Man Eater

XV

Old age might bring maturity and wisdom, experience and nous, and it might well conceal a chicanery all of its own, but it is no substitute for the zeal and fire of youth. Or the fact that youth brings about a speed of recovery verging on the indestructible.

Claudia yawned, stretched and tickled Drusilla’s ears. ‘Time, young lady, for you to pack up your mouse bones, your furballs and any other souvenirs you might have acquired from the Villa Pictor.’

Only this time, please, let’s leave the fleas behind.

Claudia reached for the goblet beside her bed and sniffed. ‘Ugh. Henbane.’ No wonder she’d slept so well. A good twelve hours at a guess, although there was no sun to pinpoint it further. The rains might have gone, but the clouds hung like hammocks, low and heavy, the sky bark-grey and cheerless.

‘Mrrrr.’ Drusilla wriggled in pleasure and rolled on to her side.

Whoever had come into her room to open the shutters had also been thoughtful enough to leave a tray. Claudia slapped a chunk of pecorino cheese, her favourite, on to a still-warm roll flavoured with parsley and chives as Drusilla helped herself to a prawn.

‘Thank heavens there’s no red meat on this tray, we had quite enough of that last night, thank you very much.’

Claudia quickly skimmed over the lump of humanity mashed to a squelch by the crocodiles and moved on to the question of why that total stranger should want to kill her in the first place. Very odd. But then the whole place was very odd.

‘I suppose it was me he was after?’ Who else could he have mistaken me for? Not a man. Tulola? Too tall. Euphemia? Too fat. ‘Alis?’ she said aloud.

Drusilla, chomping on another prawn, didn’t turn so much as a whisker.

‘I know you can hear me, you little fraud.’ Judging by the debris all over this counterpane, you’ve been stuffing yourself since the moment my breakfast arrived. ‘I said, could anyone mistake me for Alis?’

‘Brip.’

‘I don’t know why, poppet, I was simply asking whether it was possible. Not that it matters. We’re heading back to Rome.’

‘Mrrip.’

‘House arrest? Forget that.’ Not even Macer, with his unique propensity for putting two and two together and coming up with twenty-two, could lay this latest attack at Claudia’s door. ‘No, very soon we’ll be home again, life will be back to normal before you know it.’

Normal? What was normal? Between being born in the south and her dancing days in Genua, life had been anything but predictable, and since marrying the old wine merchant…? Put it this way. If Claudia Seferius had been a knife, she’d never have gone rusty.

Realizing Drusilla was not going to be sidetracked so long as one pink prawn remained standing, she eased the cat to one side and slid out of bed.

‘First your mistress needs a long, hot soak-’for all youth’s advantages, it couldn’t heal injuries like hers overnight ‘-and then we’ll set off. How’s that?’

A lump of fish fell from Drusilla’s mouth. Her body arched and her hackles were fully erect before Claudia’s ears picked up the whistle.

‘Junius!’ One of the first things she’d taught him was that three-note signal. ‘What brings you to darkest Umbria?’

The Gaul’s jaw dropped. ‘By the gods, madam. Are you all right?’

In the course of four days I’ve been run off the road, bounced down a hillside and had a dying dung-beetle thrust upon me. I’ve seen the sharp point of Euphemia’s knife, been accused of murder, discovered Coronis, been beaten then half throttled by a total stranger and you ask, am I all right?

‘Bubbling with health.’ To prove it she shot him her healthiest, heartiest, halest of smiles. ‘Now, answer the question.’

‘Three reasons.’ Junius, unconvinced, produced a scroll from the belt of his tunic and passed it through the open window. ‘First, this was waiting for you up at the villa.’

Claudia recognized the seal. It was the report from her surveyor.

‘I think it could have waited,’ the young Gaul continued, ‘but while I was there, one of Macer’s officers called to see your bailiff.’

‘So?’ It sounded terribly routine to a girl for whom a deep soak in steaming hot water beckoned very loudly.

‘I’d briefed him on most of what had happened, I just hadn’t had a chance to tell him about the servants.’

‘What servants?’

‘You told Macer you’d sent them ahead by ox cart, when, of course, we never took any with us.’

‘Water under the Milvian Bridge, Junius. Last night some homicidal maniac damned near killed me, so I don’t think anyone’s going to lose sleep over one titchy-witchy fib, do you?’

‘There’s something else, too.’

Claudia waved an airy hand. ‘Don’t care, don’t want to know. I appreciate your efforts, but my advice is go to the kitchens then see if you can grab forty winks. In an hour or two, we set sail for Rome.’

‘But, madam-’

‘Butts are where archery is practised, Junius.’ To emphasize her point, she snapped the shutters to.

She heard a finely rounded oath of Gallic origin then, when silence prevailed (or what passed for silence, when you’re billeted next door to a hundred yowling beasts), she flung back the shutters and studied the sky. Was that a break in the clouds she detected?

