Marilyn Todd - Man Eater

The question is, where, at this time of night, could he find someone capable of harnessing a camel?

*

The bloody thing spat and shat all over the shop and stank worse than a midden in summer, but you couldn’t have scripted a better comedy had you won the myrtle crown as a playwright. Accustomed to the shifting sands of its Libyan home, the reflective marble of the banqueting hall came as a right nasty shock to old Humpy, who promptly showed his dissatisfaction by attempting to ditch his rider at full gallop.

Amazed by the speed it could reach from a standing start, bets were immediately placed on how much longer the valiant rider could hang on.

Barea clapped Salvian on the back and espoused the benefits of army training, although everyone else seemed of the opinion that it was Orbilio’s grip, rather than his jousting experience, that saved the day.

Four times the shimmering surface rose up to grab him, but you don’t have a pedigree stretching back to Apollo without some adhesive qualities and by the time poor Humpy had come to terms with this slippery, slidy flooring, Marcus Cornelius Orbilio was being greeted with raucous approval and generally hailed as a hero, even though his body appeared to be doing another circuit without the aid of the camel. By the time Orbilio’s eyes had stopped rolling, a heated debate was in progress, since the camp was now firmly divided between whether Humpy surrendered on the eighth or the ninth lap and what do you mean, you can’t help, you were riding the stupid thing, weren’t you?

When the general consensus had more or less settled on nine, Taranis pointed out that the animal appeared to be backing into Tulola’s cheetah, who would have got quite a decent fanghold had Corbulo not jerked Humpy out of range at the last moment, a debt it repaid by doing its damnedest to bite him until it was hauled away, honking and urinating, so that by the time a cohort of slaves had mopped up with sawdust and perfumed the room with incense and juniper, there was not a dry eye in the house and brave was the man (or woman) who could stand up straight after that.

Wisely Tulola calmed things down by calling for the roasts, because, as Pallas said, ‘A man’s gotta chew what a man’s gotta chew.’

It was wellnigh impossible, thought Claudia, rubbing the stitch in her side, to picture one of these people as a cold-blooded murderer.

Indeed, thinking about it logically, why should they be?

Supersleuth was a policeman, whose job revolved round intricate cases of treason, corruption, forgery and extortion-crimes that had two facets in common. One, they were all committed against the State, and two, by their very nature they had to be complex. More often than not murder ran hand in hand with such activities, usually in an effort to kick over the traces, and as a result his investigations would necessitate plunging deep. (How else could he have uncovered her own past?) Simple solutions were rare animals as far as the Security Police were concerned, and the case he’d made about Claudia being framed had, at the time, made sense.

In retrospect, though, wasn’t he reading too much into this miserable affair? Assuming Fronto and Crocodile Man had been in cahoots (for reasons she’d probably never know and didn’t really care about), surely it was safe to conclude the whole nasty business was now over and done with? That, whatever Fronto was up to, the scam had died with his accomplice? In the space of ninety hours, three people had met with violent death, but over the past two days it had been exceptionally quiet without a single attempt on her life-or anyone else’s for that matter. Suppose, like poor deluded Macer, Crocodile Man also laid the blame for his partner’s death at Claudia’s door. What was wrong with exacting his revenge? In short, what was wrong with a simple solution? Why couldn’t the revenge plan have backfired? Why couldn’t Coronis have slipped on the shiny surface and broken her neck?

More than satisfied that none of the partygoers could possibly be a killer, Claudia jostled to take her place for the roast and, in doing so, found herself brushing against a rough, woollen workshirt. The sensation was electric. Damn you, Marcus. Damn you to hell.

Wedging herself between Barea, in a long Phoenician tunic, and Corbulo the Camel Tamer, she deliberately set out to flirt. ‘Is that what they mean by painting the town red?’ she quipped. ‘Or are you a genuine redneck?’

‘Ritual ochre,’ he laughed, taking a great draught of wine. ‘Tonight,’ he made an elaborate flourish with his hands, ‘I am an Etruscan king.’

Tonight I could believe it. In white kilt and traditional gold torque, Corbulo strutted like a peacock, a prince among men, a pearl among pebbles. And had the double bump on his nose not screamed his heritage, then the way he’d looped and bound his hair did. She glanced across to where Orbilio was settling himself on the couch. Was it accident or was it contrived, that the hero of the hour just happened to be directly opposite? Who cares, she thought. Not me. I’ve decided there’s something horribly claustrophobic about the atmosphere in bedrooms where the lights are low and the moon is swelling. Nevertheless, as Corbulo’s tundra eyes bored deep into hers, Claudia felt a strange stirring inside.

‘That’s the trouble where you come from.’ She forced herself to listen to Timoleon baiting the Celt. ‘Men are men, but by Janus, your women are ugly.’

‘Huh!’ Taranis wiped his hands down the length of his pantaloons, his only concession to fancy dress being to twine his hair. ‘I have job to do, selling bears. When I make money, then maybe I take wife.’

‘Betcha bed the grizzly by mistake,’ the gladiator muttered under his breath.

‘You laugh,’ the Celt rejoined, ‘but you no marry.’

‘Damn right. Women are fine for one purpose, but who the hell wants to spend time with them? Bore me rigid, they do.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ threw in Barea, flashing a contradictory wink at Claudia as he wrestled with the unaccustomed volume of linen.

‘Drink to what?’ asked Tulola. ‘Marcus, is that milk? Darling, how gross. Oh, look everybody.’ Even the cheetah glanced up from its lump of gazelle. ‘My masterpiece!’

Four slaves staggered into the hall carrying a whole roasted boar. On its head it wore a miniature cap of freedom, from its tusks dangled woven baskets bulging with dried dates and walnuts, and attached to its teats as though suckling sat a little bread piglet.

Salvian, who’d come dressed as a Spaniard, put his fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly. His face was a map of cuts and scabs from its first scrape of the iron blade, but behind the redness and the rashes, a chrysalis was beginning to emerge. Like shaving a pomegranate, yesterday’s razor had been totally unnecessary, yet psychologically the ceremony had boosted his confidence and Tulola rose in Claudia’s estimation. Salvian, she mused, as the hams and the hares and the ducks were wheeled in, is finally growing into his armour.

‘I don’t half feel a tit,’ mumbled Barea, his heel tangling in the long hem. ‘How them poor sods managed, I don’t know. They’re seafarers, right? Yet they traipse around in woman’s robes!’

Just up Tulola’s street, that egg-yolk yellow. ‘At least,’ Claudia quipped, ‘Phoenicians don’t miss one another in the dark.’

‘Here, Pallas,’ bawled Timoleon, palming a glazed figpecker as the tray went past. ‘How come you didn’t wear your long frock tonight?’

‘What? And fight you off all ruddy night? No fear.’ Timoleon’s vulgar gesture played right into Pallas’ hands.

‘Darling boy, your roots are showing. And I don’t mean your hair.’

The gladiator lunged, but Sergius put out an arm to restrain him.