Man Eater

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…

Poleaxed, Marcus Cornelius Orbilio collapsed.

‘Is he-dead?’ she whispered.

Corbulo mopped his wound with his handkerchief. ‘No,’ he said, casting a professional eye over his shoulder as he inspected the side of Claudia’s prison. ‘But I doubt he’ll walk again.’

*

Claudia’s mother was not prone to dishing out advice, but then again she wasn’t one for taking it either. Once, however, when Claudia was about twelve, she had prised herself off the filthy, wine-stained pallet she called bed to impart counsel and wisdom to her impressionable daughter.

‘Only one thing to remember in this life, love,’ she’d sobbed, wiping the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘You come into it on your own, and alone is how you go out.’

Not that Claudia’s mother went out alone. She was accompanied by a liver no self-respecting augur would spit on, plus 164 empty wine jugs.

Claudia knew it was 164.

She’d had plenty of time to count them while her mother’s body stiffened in the coagulated blood from her slashed wrists…

Claudia had not thought of her mother for a long, long time, but now, inside the leopard’s cage, the words shimmered back across the years. You are alone. You can rely on no one but yourself.

In a rare moment of dependence, she had waited for Marcus Cornelius Orbilio to spring to her rescue and the price she paid was heavier than she could ever have imagined possible. As a result of her selfishness, a young aristocrat lay crippled for life, his career in tatters, his pleasures just memories. No more jousting on the Field of Mars, rousting on a Saturday night. Never again would he feel the throb of horseflesh between his legs, the thrill of a woman, the pulse of a long, hard run.

It would, she reflected bitterly, have been better to let him take his chances on Thursday with Gisco and that famous gelding knife. Was it really only three days ago? A lifetime had passed since then.

Head buried in her hands as she knelt on the rough wooden floor, Claudia was denied even the luxury of self-pity. The crate, like everything else, had been planned in the most meticulous detail. It was a transport cage. It was on wheels. And Corbulo had not been inspecting the box, he’d been harnessing it.

The ceremony, whatever it might be, was about to begin.

He paused to staunch the blood from his chest by dipping his handkerchief in a barrel of drinking water and pressing it hard against the wound. As the red ochre drizzled away with the blood, Claudia could see the Etruscan’s neck, unlined and unmarked. Now she knew what had happened that night in the hay store. It was Corbulo who had stolen the yellow tunic, Corbulo who had flitted so furtively round his own territory. The bastard had timed it to perfection-the gurgles, the drumming of his feet against the door. Croesus, he’d even painted the purple marks on his neck, because who’d check for treachery in the heat of cutting him down? He’d have balanced himself on a hay bale, judging his jump to the second they burst through the door.

And Salvian, young, innocent Salvian, had realized this. Macer told him about the robbery which was no robbery, and Salvian connected it with the hanging which was no hanging. Corbulo wore a scarf to the Springs…maybe it blew away a fraction for Salvian to notice the lack of evidence, maybe Timoleon’s jibes set a train of thought in motion, or maybe, just maybe, Salvian was smarter than anyone had given him credit for. She could imagine the scene, the junior tribune marching up to arrest the trainer and, tragic as the outcome was, Claudia smiled through her tears at the young man’s confidence. Had he lived, he would have been a man to be reckoned with. As it is, his wife and unborn child still had every right to be proud of him.

The cage was cramped, she could sit, kneel or crouch, but it was impossible to stand upright. Claudia scanned the compounds for other signs of life. The slaves would be well into their stride by now, the family would be up, the field workers breaking their fast for the day. But Corbulo worked alone. He was famous for it. What would bring someone here? Claudia did not believe in lucky flukes, but prayed for one anyway.