Man Eater

by Marilyn Todd

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Critical Acclaim for Marilyn Todd

  Man Eater

  Dedication

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  XX

  XXI

  XXII

  XXIII

  XXIV

  XXV

  XXVI

  XXVII

  XXVIII

  XXIX

  XXX

  XXXI

  XXXII

  XXXIII

  XXXIV

  XXXV

  About the Author

  Wolf Whistle

  Man Eater

  By Marilyn Todd

  Copyright 2013 by Marilyn Todd

  Cover Copyright 2013 by Ginny Glass and Untreed Reads Publishing

  Cover image courtesy of: Marcus Ranum - mjranum (deviantart)

  Cover Model: Amber G

  The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

  Previously published in print, 1997.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, dialogue and events in this book are wholly fictional, and any resemblance to companies and actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental

  Also by Marilyn Todd and Untreed Reads Publishing

  I, Claudia

  Virgin Territory

  http://www.untreedreads.com

  Critical Acclaim for Marilyn Todd

  ‘Claudia—a super-bitch who keeps us all on the edge where she loves to live… The Roman detail is deft, the pace as fast as a champion gladiator.’ Sunday Express

  ‘A timeless heroine for today—you’ll be hooked.’ Company

  ‘An endearing adventuress who regards mortal danger as just another bawdy challenge.’ She

  ‘Terrific read…thoroughly entertaining.’ The Bookseller

  ‘Marilyn Todd’s wonderful fictional creation—a bawdy superbitch with a talent for sleuthing—[is] an enormous triumph.’ Ms London

  ‘A daring debut from a promising writer.’ Oxford Times

  ‘The first in a very entertaining series of mysteries.’ Lancashire Evening Telegraph

  ‘Feisty and fun.’ Yorkshire Post’

  I, Claudia was one of the best and most amusing historical detective narratives of the last year; and Virgin Territory is a fine follow-up.’ Crime Time

  ‘Thoroughly entertaining mystery. This heroine will run and run.’ Richmond and Twickenham Informer

  ‘A murder mystery with a difference, which gives a vivid view of life in Roman times.’ Northern Echo

  ‘If you’re looking for a romp through the streets of Rome in 13bc then this is the book to buy!’ Books Magazine

  Man Eater

  Marilyn Todd

  To Nigel

  without whom I’d still be on the starting blocks

  I

  Would you believe it? You start off doing someone a favour, not so much as a thought for your own interests, then, before you know it, the whole thing backfires and you end up in this mess. Typical!

  Claudia’s mouth turned down at the corners. All right, all right, maybe the word ‘favour’ was not strictly accurate. A letter had arrived from her bailiff, urging her to visit the estate immediately and without delay, so theoretically, if you wanted to be pedantic, you could argue that this was in her own interests. They were her vineyards, her problems, if you like—but a bailiff’s job is to run the estate, smoothly and without fuss, isn’t it? Therefore it was a measure of how seriously Claudia Seferius took her new obligations that she actually did set off at once. Heaven knows it was one hell of a sacrifice. She’d have given her right earring to stay in Rome for the processions and the dances and the gladiatorial games, but, alas, with wealth comes responsibility—and was she a girl to shirk hers? She was not.

  On the other hand, a voice inside her had argued, there was no reason why you can’t cut a few corners. And Claudia was all for listening to a balanced argument…

  Necessary as it might be to visit Etruria, equally she could see no reason why she should not be home again before the spring equinox and the subsequent rush of wall-to-wall festivals. Grabbing her cat, her bodyguard and the merest essentials, that same afternoon she rented a driver and gig from the nearest stand and set a cracking pace along the Via Flaminia. Since this was the main road linking Rome with the Adriatic, progress had been swift and she had not so much as hesitated when, at Narni, the road swept east. Claudia simply swept north. And that was when the trouble began.

