Man Eater

XXII

After a long day in Tarsulae, Marcus Cornelius Orbilio knew how Atlas must have felt when, having lost the argument with Perseus, the gorgon-slayer turned his grisly trophy upon the giant. His bones solidified, his shoulder blades turned to granite as the weight of the heavens was thrust upon him for all eternity.

The loss of Agrippa was every bit as personal to Orbilio as the death of an uncle or a boyhood friend, and his only consolation came in the satisfaction that the great man’s works-the aqueducts, the Pantheon, even the Tiber’s anti-flood defences-would stand the test of time so that for centuries to come, Romans would know that here lived a man of vision whose love for his people showed in the bridges he built for them, the basilicas, the warehouses, the porticoes, the museums.

That Orbilio had been able to confide his sentiments to Claudia had been of great comfort to him, and had little to do with Agrippa’s death. Inside she was nowhere near as brittle as she liked to make out, and intimate moments such as this allowed him a glimpse of the small, frightened child locked in the labyrinth of this complex woman’s emotions-and they aroused every masculine trait, from the instinct of challenge to the instinct to protect. She had listened in silence while he talked (rambled?) about his personal encounters with Agrippa, asked intelligent questions as to the impact of his death. Would Augustus not have to make Tiberius his heir now? How could he, he’d countered. The young man who’d shown his military and administrative qualities in the provinces and who’d proved himself a respected and, above all, loyal general, was no blood relation. Ah, but neither was Augustus to the Divine Julius, she reminded him, and look how that turned out. Couldn’t he just put the adoption of his wife’s son to the Senate and see how they vote? The complication there, Orbilio had explained, was that Tiberius was married to Agrippa’s daughter, who just happened to be several months pregnant. No matter how strong the Emperor’s feelings, the Roman people won’t countenance lack of purple blood. Interesting, she mused, because had Tiberius been free to marry Agrippa’s flibbertigibbet widow, the Empire would be in very safe hands indeed…

Orbilio had enjoyed computing the odds with Claudia, almost as much as he’d delighted in the way her curls bounced in time with the wheels on the journey home, the way she tipped her head back when she laughed. Minerva’s magic, the sun in her hair was like a celestial forge working all the metals of the Empire, copper, brass, bronze, gold, and he’d wanted to sink his hands in that thrilling furnace, bury his head in the flames and nuzzle the sparks. Every movement she made was electric, energizing him, quickening his emotions, his wits and his loins, and now that he was parted from her, even for the short while that she soaked her bones in Sergius Pictor’s bath house, he was forced to face facts.

Life without Agrippa’s influence would be the poorer. Life without Claudia Seferius would be barren indeed.

The last thing Marcus Cornelius Orbilio desired at that particular moment was company, but a policeman investigating three cold-blooded murders cannot afford the luxury of solitude and when a man slaps you on the back and says, ‘Come and test my latest stallion’, you have very little option. Especially when he qualifies the invitation by adding, ‘Assuming you’re up to it.’

Three hours spent steering a pair of cantankerous mules on a derelict road with a cat yowling all the way puts considerable strain on the biceps, the wrists and the patience, and when it comes on top of hearing of the death of Rome’s second most beloved citizen, all underpinned by the presence of the woman you (careful, Marcus, careful!)…underpinned by Claudia Seferius, then the last thing a man fancies is a ride round the ring with a temperamental stallion. However, with a decent chunk of daylight remaining, Orbilio was in no position to refuse a challenge thrown down by a man who was still very much a suspect in the case.

‘Great!’ He’d told bigger lies in his time, though none, he reflected, with quite such conviction.

‘This is the last,’ Barea explained, stroking the horse’s nose as the groom saddled up, ‘and the best. Corbulo thinks he can teach him to dance, he’s that good. What do you think?’

After a canter then a gallop then a couple of difficult jumps, Orbilio was inclined to agree. The horse was the best he’d ever ridden. ‘The new animals arrive soon, don’t they?’

‘Who cares?’ the horse-breaker shrugged. ‘For me, it’s time to move on.’

Orbilio dismounted. ‘You’ve formed no attachments here?’

Barea wrapped his bony arm round Orbilio’s shoulders in a conspiratorial gesture. ‘You might be a high-flying policeman and I might be the son of a Lusitanian peasant, but we both work our bollocks off, and when the sun begins to sink, you and I want what men everywhere want.’

‘Marriage?’ he asked innocently.

‘Knock it off, my son.’ Barea chuckled as he scratched at his jaw. ‘Take that girl in the kitchen, the one with the dimples. She’ll give you the same as Tulola-only with her, she expects a bloke to listen to her tittle-tattle for an hour while he strokes her hair and tells her how pretty she is, and then afterwards he’s got to hang around and tell her he don’t even look at another pair of tits, not while he’s got her.’

