Man Eater (30 page)

I cannot promise celibacy,
he offered silently,
there will be women, I cannot live without them, but so you accept my libation, hear also my vow. Such liaisons will mean nothing to me, for in my own way I pledge, henceforth, fidelity to Claudia Seferius.

Through the heavy oak doors of the banqueting hall, he could hear the babble of pitilessly cheerful chatter, relentless shrieks of laughter, and among it all, the distinctive cadences of a tempestuous widow with wicked curls and sinful eyes who marched to the beat of her personal drum and woe betide the man who interferes with the tempo. Orbilio silently saluted her. Far from perfect, that vow was the best he could offer. He would continue to seek physical gratification from other women, but when he made love, when he truly gave of himself, it would be to one woman and one woman only.

The timing he would leave up to her.

Inching open the door, he was greeted by a scene that might well have come from a Bacchanalian orgy. Tables and couches had been pushed back to accommodate a race, now in full throttle, where the mounts were men and the riders the women, their skirts hitched high to gain adequate purchase. The subject of his pledge was clinging like a limpet to a red-faced Pallas, Alis rather daintily to Corbulo, Tulola to Barea and Euphemia’s lusty thighs were clamped round Sergius, whose recovery was (Claudia was right) more than adequate. In the van, however, and leading by a considerable margin, strong sturdy Timoleon barely tottered under the weight of the junior tribune, throwing himself wholeheartedly into the party spirit by pretending to whip his horse along the straights. Taranis, the only man without a partner (and that presumably down to Orbilio), acted as umpire and marked each lap of the columns with a pitcher of wine.

Unseen, Orbilio quietly closed the door and decided there was only one way he could possibly make his entrance at this late stage.

The question is, where, at this time of night, could he find someone capable of harnessing a camel?

*

The bloody thing spat and shat all over the shop and stank worse than a midden in summer, but you couldn’t have scripted a better comedy had you won the myrtle crown as a playwright. Accustomed to the shifting sands of its Libyan home, the reflective marble of the banqueting hall came as a right nasty shock to old Humpy, who promptly showed his dissatisfaction by attempting to ditch his rider at full gallop.

Amazed by the speed it could reach from a standing
start, bets were immediately placed on how much longer the valiant rider could hang on.

Barea clapped Salvian on the back and espoused the benefits of army training, although everyone else seemed of the opinion that it was Orbilio’s grip, rather than his jousting experience, that saved the day.

Four times the shimmering surface rose up to grab him, but you don’t have a pedigree stretching back to Apollo without some adhesive qualities and by the time poor Humpy had come to terms with this slippery, slidy flooring, Marcus Cornelius Orbilio was being greeted with raucous approval and generally hailed as a hero, even though his body appeared to be doing another circuit without the aid of the camel. By the time Orbilio’s eyes had stopped rolling, a heated debate was in progress, since the camp was now firmly divided between whether Humpy surrendered on the eighth or the ninth lap and what do you mean, you can’t help, you were riding the stupid thing, weren’t you?

When the general consensus had more or less settled on nine, Taranis pointed out that the animal appeared to be backing into Tulola’s cheetah, who would have got quite a decent fanghold had Corbulo not jerked Humpy out of range at the last moment, a debt it repaid by doing its damnedest to bite him until it was hauled away, honking and urinating, so that by the time a cohort of slaves had mopped up with sawdust and perfumed the room with incense and juniper, there was not a dry eye in the house and brave was the man (or woman) who could stand up straight after that.

Wisely Tulola calmed things down by calling for the roasts, because, as Pallas said, ‘A man’s gotta chew what a man’s gotta chew.’

It was wellnigh impossible, thought Claudia, rubbing the stitch in her side, to picture one of these people as a cold-blooded murderer.

Indeed, thinking about it logically, why should they be?

Supersleuth was a policeman, whose job revolved round intricate cases of treason, corruption, forgery and extortion—crimes that had two facets in common. One, they were all committed against the State, and two, by their very nature they had to be complex. More often than not murder ran hand in hand with such activities, usually in an effort to kick over the traces, and as a result his investigations would necessitate plunging deep. (How else could he have uncovered her own past?) Simple solutions were rare animals as far as the Security Police were concerned, and the case he’d made about Claudia being framed had, at the time, made sense.

