Man Eater

by Marilyn Todd

  ‘Sewage, you mean?’

  ‘Whatever,’ he said cheerfully, prodding the handle into the compacted soil. ‘Pushed for space,’ he tried another spot, ‘he laid underground pipes for his outbuildings to go over the top.’

  ‘Do we sift our way out? That’s radical.’

  He looked up and grinned. ‘That’s what I like about you, always willing to try out new ideas.’ A couple more exploratory probes. ‘I know two waste pipes meet, one from the monkey house, one—’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I always check the lie of the land, my dear. You never know when—’

  ‘—a Gisco might be after you.’

  He shot her a ha-ha-very-funny look as he prodded the soil. ‘Here we are.’ There was a dull clunk as iron connected with terracotta.

  ‘I still don’t get it.’ It came out nasal, on account of her hand clamped over her nose.

  ‘Well,’ he proceeded to tap his way along the pipe, ‘each channel is four hands square at best.’ He paused to swipe the perspiration from his eyes. ‘It would be far more comfortable if we could find the junction, where it widens to accommodate both outlets. Can you hold that candle steady?’

  Claudia willed the muscles in her hand to change from jelly into steel. He’s talking about escaping…through the sewer?

  ‘How—’ She cleared her throat. ‘How far does it go, do you know?’ They could easily get stuck! Buried alive…

  ‘At a guess? Two hundred paces.’

  ‘Two hundred?’

  ‘Maybe three or four. Look.’ He pointed to a dark, damp mound.

  ‘A leak?’

  ‘A blockage,’ he corrected, shovelling frantically. ‘Which has put such a strain on the joints, we don’t have the bother of how to smash our way through.’

  ‘It’s quicker if we both dig,’ Claudia offered. Any excuse to dump this revolting lump of goat fat. As she balanced the candle on a shelf, Orbilio jumped up as though scalded.

  ‘Holy, holy shit!’ he said.

  In the bright halo of light, a hand was sticking out of the earth.

  As Orbilio clawed at the soil, she saw the arm was attached to a torso, and the torso attached to a neck, which still bore the deep mark of the garotte. Attached to the neck was a head with a crown of baby-fine hair, and a thin pink nose.

  ‘Macer!’ Claudia gulped. Orbilio’s expression was grim as he hauled the body out of the drainage pipe.

  ‘Look again,’ he said roughly.

  For it was not the Prefect who lay dripping in his lap. It was his nephew.

  XXXII

  To this day, Claudia could not say how she made it out of that store room. At some stage, Orbilio must have pushed her headlong into the sewer. He must have told her to keep her head up, perhaps he showed her how to drag herself down the channel by her elbows. Certainly they were red raw when she emerged, gasping and spluttering, into the pond, as were her knees and her feet. It could even have been that he had jerked on her hair from time to time, to keep her face out of the swirling waters and save her from drowning. She just did not know.

  Dawn was beginning to break in the Vale of Adonis as Orbilio tumbled into the pool after her, the air sweet and fresh and full of birdsong, as though nothing so sordid as murder could have happened under its disappearing stars. Since the goddess Aurora had not yet placed her rosy kisses on the sky, the water remained a translucent shade of grey as Claudia splashed around in it. He watched the graceful motion of her arms, the lithe movement of her long, long legs. She needed to wash away the effluent, she said, and he pretended to go along with it, and for the first time since he met her, Marcus Cornelius Orbilio did not feel a surge in his loins. True, she wore nothing but a breast band and thong, which, wet, served to accentuate her secrets, rather than hide them. But it was an overwhelming tenderness that coursed through Orbilio’s veins as she splashed and swam, and the feeling took him completely by surprise. He was not entirely sure he liked it.

  She had done well, he thought, hauling himself out of the water. Swoons and hysterics were not part of her psyche, but she blamed herself for Salvian’s death and there was little he could do to dissuade her.

  ‘He told me,’ she’d wailed, cradling Salvian in her arms. ‘He told me he knew who the murderer was. I could have saved him, Marcus. I could have saved this boy’s life, but I laughed at him instead.’

  Since he’d had no real answer, Orbilio reminded her sternly that time was a luxury they did not possess as he prised away a large section of the terracotta piping using a shelf as a lever. Now something was wrong. It prickled his skin and it prickled the hairs on the back of his scalp. Something was very wrong. And the danger that stalked them was almost bestial in form.

