Man Eater

XI

In Rome, the crowds jostled the head of the Security Police as they made their rowdy way towards the exit. Not for nothing was it called the vomitorium, because quite literally it spewed spectators out of the amphitheatre and into the streets at a truly awesome speed. Since space inside was limited, the people leaving were, for the most part, those who had queued all night-although for such sacrifice they demanded the very best in entertainment. Today, on the fourth day of the Holiday of Mars, they had not been disappointed. Bulls had been provoked with whips and prods and given straw dummies to toss before the bestiarii, clad only in white loincloths, were even admitted. After the break, four lions had been roused to a fury, first by flaming arrows fired into the sand then by a pack of baying hounds, before another team of bestiarii had been set against them. But the highlight of the festivities, and the reason people had queued all night, was the leopard hunt.

The bulls, the lions, that was just a game, the warm up if you like, in much the same way as the chorus belts out cheerful songs before a comedy begins. Ducking and diving, leaping and lunging, a great deal of skill had been involved this morning, but generally speaking both beast and bestiarii lived to see another day. The leopard hunt was entirely different, and he was glad that his rank secured him a decent seat. For a start, the stage was transformed into a miniature but quite authentic forest. Trees, rocks, shrubs were wheeled in, then half-a-dozen hungry, angry leopards were smoked out of their cages, snarling at the half-thrilled, half-terrified audience. Finally a roll of drums, and out ran the hunters, or venators as they were called. Despite fancy tunics in greens, blues and mauves and despite the fact that they were considerably better armed than their less-glamorous colleagues, the bestiarii, these men had but one thought in their minds.

Kill or be killed.

It was astonishing, he thought, shoving his way up the steps towards the exit, how quickly a large leopard disappears among the branches, its spots mimicking the shade of the leaves to perfection. It was equally amazing how a hush had settled over the whole amphitheatre, leaving just man pitted against beast, the way it always had been and always would be. The leopards might be outnumbered two to one, but they had been starved inside their cages-they could not afford to be reckless. Then, as leopards always do, they began to stalk their victims with an eerie calm. By the end of the hunt, three venators lay dead after giant fangs had punctured their skulls, and four of the cats had gone down for skinning. The remaining leopards were rewarded with live giraffe to bring down, while the venators, two of them badly mauled, received crowns and accolades and were cheered to the rafters.

Overall it was agreed that honour had been satisfied on both sides, time now for a bite to eat.

Marcus’s boss mopped his brow with his handkerchief. Spring had arrived with a vengeance today, and a heavy woollen toga combined with the heat from twelve thousand bodies made it uncomfortable in the extreme. Yet the heat he could take. That wasn’t what was making him sweat.

‘There you are, old boy!’ He felt his cousin’s hand on his shoulder. ‘Not coming back to dine with us?’

‘No,’ he growled. ‘I’ve got work to do.’ Castor and Pollux, when he got hold of Orbilio, he’d hang him on a line to dry, so help him, he would.

‘Fair enough.’ His cousin seemed quite happy about the reply, but then the bastard would. ‘See you at the procession tomorrow, then,’ and with that he disappeared into the crush.

Tomorrow was the final day of the Holiday of Mars, and in many respects the most important day of the month. Once, and long before the Divine Julius had made this final revision to the calendar, the first day of March had the honour, since it heralded the start of a brand new year, but now, while many of the sacred rites were still practised, the full veneration of Mars himself was not felt until the 23rd. Tomorrow.

For the Head of the Security Police, the day held particular significance. In the morning came the Purification of the Trumpets up on the Aventine, where holy water was sprinkled over military instruments to symbolize lustration of the whole Roman army. He, naturally, would be at the fore, and despite his equestrian, as opposed to patrician, background and his lack of military training (he had bought his way to the top, a common practice among magistrates), this was one of those rare chances to be seen, by the populace, rubbing shoulders with the high and the mighty.

Moreover, his brother was one of the two dozen carefully selected priests who would make the third and final Salian War Dance in the afternoon. Unfortunately, although they were twins, his brother was a baboon, and sure as eggs were eggs, he’d cock up. It had cost a small fortune to wangle his brother into this elite band, and almost half as much again to teach the twit his steps. Jupiter’s balls, it wasn’t choreography, for gods’ sake. All he had to do was beat his fucking shield with his fucking sword and leap about a bit at set points along the way, but could he do it? Could he hell! Twice already the Salian Priests had peformed their ritual dance, and twice the silly bugger had fucked up. If he dropped his sacred shield just one more time, he’d wring his fucking neck.

With the sweat pouring down his neck, he called for his litter.

‘Where to, sir?’

‘Home,’ he barked.

The whole fucking city’s out revelling, even my fucking wife, and I’m stuck indoors writing fucking letters! He threw off his toga and called for his secretary.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ his steward explained. ‘It’s a public holiday, your secretary’s out celebrating.’

‘I know it’s a public holiday, you arsehole. Just fetch him.’