In retrospect, though, wasn’t he reading too much into this miserable affair? Assuming Fronto and Crocodile Man had been in cahoots (for reasons she’d probably never know and didn’t really care about), surely it was safe to conclude the whole nasty business was now over and done with? That, whatever Fronto was up to, the scam had died with his accomplice? In the space of ninety hours, three people had met with violent death, but over the past two days it had been exceptionally quiet without a single attempt on her life—or anyone else’s for that matter. Suppose, like poor deluded Macer, Crocodile Man also laid the blame for his partner’s death at Claudia’s door. What was wrong with exacting his revenge? In short, what was
wrong
with a simple solution? Why couldn’t the revenge plan have backfired? Why couldn’t Coronis have slipped on the shiny surface and broken her neck?

More than satisfied that none of the partygoers could possibly be a killer, Claudia jostled to take her place for the roast and, in doing so, found herself brushing against a rough, woollen workshirt. The sensation was electric. Damn you, Marcus. Damn you to hell.

Wedging herself between Barea, in a long Phoenician tunic, and Corbulo the Camel Tamer, she deliberately set out to flirt. ‘Is that what they mean by painting the town red?’ she quipped. ‘Or are you a genuine redneck?’

‘Ritual ochre,’ he laughed, taking a great draught of wine. ‘Tonight,’ he made an elaborate flourish with his hands, ‘I am an Etruscan king.’

Tonight I could believe it. In white kilt and traditional gold torque, Corbulo strutted like a peacock, a prince among men, a pearl among pebbles. And had the double bump on his nose not screamed his heritage, then the way he’d looped and bound his hair did. She glanced across to where Orbilio was settling himself on the couch. Was it accident or was it contrived, that the hero of the hour just happened to be directly opposite? Who cares, she thought. Not me. I’ve decided there’s something horribly claustrophobic about the atmosphere in bedrooms where the lights are low and the moon is swelling. Nevertheless, as Corbulo’s tundra eyes bored deep into hers, Claudia felt a strange stirring inside.

‘That’s the trouble where you come from.’ She forced herself to listen to Timoleon baiting the Celt. ‘Men are men, but by Janus, your women are ugly.’

‘Huh!’ Taranis wiped his hands down the length of his pantaloons, his only concession to fancy dress being to twine his hair. ‘I have job to do, selling bears. When I make money, then maybe I take wife.’

‘Betcha bed the grizzly by mistake,’ the gladiator muttered under his breath.

‘You laugh,’ the Celt rejoined, ‘but you no marry.’

‘Damn right. Women are fine for one purpose, but who the hell wants to spend time with them? Bore me rigid, they do.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ threw in Barea, flashing a contradictory wink at Claudia as he wrestled with the unaccustomed volume of linen.

‘Drink to what?’ asked Tulola. ‘Marcus, is that
milk
?
Darling, how gross. Oh, look everybody.’ Even the cheetah glanced up from its lump of gazelle. ‘My masterpiece!’

Four slaves staggered into the hall carrying a whole roasted boar. On its head it wore a miniature cap of freedom, from its tusks dangled woven baskets bulging with dried dates and walnuts, and attached to its teats as though suckling sat a little bread piglet.

Salvian, who’d come dressed as a Spaniard, put his fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly. His face was a map of cuts and scabs from its first scrape of the iron blade, but behind the redness and the rashes, a chrysalis was beginning to emerge. Like shaving a pomegranate, yesterday’s razor had been totally unnecessary, yet psychologically the ceremony had boosted his confidence and Tulola rose in Claudia’s estimation. Salvian, she mused, as the hams and the hares and the ducks were wheeled in, is finally growing into his armour.

‘I don’t half feel a tit,’ mumbled Barea, his heel tangling in the long hem. ‘How them poor sods managed, I don’t know. They’re seafarers, right? Yet they traipse around in woman’s robes!’

Just up Tulola’s street, that egg-yolk yellow. ‘At least,’ Claudia quipped, ‘Phoenicians don’t miss one another in the dark.’

‘Here, Pallas,’ bawled Timoleon, palming a glazed figpecker as the tray went past. ‘How come you didn’t wear your long frock tonight?’