  Because, instead of being ensconced in her villa by now, albeit digesting some dreary report on what damage winter had inflicted on the poor vines or sidestepping her late husband’s odious tribe of relatives, she was stuck in this godforsaken backwater.

  ‘Drusilla?’ She twizzled her neck to crane out of the window. ‘Is that you?’

  It was not. The rustle that she’d heard was a hedgehog, stretching its stubby post-hibernatory legs, and Claudia chafed her upper arms. They say spring comes early to Umbria, and she’d seen for herself how the almond blossom was almost past and the corn was standing tall, but all the same it was really too cold to stay at this window much longer, and yet—

  The new moon, so thin it had to lie on its back to support itself, was rising between two dark wooded hummocks but, below the skyline, fog rose steadily and when you held the lamp to the window, a fleecy wall glowered back at you.

  Dear Diana, it’s like staring into Hades. Only noisier! Good grief, you come to the country expecting peace and tranquillity and what do you get? Billeted next to a bloody great zoo, that’s what. And they have the cheek to say Rome’s noisy! Well, it might get rowdy in the streets from time to time and the pavements might turn mucky in the rain, but at least you don’t find yourself sleeping alongside half the African jungle. Brawlers, beggars and bawds you get used to. The stonemasons’ hammers, the creaks of the cranes, the cobblers’ lasts—that’s civilization with a capital C. But out in the country one expects no more than leaves tousled in the wind, perhaps the odd bark of a fox, not this constant succession of bloodcurdling howls and menacing growls, and certainly none of these formidable pongs.

  ‘’Night, miss.’

  Claudia’s heart flipped a backward somersault and landed awkwardly as two security guards emerged from the gloom.

  ‘Goodnight.’ Her reply was a trifle croaky, but the fog, which plays tricks anyway, had gobbled them up again.

  She counted to twenty then whistled two or three piping notes repeatedly. A horse doctor from Tolosa once told her that a cat had over thirty muscles in its ear, enabling it to detect the highest squeak of a dormouse, the shrillest trill of a warbler. Surely Drusilla could hear this? Claudia waited, goosefles
h creeping over her shivering frame. Nothing. Not a sign. Only when her teeth began to chatter did she drape her tunic over the sill and close the shutters, one reluctant leaf after the other, her cheek pressed against the polished beech long after the two big bruisers had finished their rounds.

  Come on, kid. I know you can find your way—

  Hitching the hem of her borrowed nightshift, Claudia hunkered over the little round brazier, warming her hands as light from the flickering lantern danced off the bronze. On paper, there should have been no problem with the road north of Narni, since it used to be the original Via Flaminia. However, in an effort to speed up travel and facilitate commerce within and beyond the boundaries of the Empire, Augustus had diverted this vital artery eastwards, round the other side of the mountains. So what if fifteen years had passed since then? Give us credit—we Romans build roads to last. Sure, the waysides are a little overgrown, but we’re making progress, aren’t we?

  Then it happened. The…accident.

  Picking up the looking-glass, a patchwork of cuts and bruises stared back at her, legacies of that…accident. Hmm. Claudia scanned aquatic friezes on unfamiliar walls, the garish oriental bedspread over a bed cast in silver. She smelled the heavy clover-like scent of the night-shift which hung stiff and strange from her shoulders—and vowed never to cut corners again. Never, ever, ever.

  Taking one last peek out of the window, Claudia sighed. If there was ever light at the end of this particular tunnel, some smart-arse must have blown it out.

  Jabbing back the bedclothes, she kicked off her sandals. This wasn’t the first time Drusilla had stayed out all night, but it was the first time in their seven years of sharing secrets and sustenance and shelter that she’d physically gone missing. Claudia snatched at the cat’s blanket and pressed it to her cheek, lingering over the matted fur and snagged fabric until her eyelids finally grew heavy. With one puff, the flame from the lamp flickered and died and she felt herself being sucked into sleep.

  Down, and down, and down.