‘With luck, poppet,’ she picked up Drusilla and swung her several times round in the air, ‘we should be home for the equinox.’

Always a good excuse for a knees-up, and heaven knows she needed one after this. Umbria? You can keep it. It’ll take a lot to prise me away from Rome in the future, and then if I travel, I stick to main roads. ‘Bbbrow!’

That’s the trouble with Egyptian cats. The effect of twirling them isn’t immediately obvious, they’re bosseyed to start with.

The bath was tempting but… ‘Let’s just see how that report reads, shall we?’

Claudia threw herself face-down on the bed. Drusilla dived through the open window without so much as a backward glance.

‘Ingrate!’ Bet you won’t be so proud when it comes to a piece of bacon at lunchtime.

Claudia broke the seal and flipped open the letter. ‘Madam,’ it read, ‘I am pleased to report that I have assessed the two Etruscan sites and my conclusions are as follows. With reference to the damage by fire, this is entirely superficial and has no real bearing on the plans you have for either property…’ blah, blah, blah ‘…and in conclusion, I would say this. Hunter’s Grove would be a suitable proposition for the growing of vines since the soil, though light, has excellent water-retention properties and is devoid of both chalk and tufa. White grapes will grow best here, and I strongly recommend the Thrasian variety to optimize soil conditions.’

Thrasian grapes, eh? He was smarter than she thought, this surveyor chappie.

‘As for Vixen Hill, although the site is superficially appealing, being south-facing and fed by a small brook, it is my recommendation that you steer clear of this property, since the land is not, as has been made to appear, in a state of neglect. The soil is exhausted and totally unsuitable for wine production, or indeed any other agricultural project. Should you require any further…’ etc, etc, etc. She let the scroll drop on to the floor and rested her chin on the bolster. The auction is on Saturday, the same day as the spring equinox. Do I bid in person or do I send an agent? No matter. There are far more pressing issues. Such as, which of Tulola’s brightly coloured tunics could I borrow next? And can I be certain the bath house operates a segregation policy?

The last thing Claudia wanted at the moment was to find herself naked and alone with Timoleon or Barea barging in, but at least the Celt wouldn’t be a problem. The fastest way to get Taranis out of a bath is to open the taps.

The changing-room steward assured her there was no chance of men barging in on her ablutions and left her in the capable hands of a large Cappadocian woman with characteristically curled hair and a laugh that rattled the finials on the roof.

‘Hot room? Wouldn’t if I was you, ducks.’ Not madam. Ducks. ‘You want them cuts to seal over, don’t yer? Well, steam ’em and clean ’em, that’s old Cinna’s motto. Right now, luvvie, into the buskins. Don’t want them pretty feet burned on the tiles, do we?’

Which just about set the pattern for the next half-hour. To a backdrop of life in the Cappadocian Uplands, which this woman could only ever have heard second hand, Claudia’s flesh surrendered itself to be oiled and scraped, steamed and massaged. Truly heaven on earth!

‘Them weals round your ankles looks worse than they are, but old Cinna’s camomile compress’ll fix ’em in a jiffy. By tomorrow they won’t even show.’

Between the harmonious scrape of the strigil, the lilt of the woman’s voice and the impenetrable swirling steam, aches eased and bruises were banished. Bastard, she thought. She didn’t even know the man, why should he pick on her? Still, he was dead now-and it was a death Claudia wouldn’t have wished on her worst enemy. Except, hang on, he was her worst enemy! He was the one who’d deliberately planned to feed her to the crocodiles. Hell, yes-and I tried to save the bugger, too.

‘My word, you have been in the wars. Rub my balsam salve on them bumps and cuts, luvvie, and they’ll be gone before you look in the mirror. Oh, hello, duck. Which do you want, the hot room or the steam?’

Tulola ungirdled her gown. Like all her tunics, this was also designed to slide away in one piece and she wore neither breast band nor thong underneath.

‘Steam’s fine,’ she purred, her eyes raking Claudia’s naked back. ‘Is that your famous rose oil I can smell?’

‘That you can, my luv, and I expect you’ll be wanting a rub over with it, too. Let me give you a hand with them buskins-’

‘No rub today, Cinna. Why don’t you go and check the plunge pool?’

‘I’m not half finished with my first darling, yet.’

‘I told you, Cinna, you check the plunge pool.’ She laid one stiffened finger on Claudia’s bare shoulder and began to trace a pattern. ‘I’ll finish the massage.’

Claudia slithered off the bench. ‘Don’t trouble yourself, I’m off to soak in the hot room.’

She knew Tulola would follow, but at least you could see where you were and pre-empt the strike. ‘How’s your brother?’ she asked, easing herself into the water. ‘Fully recovered from last night’s little episode?’

