Man Eater

Claudia focused on the ceiling. For a moment it was as though yesterday’s fog had swept back in to blind her, and when she tried to speak Drusilla’s name, a frog slipped out instead. In the far corner, paint from a cherub’s cheek was beginning to crack, twisting an innocent grin into a leer. Of course, the cat’s tantrum might have carried more weight, she reflected, had the dish of veal and flatfish not been licked spotless.

Behind her, in the atrium, a commotion started up and one ear flicked backwards.

‘Nothing to concern you, poppet.’ Claudia patted Drusilla’s crenellated backbone and felt a certain give in the spikes. ‘You stay there and unwind. I’ll let you know if there’s anything worth waking up for.’

She prised her bedroom door open and peeped through the crack. Not only Marcus, Sergius was also soaked to the skin-and as Orbilio confirmed his identity courtesy of his personal ring-seal, Euphemia was wringing the hem of Sergius’ tunic as though it was the neck of a chicken. The only other person in the atrium was Tulola.

‘Tell me, policeman,’ she drawled. ‘Do you like-’ She paused to run her index finger down Orbilio’s breastbone. ‘Cuddles?’

Orbilio was goggling. ‘I…beg your pardon?’ Tulola’s eyes flashed like the sunlight on the atrium pool. ‘My pet, sweetie. She’s called Cuddles.’

I should have guessed, thought Claudia, as the cheetah fixed Orbilio with the sort of stare it probably bestowed on the average gazelle. Drusilla’s nose suddenly twitched and her ears pricked forward as she caught the scent of her spotted cousin and Claudia clicked the door quietly to. Satisfied there was no threat of invasion, Drusilla settled back down and Claudia left her to drift back into her pretend slumber. Clearly finding yourself navigationally dysfunctional kicks a real dent in a cat’s pride.

Leaning her back against the flat of the door, Claudia considered her impending trial. In eight days’ time, Macer intended to bring her before a specially convened court consisting of one judge and some seventy-five professional jurists. Since women were strictly forbidden to plead in court, even for their own case, she would have to hire an advocate who was skilled in both rhetoric and law, yet who wouldn’t be above turning a blind eye to the succession of witnesses for the defence she intended to bribe in her favour. A local man was out of the question, she’d need one from Rome-and that gave her precious little time to recruit him. Damn you, Macer. Damn you to hell. It’ll be virtually impossible to keep this quiet now.

She wondered whether he could be right about Fronto being the mysterious arsonist. Surely, she mused as she paced the floor, no self-respecting arsonist would trek half a day north. Why contend with the swirling Tiber, which is in full spate at the moment, when you have literally thousands of vines on your doorstep? Good grief, Falcon Mountain’s just up the road and that’s smothered with grapes. No, Macer had to be wrong about Fronto, just as he was wrong about everything else. If there’s one thing a firebug takes pleasure in, it’s admiring his craftsmanship at close quarters.

With a subdued squeak, Drusilla curled tight into a ball, covering her eyes with her paw.

‘Admit it, you’re just blinded by this tarty tunic.’

A faint purr was offered in lieu of a handy olive branch.

Claudia leaned over the bed and tickled the cat under its unresisting chin. ‘Think this is bad? Wait till you meet the owner.’ Talk about loud taste.

‘Prrr.’ Drusilla allowed herself to be stroked into a deep and sprawling sleep, which somehow contrived with her being nestled in a lovely deep dent in the bolster which smelled of her mistress’s hair.

‘In her clothes, in her men, even her personal habits.’

‘Ffffff.’

Strangely enough, it was difficult to fathom exactly where sex fitted in. Sure, it was rammed at you from all angles, but judging from Tulola’s calm reaction when Claudia interrupted her frolics with Timoleon, the enjoyment was entirely on the gladiator’s part. No puffing, no panting, not even a telltale blush on cheek or neck or bosom from Tulola, and even the moans were not genuine. Why, Claudia wondered, peeling off the flame-coloured tunic, would Tulola fake it? She held the garment at arm’s length. Orange and blue, what a ghastly combination. Yet Tulola was the one person who could carry it off.

Nymphomaniacs I understand. They equate sex with affection.

Prostitutes I understand. They need the money.

But promiscuity, just to manipulate? I don’t get it.