  ‘Claudia, we have to go.’ She had washed away as much of Salvian’s blood as was possible. The stains that were left were all in her mind.

  To his surprise, she did not protest. ‘I’m cold,’ was all she said, hugging her arms tight round her shoulders.

  ‘It’s still early in the year,’ he replied, and his words were unconvincing.

  He knew they both still saw the face of the junior tribune, rash-red from the razor, heard the clank of his ill-fitting armour. Seventeen, and almost a father. Seventeen, and more than a match for Tulola. Seventeen—yet much more of a man than his uncle.

  ‘We have to tell Macer,’ Claudia said, wringing her hair with her hands. But when she looked round, Orbilio was sprinting to the far side of the pond. His eyes were fixed on a coloured rag, dusky pink mixed with red. ‘My tunic!’ she cried.

  He was hunkered over it. ‘Don’t touch it,’ he growled.

  But it was too late. ‘I’m freezing,’ she protested, grabbing it out of his hands. ‘What the—?’ The red was blood. Fresh, dripping blood. And the tunic had been ripped to shreds.

  There was a tenseness about him she had never seen before. ‘Be quiet,’ he warned. ‘And don’t move a muscle.’

  Stealthily he padded towards the tree line, his eyes sweeping the ground. Claudia heard the snapping of a branch.

  He returned with a piece of wood no thicker than her wrist, with two rough points at the ends. ‘Take this,’ he said. As a weapon it did not look convincing, but Claudia’s nails dug into the bark as he went off in search of a more promising defence.

  Her eyes scanned the valley. The slaves would just about be stirring by now, another half-hour and pans would start to sizzle in the kitchens. At her feet, the tunic seemed to have a life force all of its own. It had turned into something evil and ugly, she half expected it to pulsate, to scuttle across the grass, to…

  From the woods behind her came the rapid whirring of a hundred wingbeats. Finches, tits, stonechats and robins. Woodlarks, jays, warblers and an owl. Claudia felt her skin crimple. Dammit, Marcus Cornelius, what’s keeping you?

  For a moment, she thought she saw movement. A pale blur among the branches. Stop this! You’re starting at shadows. Like dusk, dawn light plays strange tricks, and why shouldn’t a flock of birds stretch their wings? No reason at all, Claudia told herself, gripping the stake with both hands.

  At the far side of the villa, the gazelle would also be stretching their thin, graceful legs, and Barea would be bringing out his stallion for an early-morning gallop. What she wouldn’t give to be astride that big, black horse at the moment! The fastest nag to reach Narni since Pegasus.

  There is something moving. Up in the trees. Swinging. Swishing.

  ‘Marcus!’ she yelled. ‘Marcus!’

  There was a flash of white. Muted. Soft.

  ‘What?’ He came crashing through the woods. ‘What is it?’

  And then he saw it. The pale underbelly. The danger in bestial form…

  With a snarl, the cheetah pounced upon the victim it had been stalking so silently.

  With no weapon to defend himself, Orbilio threw up his hands—but it was no match for a hundred-pound cat hurtling out of the canopy. He could see every sinew, every black spot on the bright
yellow pelt. Her pink nose. Her long, white whiskers. He could smell her breath on his face, fishy, stale. He saw strands of saliva, saw her awesome white fangs.

  They would be the very last thing he saw in this life…

  And then…

  In mid-leap, it twisted and jerked. The snarl changed, became deeper, guttural. He felt a surge of liquid hot on his face. As the cheetah crashed down on top of him, a shudder rippled through its powerful frame. It convulsed twice, and twice more, then lay still. And the liquid he tasted was its blood.

  Dazed, he looked round. Sticking clean through its neck was the point of his rough-hewn stake.

  Marcus Cornelius Orbilio heaved the cat’s corpse clear of his body and scrambled to his feet. He wanted to thank her for saving his life, he wanted to tell her how lovely she looked, hair wild, cheeks flushed, body almost naked. He wanted to ask her to marry him.

  Instead he was sick on the spot.