‘Funny you should ask,’ Tulola replied, a frown furrowing her usually unlined forehead. ‘I’m rather worried about him, as a matter of fact.’

The change in Tulola startled her. ‘Why?’

‘He’s such a ghastly yellow, and he feels bilious all the time.’

Claudia, who knew nothing about nursing, suggested that if he was too ill to ride into Tarsulae, why not let the horse doctor take a look at him?

‘I suggested that,’ Tulola said earnestly, ‘but he wouldn’t have it. Insists there’s nothing wrong, apart from a spot of food poisoning.’

‘He could be right, you know.’

‘Nonsense, sweetie. He’d have been as sick as a dog if it was something he ate.’

‘What does Alis think?’

Tulola snorted. ‘Alis! If my brother told her blue was yellow and she was a grasshopper, she’d believe him. “Anything my husband says goes” is all you get from that pompous little cow.’ She kicked violently at the water.

‘Sergius is a grown man, I dare say he knows what he’s doing.’ Claudia bobbed right under to wash the caked mud out of her hair.

‘That’s what that sulky bitch Euphemia said.’ Tulola began to chew her nail. ‘No one seems bothered about him except me. Even Scrap Iron thinks it’ll pass, and he’s well used to death and injury.’

‘But not illness, remember. Look, it was a long day yesterday, one way and another, perhaps the others are right. Maybe you’re worrying unduly? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m finished here.’

There was an argument raging in the atrium, she could hear it from outside. Timoleon, who had taken to fighting with words in lieu of net and trident, had this time picked on the Celt. Claudia positioned herself behind a pillar.

‘Who you call coward, you dirty motherfucker? I leave because there are too many dead men.’

‘Frightened of ghosts, Taranis?’

‘Who knows who is next to have knife in his back, heh?’

‘The killer’s dead, you saw him-or at least what was left of him.’ Timoleon’s taunts were having little effect, so he moved up a gear. ‘Unless you set him up and you’re the murderer?’

‘You crazy, you know that? Killer need motive, I have no motive.’

Timoleon picked up the Celt’s ragged pack, upended the contents over the tiles and sneered. ‘Psychopaths kill for pleasure.’

‘Like you, yes? Like you kill in the arena? Well, maybe you kill this Fronto? Maybe you kill me when my back is turned?’

‘You’d call me a backstabber? You little turd, I’ll-’ Pity. Just when it gets interesting, Macer makes his entrance.

‘What’s going on?’ He held out an imperious foot for a slave to clean his boot. ‘More trouble?’

For all his faults, he had a perfect sense of balance, did the heavily armoured Prefect. Not so much as a wobble as the servant scraped off the mud.

‘No trouble, Macer,’ Timoleon replied, deliberately crushing one of Taranis’ cloakpins underfoot. ‘One big, happy family, us.’

And I’m a Vestal Virgin, thought Claudia from behind the column.

Glimpsing his buckled brooch, the barbarian turned puce. ‘You bastard!’

‘Did you hear that, Salvian? One big, happy family.’ Macer held out his other foot. ‘Yet I don’t recall your father and I throttling each other as boys. Separate them, will you, lad?’

That was another thing. Normally you had to be eighteen to qualify as a junior tribune, and the days of favoured sons being given soft commissions went out with Augustus’ shake-up. Interesting.

Salvian, however, wasn’t as daft as he looked. Rank might hold in the forces, you could see him thinking, but it wouldn’t separate two strong civilians. Whereas a bucket of water from the atrium pool would.

‘Now we have that sorted out,’ Macer unstrapped his helmet and brushed the red plumes into shape, ‘perhaps someone can brief me on the events of last-and just where might you be going, sir?’

Taranis, his grimy face streaked with the water, hefted his pack on his shoulders. ‘I…I go to homeland, to Atrebates. Is not safe here.’

‘I think you’ll be perfectly safe here, sir, while my officers and I are stationed on the premises. So until I get to the root of this nasty business, no one leaves, and I mean no one. Is that clear?’

A low grumble emanated from the Celt’s throat, which could have been construed either way.

‘In fact, until I say to the contrary-’ not only a good sense of balance, Macer, he had a nice way with words, too-‘you don’t even fart without my permission. Pass the word round.’

Hidden behind the pillar, Claudia waited until the atrium emptied. She watched Macer clap his arm round his nephew’s shoulder as the two of them disappeared into the courtyard. She watched the legionaries file out of the main entrance and head towards the slaves’ barracks. She watched Timoleon wring the water out of his yellow hair as he chuckled his way to his room.

And she watched Taranis throw a murderous glance at what she first thought was the gladiator’s retreating back, and then was not so sure that Timoleon was the intended target.

Unfortunately the marble column prevented her seeing who was.