  After a while, after a very long while, Claudia Seferius stopped fighting, and the thin crescent of the moon rose even higher in the heavens.

  *

  Thick mist, white like smoke, obliterated all vision and muffled every sound, even the hoofs clip-clopping in unison along grooves worn by countless wheels before them. The road, peeling itself back to admit them, revealed itself as little more than a ghost road. No brightly garbed Syrian merchants. No rumble of wagons. No loud-mouthed students travelling to university in Athens or Massilia or Alexandria. Gone were the actors, the athletes, the dispatch-carriers who once tramped these stones. Gone, too, the constant straggle of labourers, beggars, immigrants, in search of a better life. But in her dream, their shades lingered silently, leaving just the faintest whiff of commerce and philosophy, soldiering and whoring.

  Hemmed in by the green-grey hazy hills for which Umbria was famous, home to boar and badger, wolf and porcupine, the sounds you would normally expect to hear—the rushing snowmelts, the territorial birdsong, the scrape of dead antler against bark—these sounds were deadened by the mist’s embrace. Tiny pearls of moisture embroidered her cloak.

  It was like a dream within a dream.

  Oblivion in a white cocoon. Then—

  Trumpets. Shouts. Drums. Riders, six maybe seven of them, charging in and out, in and out of the fog. She saw the mares’ eyes rolling in fear, smelled the acid steam from their nostrils. They began to rear. The driver (she could see him now) was wrestling with the reins.

  Abruptly the dream changed again. The riders had gone, but so also had the gig and the driver and the horses, and she was spinning through space. Thick, white, silent space. She saw the ground hurtling towards her, heard a scream…

  Except—

  The screech wasn’t part of the dream. Shrill and penetrating, it shattered the night and Claudia shot bolt upright in bed. A second scream rang out, and Claudia Seferius was out of bed and kicking over the brazier before she remembered.

  ‘Mingy, mangy, flea-bitten mishmash.’

  Her voice echoed in the dark as she pushed away the curls that had tumbled into her eyes. This zoo is beginning to get on my whiskers! A big cat snarled, silencing the monkey. Well, that was something, she thought. At least it put paid to the shrieks.

  She flopped back on to the couch. Ah yes, the dream. Fiction? If only. Instead her troubled mind had been rerunning the morning’s escapades. Events she could well have done without, thank you very much.

  Small red embers glowered like a hundred eyes on the mosaic, but they would all too rapidly cool and the stars would have a long way to travel before the slaves would be up, stoking the furnace that would blast welcome warm air round the ducts under the floor. Claudia wriggled beneath the counterpane and dismissed from her mind the yobs who had forced her off the road. Make no mistake, their turn would come. She’d had a jolly good look at three of the little toe-rags.

  She rubbed her throbbing temple and plumped her bolster. What did they stuff them with? Marbles? Her ears strained in the blackness and heard the thumping of her heart even above the rumpus from the menagerie.

  Oh, Drusilla. Curling into a ball, she stroked the woollen blanket as though the cat lay curled up on it. Where are you?

  When the gig rolled down the embankment, Drusilla’s cage had burst open and the cat had bolted. More than bolted, she’d completely gone to ground, no amount of calling would coax her out. The heat from the charcoal had long since dissipated and Claudia huddled lower under the covers. Ideally she’d have left the shutters open, but the nights were too chilly and the best she could do was to drape her torn tunic over the sill and hope Drusilla would pick up her scent that way. Assuming…

  Assuming, what? Surely you’re not going to take notice of that ridiculous bit of homespun which says that when an animal’s injured, it crawls away to die? Codswallop. Drusilla is sulking, and that’s the end of it. Claudia closed her eyes, yet still saw the image of a blue-eyed, cross-eyed cat—and the space where Drusilla snuggled in the crook of her arm seemed suddenly huge. Claudia punched the pillow, then doubled it over. What was in here, for gods’ sake? Acorns? All this trumpeting, growling, screeching and cackling…it’s enough to drive a girl demented.