‘What? And fight you off all ruddy night? No fear.’ Timoleon’s vulgar gesture played right into Pallas’ hands.

‘Darling boy, your roots are showing. And I don’t mean your hair.’

The gladiator lunged, but Sergius put out an arm to restrain him.

‘Yes, sit down, Muscles, he’s just winding you up.’ With a thigh-revealing swirl of her skirts, Tulola stepped over her couch and began stropping the carving knife as Pallas pretended to pout. ‘Will this make it better, sweetie?’ She tossed Pallas a boned pheasant stuffed with onions and asparagus and sensuously licked the sauce off her fingers.

‘Of course it won’t,’ the gladiator sneered. ‘The fat slob can eat a whole farmyard at a single sitting.’

Yes, thought Claudia, whereas Tulola devours the farmer.

‘Gourmet food is an art, my boy,’ Pallas replied, sinking his teeth into the dripping fowl. ‘In its pursuit, I have squandered fortunes and—’

‘—not one your own.’

‘That’s enough,’ the keeper of the harem chided Timoleon. ‘I won’t have you keep taunting my house guest.’ Tulola ruffled the fat man’s hair. ‘I’m very fond of Pallas, aren’t I, Lover?’

‘Positively attached,’ he replied drily, eyeing up the remnants of the fish course. ‘Pass those oysters, will you? Criminal to see them wasted.’

As the conversation turned to which were tastier, oysters from the Lucrine rocks or those from Tarentum, Claudia was acutely aware that throughout this charged interchange, the gaze of Marcus Cornelius Orbilio had been in one direction and one direction only. As her wine was topped up, she tried not to think of the way he had chinked his gaming cup against the lip of her glass in the close confines of her bedroom.

‘Now before my poor boar starts shivering with cold, let’s move on to the business of carving,’ purred Tulola, and as the beast was sliced open to reveal a whole goose, which in turn was stuffed with a pullet stuffed with a thrush, Claudia ensured her eyes went anywhere except opposite.

‘I wish I’d been fit for the chase,’ growled Sergius. ‘I do enjoy a good hunt.’

You’re not the only one, thought Claudia. I know policemen who use sex the way hunters use spears.

‘That’s the trouble with these pimples the Umbrians call hills’ Corbulo heaped her plate with carrots and broccoli and celery. ‘They’re only fit for bloody hunting. Where’s the scope to cultivate the soil, eh?’ He seemed to be talking to himself. ‘Isn’t land the most important thing of all?’

‘What? Oh. Oh, yes. Absolutely.’ And that business about the ulcer. I’ve seen you, Marcus Cornelius. Every time the wine jug comes round, your hand closes over your glass, which means you, sir, are on the wagon.

‘Don’t you love it, Claudia? The living, breathing soil?’

‘Unconditionally.’ I can see why Gisco’s wife succumbed. Sleek, witty, urbane? Tinged with danger round the edges? Just the ticket for a woman tired of the marriage bed and seeking outside adventures.

‘The way it changes with the seasons, filling the barns and the vats and the cellars?’

‘I’ll say.’ How many more women have you strung along, who’d grieve for the tragic waste should the charioteer make you sing castrato?

‘It nurtures us while we live, hugs us when we die.’

‘My dear Corbulo, I couldn’t have put it better myself.’ What’s wrong with me tonight? Every time I look up, my cheeks start to burn. Dammit, I should never have called for that jug of white wine earlier. Red and white never mix.

‘Claudia,’ the Etruscan’s painted hand closed over her own, ‘would you say we get on well?’

From under her lashes she was aware of a certain twinkle coming from the star of the show and hotly turned to face the man beside her. ‘Damned right we do.’ A short while ago that arrogant son-of-a-bitch over there was sincerity personified, a girl could have been fooled into thinking she meant more to him than a quick tumble, but now look at him. One camel later and he’s absorbing adulation the same way he’d take medallions of honour to hang round his belt.

‘That’s what I thought.’

Trophies, that’s what he’s after. Well, I have news for you, Marcus Cornelius, I have been a trophy wife, and it’s rewarded me with a grand house, my independence, a business empire and a pile of glittery gold pieces.