  *

  Claudia was still shaking as she lifted the hasp on the orchard gate. It was reaction, of course. Read nothing more into it. A man’s life was in danger, she had a weapon to hand at the time. That was all. She’d have done the same for anyone, and heaven knows it was easy enough. She’d seen the cheetah long before Orbilio, watched it spring. Hell, the damned cat practically impaled itself!

  Smoke was rising from the kitchens and the slave barracks.

  This was a set-up, start to finish, she thought. We were supposed to find Salvian. We were supposed to escape. Then—tragic accident. Cuddles gets loose and, tut-tut, two people torn to shreds. As Claudia’s tunic lay in one baited heap, no doubt Orbilio’s doubled the odds somewhere else, and when the cat had finished with them…well, that was not a pretty thought. Pallas said they start with the heart and the kidneys, but what the hell does he know? This was the man who swore it only took gazelle!

  She paused to feel the first rays of the sun on her face. Her hair was almost dry now, the tangles would be excruciating. She opened the door to one of the outbuildings. It was the hay store, where Corbulo nearly came to a sticky end and quickly she shut it again. The next shed stored farm implements. Right. We’re in business. A workman’s coarse tunic lay discarded on a plough. Bit short on personal hygiene, Claudia thought, slipping it over her head, but not as bad as Taranis. She sauntered along the shed. Hoes, hurdles, sleds, drags—aha, what have we here? She weighted a pair of sheep shears in her hand. Probably more for the camels these days, it was a long time since sheep grazed these pastures.

  Outside, Claudia stood for a moment on the terracing, listening to the yawns, grunts and chatters that seem common first thing in the morning to all creatures, whether wild, domesticated or human. While Cuddles had been stalking her victim, Claudia’s mind had been completely concentrated, but the second the cat’s death set in, she’d felt an inexplicable tug at her innards which owed nothing to fear and less to relief. Then when Marcus rolled out from under the cheetah, it seemed her raw emotions were mirrored on his own face. He had lurched white-faced towards her, and suddenly all she wanted was for him to open his arms and envelop her… Dammit, she was glad when he threw up!

  Her gaze roved the Vale of Adonis, over its ordered rows of vetch and lupin. It was no good for a girl, this sudden rush of sentiment. And to hell with this workman, too, and his penchant for bloody onions. What else could be making her eyes water?

  Taking a deep breath, Claudia flexed the shears. Well greased, they moved sweetly, but she did not intend to use them for haircuts.

  The door to the north wing would be open by now.

  Tulola, naturally, would have an alibi.

  Someone to swear she had not unleashed her pet on purpose, and Claudia’s money was on Timoleon. Perhaps she had drugged him the way she had drugged Orbilio?

  Pausing by the leopard shed, Claudia thought of her torn and bloodied tunic. Bait, to lure the cheetah, because that’s how they catch these big cats, isn’t it? By staking out an animal? This time, blood was the lure, and Cuddles didn’t care whether her gazelle walked on four legs or two.

  ‘Pretty kitty,’ Claudia whispered to the leopard.

  She could not begin to imagine what hatred lay inside Tulola, what vitriol, but one thing was certain. Within the hour, that bitch will be spilling beans as though there was no tomorrow. Which, Claudia thought, hefting the shears, might well be the case.

  ‘Oh, yes, you’re beautiful, aren’t you?’

  By rights she ought to go straight to Macer, tell him what had happened, leave the army to sort out Tulola. But Claudia needed to know for herself the reason for the killings. The leopard let out a short, guttural protest, more for show than for menace. Was Tulola revenging herself on men who’d rejected her? Salvian had, and he wound up dead. Corbulo had never strayed, and he only escaped because he was rescued in time. Fronto, of course, she couldn’t vouch for, but someone had let him inside a locked house—and didn’t Balbilla say he’d been bedding some rich bitch? Suppose, then, Orbilio had also rejected her? That it was Marcus, not Claudia, who was the victim in this latest twist?

  So far, so good, but where did Claudia fit in to this jigsaw? Macer might take Tulola to trial, but she needed to hear from Tulola’s own lips why she hated Claudia Seferius so bitterly that she set her up for murder…

  Claudia looked at the long, liquid leopard, its yellow eyes blazing with anger. Who can blame you, she thought, being cooped up all your life? Having baby bunnies hop around in your cage is no compensation, is it, poppet? What life is that for a magnificent beast like yourself? She thought of the freedom Drusilla enjoyed, and smiled. By the gods, she thought, these cats are powerful weapons of war—and really you had to admire Tulola’s nerve. Claudia’s eyes ran from the swishing tail, over the powerful ribcage, up over the massive shoulder blades right to its shiny pink nose.