  Still. There seems to be a law which determines that beggars and choosers must walk separate paths and, be fair, this was the nearest settlement. She’d staggered to the top of the hill (why hadn’t someone told her this region was so lumpy?) and there it lay, the Pictor residence—salvation sprawled in the valley, four wings round a central courtyard, its terracotta tiles shimmering in the burgeoning sunshine. The Vale of Adonis, she found out later, named not after Aphrodite’s lover but the profusion of glossy red flowers that sprang from his blood and coloured the meadows so prolifically during the hot summer months. Which was perhaps just as well, because Adonis wasn’t the Immortal who sprang to mind in this narrow strip of land, crowded by woods and the hills so close the farm buildings had to stagger up the sides.

  One’s first impression was of satyrs and centaurs, of Pan summoning wood nymphs on his mysterious reed pipes…

  Claudia’s head lifted from the pillow. What was that? It sounded like…bugger. Just a seal. She turned fitfully, trying to blank out the problems that awaited her up at her own estate. What was so urgent—and so secret—that Rollo, her bailiff, daren’t commit it to paper? Since her husband’s death, his relatives had installed themselves at the villa, no doubt plotting ways to disinherit the widow. Was that it?

  The night droned on. The caged beasts struck an uneasy truce and eventually Claudia’s eyelids surrendered once again. But, instead of seeing her mother-in-law’s desiccated features or hearing the carping voice of her sister-in-law in her dreams, the figures of the family whose roof she shared drifted in and out of Claudia’s consciousness.

  Roly-poly Pallas. ‘Darling girl, whatever happened? Sit down, sit down. You must drink this, I insist.’ Irrespective of the blood stre
aming from her forehead, a glass of strong Falernian wine was pressed into her hand.

  Pallas changed. He remained the same age, early thirties, but grew leaner, and a hand’s span shorter. The puffing and fussing gave way to authority, and it was Sergius Pictor, head of the household, with his thick, springy curls and saturnine good looks, who was assessing Claudia’s injuries and striding off to pick up her injured bodyguard and driver…

  A pale-faced creature introduced herself as Alis, Sergius’ wife, and then turned into his echo. ‘Oh, yes. We must send a wagon immediately,’ she was saying, even though Sergius and the slaves had left…

  Another girl, younger than Alis, dark and sultry, could be seen in the background as she leaned against a pillar, watching, pouting and chewing on a lock of hair…

  Pallas returned and was forcing a second glass of wine on her when Claudia heard the clatter of chariot wheels in the courtyard. Funny. She hadn’t heard horses.

  ‘Tulola.’ It was Pallas who made the introductions. ‘Our dear host’s sister.’

  There was something odd about the chariot. Richly decorated, richly embellished, it was designed for racing and now, Claudia realized, tall slinky Tulola was dressed as a charioteer. But something was wrong. And then she spotted them. The creatures who pulled it. Six Negroes, glistening with the sweat of their recent exertions…

  Tulola was walking towards her. ‘You poor creature.’ She had a long, low stride, almost as though with every pace she had to step over an obstacle. ‘You’re bleeding.’ There was compassion in the voice, if not the eyes, and when she ran her hand down Claudia’s cheek, the fingers were stiff and splayed…

  Claudia snapped into wakefulness, instantly aware of the empty space beside her. She cradled the cat’s cushion then thumped and punched and rearranged the lumps in her own bolster. What was in here? Chicken bones? It was good of the Pictors to take her in, she supposed. To patch her wounds, tend the two injured men, to feed, clothe and rest her. But the instant Drusilla turns up, she thought, I am o-f-f, off.

  Suddenly there was a blockage in her throat. Oh, she’d find her way here, no question of that. In fact, Claudia had no doubts whatsoever about the intelligence of her sharp, Egyptian cat, only—