‘You’re not exactly into heavy relationships, then?’

Barea closed the stable door behind him and tested the lock. ‘Whores’ll do me, mate, except with Tulola I even get that for free.’

‘It’ll be hard to give up those perks,’ Orbilio ventured.

‘Freedom’s my perk, mate.’ Barea wiped his hands down the length of his tunic. ‘Who is it you Romans pray to? Fortune? Well, I reckon I owe her one, because if she hadn’t stepped in, I’d be stuck in that poxy mining village watching convicts and captives slog their guts out for the same nation which put me and my people under the yoke, while our women, our beautiful, virtuous, virginal women, spread their legs for the nearest legionary.’

A small nugget of understanding found its way into Orbilio’s possession. He saw a small Lusitanian town swamped by men with silver in their purses to lavish on dark-eyed girls whose menfolk were unable to compete. With resentment on that scale seething beneath the surface, no wonder Barea’s opinion of women was so low, ‘How did you break away?’ he asked.

‘Easy as a poke in the eye. Rounded up three mares and a stallion for the Praetor, broke ’em in, and then found out he was shipping nags to some posh chariot school in Rome.’

Orbilio thought of Gisco and felt several conflicting emotions caper through his body at once. ‘Not the red faction?’

‘Yeah.’ Barea vaulted the fence. ‘Now you mention it, I think it might have been. Anyway, two years later the Praetor moves on and I’m in the queue for me cap of freedom. Farewell Lusitania, hello world.’

As Orbilio climbed the fence rung by rung, the sun dropping fast and the crickets starting their evening chorus in competition with the caged beasts, he studied the thin, tanned face of the horse-breaker. Older than he looked, in all probability he’d have been a free man for five, maybe six summers. A ‘V’ of geese made their untidy way across the orange sky, and the tips of the clouds turned black. In the sheds to the north, a buzz of activity signalled the end of the day for the field workers, and the little stream that fed the Vale of Adonis gurgled contentedly.

‘You’re not going to Rome with the Pictors?’

‘Rome sounds good.’ The horse-breaker bent to pick up a stone and rolled it around in his fingers. ‘But not with Sergius.’

He aimed the pebble and lobbed it into the seal pool, receiving a disapproving honk for his pains. ‘There’s been nothing for a bloke to spend his dosh on here. I’ve got enough of a wad put by to go independent-learn more about them chariots, you know?’

It made sense. At a certain age, every man needs to anchor his career and Orbilio could picture Barea studying the racehorses, then offering his services to a leading stud farm.

‘Will you keep in touch with Tulola?’ he asked.

‘If I can’t afford tarts, who knows? But I wouldn’t mind a crack at the other one.’

‘Euphemia?’

‘Claudia. Very tasty. Got your leg over yet?’

‘It’s getting late, I think I’ll-’

‘What! Smart, intelligent aristo like you and she gave you the elbow?’

‘Time’s pressing, I need to spruce myself up for dinner-’

Barea’s laughter drowned the chatter from the monkey house. ‘Don’t take it personal, my old son, she probably prefers a bit of rough, them types do, know what I mean?’ He tapped the side of his nose knowingly.

Orbilio feigned a sudden interest in ostriches as they passed the compound.

‘In fact,’ the horse-breaker ran his bony fingers over his blue-black, slicked-back hair, ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s dancing the four-legged limbo with me before long.’ With a confident wink, he turned on his heel and marched off.

Orbilio’s mouth twisted into a grin. You can try, Barea, you can try.

He began to laugh aloud. I just pray Claudia doesn’t hurt you too badly in the process.

*

While Barea slipped round the door of Tulola’s heavily scented bedroom and Orbilio slipped beneath the steaming waters of the hot-room bath, Claudia Seferius, subject of their recent conversation, cradled a jug of mulled wine and the knowledge that, by rights, she ought at this moment to be rubbing shoulders with merchants and porters, astrologers and ferrymen in the bustling town of Narni. She should not, as she was now, be sitting alone in Sergius Pictor’s courtyard. She should be surrounded by hordes of late-night carousers gathered together on the banks of the Nera where in daylight the barges sail past, with their high sterns and curved bows, laden with everything from marble to saltfish to slaves.

But no.

Fancypants has to stick his nose where it doesn’t belong. Never mind that it was tantamount to throwing her to the wolves, duty is duty, isn’t it, Marcus? What does it matter if innocent people suffer, so long as Truth is the victor?