  Pink? The camel shears clattered on to the cobbles. Cuddles has a black nose. And a black tip to her tail. Cuddles has pretty black teardrops that run from her eye…and Cuddles only takes gazelle. Claudia stared at the leopard. Leopards spend most of their lives up a tree. Leopards are night hunters. Sweet Janus, leopards can also be trained…

  She reached for the shears, but a hand clamped over her wrist. A red, painted, Etruscan hand.

  ‘I can see from your expression, my dear Claudia, that you have worked out my little secret.’

  The voice was quiet, barely audible. But the dark grey eyes of the trainer penetrated Claudia’s very soul.

  XXXIII

  Claudia stared at Corbulo. His mouth was working, he seemed to be telling her what a charmed life she led, but it was not his words she was mesmerized by. Just like the night of the party, he wore his white linen kilt and his fancy, filigree torque. When the sun’s rays rose above the rooftops, it would gleam and shine and glitter and reflect, Macer would be left in its shade. Again, like the night of the equinox, Corbulo’s body was ritual-red, his hair looped, only this time it was bound in a dark blue fillet.

  The word ‘ceremony’ screamed from every pore.

  ‘Why?’ she asked simply.

  To struggle, to break free, to scream for help would be useless. He was strong, she could feel the calluses rough on her wrist, and all around, wild beasts roared out their hunger. It was not in Claudia Seferius to submit, to go gracefully, but the need to know held her spellbound.

  ‘What have I ever done to you?’

  She needed, godsdammit, to know.

  ‘Too late for games, Claudia.’ He pulled on her wrist. ‘You’ve had enough chances.’

  Claudia thought of the Fates, those three old crones who weave the cloth of life. One spins the thread, one determines its length and one—she shivered—snips it with her shears. Claudia looked at the sheep shears at her own feet. On no, you bloody don’t, she thought. I’ll tell you when to start chopping!

  With her free hand, she grabbed the bars of the leopard’s cage. It snarled and snapped its jaws, but what the hell? At this rate, with Corbulo tugging and the leopa
rd salivating over its prospective breakfast, she’d probably be pulled in two. They could share the damned prize.

  The trainer’s expression hadn’t altered, but a dagger had appeared in his hand. Insects slithered down Claudia’s spine. Jupiter, Juno and Mars, this man is unhinged! Unless she released her grip, he was going to slice her fingers off!

  ‘Let her go!’

  The voice was unmistakable, she just wondered what took him so long.

  ‘Think I haven’t been expecting you, Marcus?’ The Etruscan’s voice was a sneer.

  Relieved and off her guard, Claudia didn’t realize what was happening until it was too late. With one expert movement, Corbulo spun her round and threw her headlong into an empty cage, presumably that of the late, lamented leopard in the valley. While she lay sprawled, he shot the bolt and danced round to face Orbilio. Once again, she’d forgotten how light he was on his feet.

  The two men lunged at one another, each parrying the other’s knife thrust. For several minutes they dodged and darted, grunting with the exertion, then suddenly Orbilio delivered a swift uppercut and blood spurted from Corbulo’s chest. Reeling, his dagger knocking Orbilio’s knife out of his hand, the Etruscan cried out, staggered, gasped, then pitched forward on to his face.

  Orbilio bent to retrieve his weapon. And as he did so, Corbulo—trainer, trickster—bounced up, a long wooden pole in his hands. It was the vaulting pole he used for the horses, and now Claudia knew why it was here. It was another trap. This cunning, evil monster had planned this, as well. He had watched what had happened in the valley, and had waited. Even the wound was a ploy. He’d choreographed his moves in order to sustain a convincing superficial cut.

  As though a ballet or a mime had been painted, frieze by frieze, Claudia watched helplessly through the bars of the cage.

  Orbilio straightening…

  Corbulo behind him, swinging the bar…

  The bar connecting with the centre of Orbilio’s spine…