What is it with Orbilio? I’m dumped with a fraud case, where thousands of sesterces of public money have gone missing with none of the suspects living the life of riley, which means someone’s salting it away, and I’m at a particularly crucial stage of the investigation when what happens? My undercover man buggers off to Umbria! Well, I don’t have too much choice about that. His family has clout in this city, the name means something, and if the Emperor doesn’t mind him following some tart round the country, why should I bother?

‘Assign the case to someone else,’ Augustus had said mildly, when he made his weekly Security report. ‘I’ve heard interesting stories about the Seferius woman, and young Marcus has potential, don’t you think? So unless there’s an emergency, why don’t we give him his head?’ Because it’s set the fraud back several weeks, you silly arse, and when the suspect buggers off with a trunk full of public money, it’s my balls you’re going to fry, that’s why!

‘Umbria’s out of his jurisdiction, sir.’

‘I’m sure he knows that.’ The Emperor never invited his subordinate to sit. ‘It’ll be another learning experience for the boy.’

‘As you wish, then.’

‘I do. I do wish,’ Augustus had replied. ‘But I still want a result on this fraud, and fast. If word gets round that one man steals from the Empire, others will jump on the bandwagon. Do I make myself plain? I want this bastard nailed quickly, and if you aren’t up to the task, others are.’

Great. The Emperor takes away my best man, leaving me with a god-almighty chasm and, when I try spanning it, he promptly burns every bridge! He already knew the Emperor didn’t like him, but until then he didn’t realize how deep it went. However, there was more than one way to skin a coney, and rumour had it Augustus was thinking about reintroducing the old post of Priest of Jupiter after a gap of some seventy-five years. Now if he could just get his twin brother ordained…

‘Where the fuck’s my secretary?’ Everything hinged on how well his twin performed tomorrow afternoon.

‘We’re still trying to locate him,’ replied the steward. ‘Shouldn’t be long now.’

‘It’s been too bloody long already,’ he snarled. ‘Put a bit of steam under it, will you? No bugger drowns in his own sweat!’

Least of all you, thought the steward, backing silently out of the door.

The Head of the Security Police cleared the top of his desk with the sweep of his hand. Stuff it. He’d put Metellus on the fraud, and if the case went down, Metellus could bloody go with it. He paused, to kick a scroll into touch. Naturally if the money was recovered-well, he’d deliver it personally to the Emperor up on the Palatine. His toe was playing with the upended inkwell when the door burst open.

‘You wanted me, master?’ The secretary, red-faced and stinking of cheap wine, rolled through the doorway with his pen and parchment.

‘Write!’ he ordered.

But the secretary misheard. He thought his boss said ‘right’, and he had to pinch the man’s belly twice before the idiot had sobered up sufficiently to pay attention.

‘Get this down,’ he barked. ‘To Marcus Cornelius Orbilio, at the Villa Pictor in the Vale of Adonis- What? Yes, of course, I bloody want a messenger going off with it this afternoon! Yes, of course, I know it’s a public fucking holiday, now quit yapping and write.’

The letter, when he eventually read it over, was concise and to the point. He liked that.

It would also make one cocky young aristocrat very hot under the collar and he liked that even more.

*

Dusk, swamping the Vale of Adonis with its sepia tints, had been thwarted by a hundred flickering torches, but the darkness inside Orbilio’s head refused to go away. His mouth was dry, he needed a drink, and the need brought him out in a sweat. Dammit, he should have spoken to the slave girl earlier. Frustration tightened an invisible band beneath his ribcage. Again and again he saw the coronet of blond hair swirling in the cloudy current and again and again he asked himself, could he have saved her? When Orbilio ran his hands over his face, to his shame he realized they were shaking.

With the basins at the sulphur pools worn so shiny and smooth, it was relatively simple to pass the girl’s death off as an accident, a tragic end to an otherwise perfect day, thereby allowing the killer to think they’d got away with it. Because, for the moment, there was nothing to be gained from showing his hand. Cynically Orbilio had wondered how many other murderers had ‘got away with it’ over the years, their inconvenient spouses slipping and, oh dear, breaking their necks? Uncomfortable with the answer, he’d concentrated on his search of the girl’s meagre quarters.

‘How can you be sure it wasn’t an accident?’ Claudia had asked, and his answer flowed without need for concentration.

‘I’m willing to put my job on the line that our Coronis was paid to take that early morning walk,’ he’d replied, ‘and that the bowl she carried was a prop.’ The subsequent discovery of two shiny gold pieces sewn inside the girl’s moth-eaten bolster sealed the matter.

The murderer needed a witness.

With hindsight, it explained Coronis’ nervousness, which was in the face of interrogation, rather than authority-not to mention her inability to look Claudia in the eye. Her best friend, a fat girl with rabbit’s teeth, swore black was white through gulping sobs that Coronis couldn’t-wouldn’t-have taken money to lie, that she was a hard and honest worker who wouldn’t say boo to a goose, but her final statement brought everything into focus. All she ever wanted, the friend had said, was to go home to Greece. While two gold pieces wasn’t enough to buy Coronis her freedom, Orbilio reflected as he made his way towards the fodder store, it was one hell of a good start.