Irritably she got up and flounced round the topiaries. Dammit, he gets under my skin almost as badly as the dust from the journey and heaven knows, that was awful enough. Yesterday’s rain and today’s sunshine meant the gunge kicked up from those mules stuck like porridge, clogging her pores and making her queasy by the time they got back to the Vale of Adonis. It had to be that? What other explanation could there be?

Not Agrippa. His death was shocking and, yes, desperately disturbing. He was such a fit man, a genuine hero of the people-heavens above, we rely on men like him.

Who suggested the nausea was connected with Loverboy? No, no, no. With the inevitable unrest in Rome, his boss would recall him immediately, because when the Empire moved, it did so with astonishing pace, and Orbilio was an ambitious sod. He’d be off to Gaul, probably before the month was out, and that’s what she wanted, wasn’t it? Him out of her hair once and for all? Well, of course it was, what a damned silly question.

It’s that baby goat I ate at lunchtime. More milk than blood in its body, no wonder I felt queer.

Claudia inhaled the steaming vapours from her goblet-honey, saffron, cinnamon and, oh, was that a hint of pepper in there? Before she could identify the other ingredients, Pallas burst out of the south wing in a stream of light.

‘There you are, there you are!’

Good old Pallas, nearly wetting himself to tell her that when a certain fire broke out this morning, Macer’s finger of suspicion pointed directly her way-only someone, Pallas added gleefully, his brows lifting just as high as they could go, had given her an alibi.

‘Who?’ He spread his hands apologetically. ‘Darling girl, how should I know that, I’m simply repeating what I heard.’

Reading the message emblazoned in his eyebrows, Claudia pressed further. ‘But you could, no doubt, hazard a small guess?’

‘We-ell,’ he began, then, as he glanced over her shoulder, his tone changed abruptly. ‘Of course, it was difficult to keep track of anyone today.’

Claudia spun round. Perhaps it was merely a trick of the light that suggested a door to the north wing had swung shut?

‘Because of Macer,’ Pallas qualified.

A born bureaucrat, it appeared the temper of his Imperial Majesty’s illustrious Prefect had not been mitigated when he learned the grease patch on his scarlet tunic would not come out and that the acid used to remove it had, dear oh dear, burned a nasty hole in the wool. Therefore, Pallas related cheerfully, it was in good old civilian white that Macer had his minions pacing the distance between kitchen and bedroom, footpath and palisade, crocodiles and bedroom, measuring this, measuring that, heights, depths, breadths, then he’d made them do it again to double check. Disrupting just about every schedule on the estate, he’d taken statements, querying, quantifying, qualifying and generally making a balls-up wherever he poked his skinny pink nose. ‘As a consequence,’ the big man added casually, ‘no one was where they should have been this afternoon, no one at all.’

As he disappeared through the door of the east wing, Claudia was left with a distinct feeling that Pallas had been trying to tell her something, although for the life of her she didn’t know what. However, there was one thing she could be sure of. If Pallas knew she was off the premises, it would be common knowledge among the rest of the family. Luckily, such would be the impact of Agrippa’s death that Macer would have no time to divert his energies into proving his preposterous case against Claudia Seferius.

Civil unrest was a possibility.

Military unrest was a genuine threat.

Even before he’d buried his friend, Augustus would have been battening down every corner of the Empire, moving his generals like men in a game of Twelve Lines, appeasing, reassuring, castigating if necessary. Without doubt the Prefect intended to play a full part in the crisis for which, joy of joys, he’d have to do without full dress uniform. Claudia heard disembodied humming and discovered it was hers.

Pallas claimed he had no idea who provided her alibi indeed, with his sense of mischief, it could well have been the fat man himself-but more perplexing than who, was the why. Because by protecting Claudia, someone had very cleverly covered themselves…

A flurry of activity along the colonnade caught her eye. A messenger. Then Macer. Then much urgent mumbling. The two men disappeared indoors, leaving other sounds to tell the story. Hobnail boots as the legionaries were rounded up. Jangling harnesses as horses were saddled.

‘What happening, you know?’ Taranis, appearing from nowhere, scratched at his stubble as the hoofbeats echoed into the twilight.

Since it was not in Claudia’s interests to enlighten him-or anyone else for that matter-she shrugged and examined a broken nail.

The Celt failed to take the hint. ‘You and me, we go see, yes? Er-’ His itch seemed to spread to his uncombed thatch. Either that or he was puzzled about something. ‘You-all right?’

The furrow in his brow was so deep his eyebrows met in the middle. Taranis was confused. Here is Roman noblewoman pinching thumb and first finger and making circles over her head. Is not normal.

