Marilyn Todd - Man Eater

He picked up the scroll and read on.

‘I know you don’t approve of women in commerce, Quintilian, but I wasn’t sure you’d stoop so low.’

Low? A spot of forgery? You should see some of the other tricks of the trade, Mistress Seferius, this is just skating the surface.

‘On the other hand, it seemed sensible to take certain precautions. Such as asking the surveyor to make two reports, one verbal and one written.’

Quintilian’s shoulders began to stiffen.

‘Ah, I see you have guessed. For some time, I’ve suspected one of my secretaries of spying-documents rearranged, that sort of thing-it seemed sensible to leave nothing to chance, and that included swapping the names round. It’s not entirely clear what you will be able to do with Vixen Hill, but I’m sure you’ll think of something, Senator. That is a very useful little stream which runs through it.

‘PS: You do realize its source begins in Hunter’s Grove, don’t you? I’ll let you know well in advance when I plan to divert it.’

A world away from the Vale of Adonis, with its narrow fertile belt and dark encroaching forest, the Spring of Sarpedon surrounded itself with rich green meadows from which wooded hills rolled gently backwards, growing blue and hazy with the distance. Sacred white oxen grazed and lowed on grass heavy with anemones and dew, larks sang on the wing and peacock butterflies gorged themselves on nectar.

Unlike the sulphur pools, today was no public holiday. There were no sausage-sellers, no rope-walkers, no acrobats on Sarpedon’s holy turf-and yet it was impossible for spirits to remain low amid such Arcadian beauty. The mechanics for water collection remained well out of sight, ensuring this remained a tranquil place, where bodies and differences could be aired without impediment, a place for promenading and serenading. Tall cypresses cast shade on the lakes, crack willows dangled their fingers in the water, ferns sprang up like children. Blushing maidens wore garlands of blue iris and vervain, young men showed off their prowess at rowing on the lake, the poor scattered handfuls of flour, instead of metal, as offerings.

When the wagon lurched to a halt in the temple forecourt, Sergius was still expounding about his ideas for the future and if enthusiasm was rewarded in gold, he would be richer than Midas by now, thought Claudia. It had troubled him deeply, seeing his trainer reduced to a ghost-and she realized that Corbulo had not yet told Sergius of his intentions to leave when his contract was up. Either that, or Sergius was confident of talking him round. Any fool could see there was a glittering future in these circus spectaculars. Equally, he would argue, only a fool would walk away.

Corbulo’s attendance today had uplifted not only Sergius. Everyone’s spirits had been given a boost. That’s not to say they hadn’t barred their doors and windows overnight, but here, out in the open, under a wide and welcoming sky, the general consensus was that the killer could only be one of Sergius’ hired henchmen and that’s the price you pay for taking on transitory labour. He should have employed men from Tarsulae. Never mind there are no young men left, and never mind the locals would have blabbed to all and sundry. It was his own fault, he was told, he’ll know better next time.

Yet all too quickly the badinage was cut short as news about the Regent spread, and as they crossed the bridge to the island, the tone was sombre. It was Agrippa this, Agrippa that, and Taranis was confused.

‘I no understand. Why unrest in Rome?’ he asked, throwing his hands in the air. ‘Why threat of uprising?’

‘Exiles,’ croaked Corbulo. It was the best he could manage since someone had tried to restring his vocal chords, though it only partly explained his reluctance to talk. The trainer had changed. Often one does, when confronted with death, but while his was a dangerous profession, there was no comparison with assault from a back-stabber. Some men, Claudia knew, were never the same after a cowardly attack. They turned inwards upon themselves, became sullen, withdrawn, and although she prayed the gentle Corbulo would pull out of it, inside she feared for him.

‘How you mean, exiles?’ persisted Taranis, but it was left to Sergius to explain. Behind him, rugs were being spread out on the grass.

‘He means folk have short memories. Three generations of civil war are quickly forgotten, they only remember being moved away from their own land to live in the city, and for some it’s still an alien culture.’

‘They choose to go, no? Is not forced upon them?’

‘This is the second generation we’re talking about. Men with time on their hands, men who see themselves at the mercy of state handouts.’

Yes, thought Claudia. It is never fathers, but sons, who grow restless.

The prospect of a fierce civil backlash did not seem to bother the Celt particularly, rather the opposite, in fact. She was watching Corbulo, red muffler round his bruised neck, carving away at a piece of wood, when Salvian appeared at her elbow and relieved her of her wrap. His face was set, and yet Claudia had a feeling this had little to do with the death of Agrippa.

‘Everything all right?’ she asked, with a significant nod in Tulola’s direction. All morning Tulola had been skewering him with her eyes, and twice Claudia heard her hiss ‘Pansy!’ at him.

‘She’s giving me a hard time,’ the Tribune confided, ‘because I wouldn’t come to her bed last night.’ No stammer? ‘Can’t imagine why,’ he added. ‘She knows I’m married.’

Claudia’s laugh nearly burst free, but she swallowed it just in time. No, no stammer. Salvian was fast becoming his own man. He’d overtake his uncle in no time, and neither Tulola nor Macer would understand why.

The clouds on his face passed away. ‘I know who the killer is,’ he whispered, and this time Claudia’s laugh was not restrainable. Growing up he might be, but not fast enough. The expression on his face was just like a six year old’s on his birthday.

‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ he said, without animosity. ‘It was something my uncle said, which put me on to it.’

Claudia made a brave stab at solemnity. ‘You mean that, like Macer, you think I dunnit?’

Salvian handed back her neatly folded palla. ‘Lord, no,’ he said seriously. ‘You have to make allowances for my uncle, Claudia, it’s-well, it’s understandable, I suppose. Not so long ago, he investigated a robbery, where the shopkeeper said he was raided but the injury to his head was nothing worse than a bruise. Later he confessed he’d staged the whole thing to stave off his creditors. I gave you chance to escape,’ he added, ‘and, to be honest, I was surprised you came back.’

You? You gave me that alibi? Claudia gawped at Salvian. ‘The innocent have nothing to hide,’ she said smoothly. But that won’t stop me pickling your uncle in vinegar.

Food was being spread on the gaily coloured blankets. A slave chilled wine in Sarpedon’s crystalline waters. Alis and Pallas chased their counters over a chequered board. Timoleon was telling an eager Barea about the preponderance of stud farms which were springing up all over southern Italy. She did not feel like joining them.

Despite the bridge having no balustrade, Claudia leaned at a perilous angle over the water. It was so clear, you could watch bubbles of air rise to the surface, hundreds of them, each sending out tightly packed ripples which ran into its neighbour, swirling the surface and giving the spring effervescence. Rooks cawed in the sycamore trees and gnats danced over the shallows. Now if we could only transfer this to Rome, she thought contentedly, life would be perfect.