So many times he had witnessed violent death-on the battlefield, on the streets, it was part of his job-yet he could not recall one single instance when the sight of the corpse had not moved him. Relentlessly and without fail, death diminished every last one. They were smaller, slighter. Even Fronto, whom he hadn’t even known. Diminished and cheapened. Perhaps that’s what happens when the soul departs? The shell is simply devalued?

Inside the fodder store, Coronis rested on a rude, wooden handcart, one stiffening arm over the side where it had fallen unchecked, small bronze coins for her eyes.

Not for Coronis oak wreaths or laurels, sacred myrrh or cinnamon. She would be burned on a pyre at night-this night-her unmarked, unmourned ashes buried in a field. No feasts, no mourning, no elaborate purification ceremony. Marcus Cornelius Orbilio slipped a silver denarius under her tongue to speed the oars of the ferryman and hasten her soul to Hades. There was no other way to tell her how sorry he was, how ashamed.

He heard the steward strike the gong for dinner and bowed reverently in the dusty barn.

On the other hand, he told her ghost, it was still within his powers to avenge her.

*

The deep reverberations of the dinner gong had not yet died in the air before Timoleon was out of his room and striding towards the dining hall, rubbing his hands together and whistling. Claudia watched him through the hole in her bedroom door that she’d made by wheedling a knot out of the woodwork, and when she was sure the atrium was empty she flitted across to his room.

Praise be to Juno and to hell with the cost, he’d left three good-sized lamps burning, the place was lit like a carnival. When she’d searched Barea’s quarters, all she’d had was one measly candle to work by and sustained broken two nails in the process. Here, it was a different problem. You could hardly find the bed for clutter, but the most striking aspect of the room was the portrait of the great man himself, a recent one to judge by the yellow hair, set against a backdrop of Corinth. Claudia supposed that was to remind him as much as anyone else of his supposed antecedents.

But where Barea had almost nothing-no personal possessions, no keepsakes, no mementoes to speak of-Timoleon more than made up for it. A set of silver cutlery with the initials ‘S.I.’ (Scrap Iron?) engraved on it. Combs of ivory, knives with bone handles carved in the likenesses of ducks’ heads, Mercury the messenger, snakes and seahorses. He had tunics of every damned colour of the rainbow, ranging from complex twills to embroidered cottons, one even woven with a fine gold thread. There were travelling cloaks with hoods and travelling cloaks without them, boots, shoes, sandals. She wondered, as she rifled through his five sets of underclothes, whether Barea felt envious of his colleague’s comprehensive wardrobe and decided probably not. He was an easy-going soul, Barea, who travelled light both physically and spiritually. Three serviceable tunics, one heavy cloak and his well-earned Cap of Freedom, proudly hung on a hook above the bed, that was all he had need for.

Not that the horse-trainer couldn’t afford more. In a small wooden chest under his bed he had a fair pile of coins stashed away, as well as a promissory note from Sergius for payment at the end of his contract. Interestingly, the casket also contained a sprig of what looked like dried heather, a small silver bell-the sort tied round the neck of a sacrificial lamb-and a ring set with a stone of green glass. For a man with few possessions, these few trinkets must be treasures indeed. But of what?

Whereas Barea’s chest had been locked (a minor complication for Claudia’s hairpin), Timoleon felt no need for secrecy. Had he been able, she suspected he’d have slapped his finery over the walls to show off, and from the crumpled appearance of most of the clothing, it seemed they were often taken out and admired. She moved on to the untidy row of onyx, glass and alabaster pots which contained a variety of precious oils. Poo! What’s that? Claudia sniffed again and chuckled. Dates mixed with castor oil mixed with carobs meant just one thing. Poor old Scrap Iron’s got piles!

She was replacing the lid and turning to his jewellery box when she heard voices outside. One deep, masculine and heavily accented. The other, unfortunately, pitched too low to identify.

‘I tell you again, is not necessary.’

She daren’t risk opening the shutter. With so many lanterns, even the smallest crack would light up the yard and Claudia had a feeling this was a conversation that was meant to be secret. Why else hold it outside what should have been an empty room on the wing opposite the dining hall? Cocking her ear to the embrasure, she strained for the reply and heard only an indistinct muttering which could have been male or female, young or old. Claudia wished they’d move closer to the building.

‘Has been enough trouble as it is. Suppose someone see you?’

Mumble, mumble, mumble. Dammit, I wish I could see you! Just a shadow, a silhouette, to show me who you are.

‘Look, is late. Dinner already under way, people start to wonder. We talk later, yes?’ Taranis put a bit more coaxing into his voice. ‘Yes?’ Which obviously paid off. ‘Good.’

Claudia realized she had two choices. She could either abandon her search of the gladiator’s room, knowing it was unlikely she’d get a better chance. Or she could finish her task and risk Taranis’ suspicions.

The decision had to be made fast if she was to beat the Celt to the dining couch…

Zigzagging between the chests of finery, she paused. Either way, she thought, meeting the painted eyes of the portrait on the wall, she had a horrid feeling she had been watched.

Marilyn Todd

Man Eater