the law concerning murder. It was quite straightforward. No ifs and ands and buts and maybes. In fact, there’s a children’s rhyme that covers it nicely. Confession is death, denial is trial. By Jupiter, Claudia Seferius would most certainly be contesting the charge.

Pallas was too busy with his boiled bacon to notice her slip away, Alis too heavily entrenched with her fripperies. Minerva’s magic, what have I got myself into?

Her bodyguard, a bandage round his head and his left eye a splendid magenta, was waiting in the atrium and his shoes squeaked on the marble floor as he approached.

‘Are you all right, madam?’ His face was pinched with worry. ‘There’s talk in the slave quarters-’

Claudia cut him short with a flick of the wrist. ‘Never listen to gossip, Junius.’ I do, but you shouldn’t.

‘But a man was killed in front of you?’