‘Perfectly,’ Claudia replied, replacing her non-existent money-spider among the borage leaves and was not surprised, upon straightening up, to find herself alone once more with her thoughts. The sun had set, yet the sky retained the same fiery quality that you feel yourself when you embark on a brand-new venture. Around her, the circus animals had pretty well settled down-an occasional howl, the odd bark-it was as quiet as it ever gets down this end of the valley, and even the vultures, constantly scrounging offal and carrion, had flown back to their roosts for the night. Slaves lit the torches, and a smell of fresh apple cakes wafted from the ovens.

Claudia leaned back and thought of the tart her mother used to bake, filled with spinach and smoked cheese and pine nuts. Used to! Ha! She made it just the once, on one of the rare occasions she’d been sober, because Claudia’s father was due home from campaign. He was only an orderly and the glory never rubbed off on the likes of him, so Claudia had suggested the pie as a treat. She never knew what happened to that tart, because within minutes of his walking through the door, her parents were at it hammer and tongs, rowing like he’d never been away, and Claudia had stuffed rags in her ears and hidden behind the woodpile until her father slammed the door and her mother passed out in an alcoholic haze.

‘Taken with my chimera, are you?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

Alis was standing behind her, clutching a set of bronze scoops in one hand and a ceramic jar in another. It was difficult to imagine her in Rome, where domestic chores were assigned to lackeys. Silly cow would probably take up spinning.

‘My statue. I thought you were admiring it.’

Good grief, no. Beastly thing. Quite unintentionally, Claudia’s eyes had been fixed on a fire-breathing marble monster across the courtyard, part lion, part dragon, part goat. ‘Oh yes, I was,’ she smiled, patting the seat in polite invitation.

‘It was a present from Sergius, you know.’ To Claudia’s immense irritation, Alis settled down next to her.

‘Really?’ Unlike the other mythical creations dotted between the topiaries, this did not stand tall and still on its pedestal, it writhed and twisted so its head was at the same level as its cloven hoofs. ‘Hardly your average token of love,’ Claudia murmured.

‘Oh, not a personal gift,’ explained Alis. ‘It was for Isodorus and myself to commemorate our fourth wedding anniversary.’

‘You knew Sergius before you were widowed?’ The revelations about this diffident creature grew more and more complex.

‘Oh-’ Alis blushed and burnished the ring on her wedding finger. ‘Sergius was a friend of my stepfather’s,’ she twittered. ‘The only good thing to come out of that awful alliance, really.’

‘I see.’ And she was beginning to.

Alis darted a sideways glance. ‘Claudia, you’ll think me a strumpet, but I fell in love with Sergius long before Isodorus died. Oh, not that we did anything. Not-not, you know, sexually. But my husband, Isodorus I mean, had been in poor health all his life. Sergius,’ the blush deepened, ‘Sergius was the one who escorted me to the theatre, taught me to play softball and darts and the lyre.’ Her eyelashes fluttered as she twisted her wedding band. ‘It was Sergius who ran in the foot races with my favours pinned to his tunic.’

Was it now?. Heady stuff indeed, when a man-about-town shows a shy, country girl a good time. Somebody fell hook, line and sinker-but was that person Alis? I take it back about the spinning.

‘Alis, my dear, I think you’ll enjoy living in Rome.’

‘Rome?’ Alis laughed quizzically. ‘Why should I want to live in a dirty old city? This valley’s far too beautiful to leave.’

‘But the animals…? Alis, this is hot news. Your husband is about to take Rome by storm, he’ll be feted. A celebrity.’

‘We’ll stay a week, two maybe,’ she said dismissively, ‘but then he can hand over to an agent while he trains the next batch. Have you seen Sergius lately?’ Her pale face creased into a broad beam. ‘He’s a hundred percent again, fit as a fiddle.’

‘That was quick.’ This morning he looked on his last legs.

‘He was right, too, about not needing a doctor.’ Alis stood up and gathered her scoops and pot. ‘But that’s Sergius for you. Always knows what he’s doing.’

The keys at her belt jangled as she walked towards the east wing.

‘Alis,’ Claudia called after her, ‘just as a matter of interest, how did Isodorus die?’

Flickering torchlight reflected gold on the rippling waters of the fishpond and turned the artemesias round the statuary into tiny molten shrubs. Bats squeaked and dived for insects on the wing. A peaceful scene, which would have been all the more restful had Alis not answered in much the same voice you’d use when choosing between soft, scrambled or hard-boiled eggs.

‘Snakebite,’ she said. ‘Right where you’re sitting.’

And suddenly everything in the garden was not lovely any more.