Marilyn Todd - Man Eater

No one dared voice the fact that they were prisoners on the estate.

No one dared whisper that trust was a thing of the past.

Only Orbilio threw caution to the wind as he went about his investigations, and his attitude puzzled Claudia greatly. There was a fanaticism about him now, and instinct told her it was Marcus who had overturned his own furniture.

Somewhere along the line, she thought, this has got personal.

Meanwhile, Corbulo appeared in part to be the weathervane for the family’s emotional wellbeing, for it was upon Corbulo that hopes were silently, secretly, collectively pinned. Here was the man who had brought Sergius to the pinnacle of success finding the road to recovery difficult-and it had frightened them. Always they had seen Corbulo as strong and reliable and while physically he seemed mended, his movements were wooden, his thoughts remained locked in his head. When Corbulo got better, everyone would get better. Or so they told themselves…

Come Saturday night, when the moon had reached half and the rest of the Empire rejoiced at the equinox in full voice, the relatives and guests of Sergius Pictor were gathered round his dining table, leaning on their elbows and playing with their food in abject silence. The little girl who strummed the lyre might just as well have not bothered.

‘Look at us.’ Sergius drove the point of his knife into the tabletop as the pork and stuffed marrows were cleared away virtually untouched. ‘You’d think we were facing mass execution.’

He was right. No appetites, no colour, no feelings even. Just a numbness, in both body and spirit. Passing time until Something Else Happened.

More eyes were watching the blade quivering in the woodwork than the irritation which washed over Sergius’ face. ‘There’s a madman on the loose, I can’t deny it,’ he snapped. ‘But I’m buggered if he’s going to take us down with him.’

Too late, thought Claudia. On the walls, Ganymede was swept off to his new job on Mount Olympus and he was the lucky one. He got away.

‘Won’t anyone answer me? Are we to sit in silence for the rest of our lives?’

‘You think we sing and tell jokes, yes, while the killer pick us off one by one?’ The lines in the Celt’s face became trenches, and the girl on the lyre hit two duff notes in succession.

‘That’s why Taranis wears long pants,’ Timoleon growled in something close to his normal manner. ‘He’s always wetting them.’

‘Tch!’ The Celt made a gesture that none of them had seen before but they all recognized as vulgar. The gladiator curled his lip in disdain.

But small though the squabble was, the spell had been broken. Pallas made a lunge for the prawn rissoles before they were cleared from the table, perhaps not with his usual vigour, but he hung on to them none the less.

‘What exactly do you have in mind?’ Orbilio asked, and Claudia was surprised that, although he addressed the question to Sergius, his eyes flashed dark on Tulola.

Sergius began to sniff victory. ‘At this very moment,’ he said, ‘half of Rome is comprehensively pissed and the other half’s well on the way. What say we forget this maniac and celebrate ourselves? Tomorrow?’

‘I think that’s a wonderful idea,’ gushed Alis.

‘Me too.’ Euphemia speared a scallop with the same knife she’d drawn on Claudia. ‘I’m fed up seeing your miserable faces all the time.’

Hark who’s talking, thought Claudia, ‘Celebrate how?’ she asked.

Sergius wiggled his blade out of the tabletop and called for the fruit. ‘I rather thought an outing to the springs would be nice.’

‘I d-don’t think we should leave-’

‘Rubbish, sweetie.’ Tulola waved aside the Tribune’s protests. ‘It’s a brilliant idea. This hanging around is driving us demented, even you, Salvian, young as you are.’ She leaned over and tickled him under the chin until he turned red as a turkey cock.

‘M-my uncle-’ he spluttered.

But Sergius was not a man to be put off the scent. ‘Come along, you lot, what do you say?’

Careful glances were exchanged, which in turn became conspiratorial glances until finally they became smug, triumphant glances.

And at least ten hands shot up.

*

In Rome, Senator Quintilian bade farewell to the last of his callers and settled back contentedly, running his hands over the carved boar’s head that comprised the arm of his chair. This was the time of day he liked best, when the long, noisy line of clients and lobbyists had finally trickled away, leaving behind their dreary petitions, most of which he’d burn later. Dismissing his scribe, he poured himself a large glass of tansy wine and closed his eyes. Skilful time management ensured him one hour-one single, solitary, precious hour-before different calls were made upon his person, usually generated by that ambitious wife of his, but just as important, nevertheless.

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?