Man Eater

As he turned to leave them to it, he thought that in the faint, flickering light of a lantern at the far end of the barn, he detected movement. There it was again. Darting. Furtive. Twice more the shadow quivered and he edged silently round the haybales. He was barely halfway along before loud cries told him Tulola and her lover had climaxed. He heard a shuffle amongst the straw. Picking up the lantern, he raised it slowly. An ass blinked mournfully back.

‘Hey! Who’s down there?’

The Celtish accent was less than welcoming, and Orbilio turned the lamp to his own face. ‘Marcus,’ he shouted back. ‘I thought I heard noises.’

He heard Tulola’s deep chuckle in the darkness and felt, rather than saw, her pick up her tunic and walk naked back to the house.

‘Ach. Is nothing,’ Taranis yelled back, tucking his shirt into his pantaloons. ‘I just checking the stables.’ He slammed the door behind him and Orbilio heard footsteps running to catch up with Tulola.

With the barn to himself, he lifted the bar of the donkey’s stall. Someone had been here-the straw had been trampled where the watcher had waited. Why? Trapped and too embarrassed to excuse themselves? Orbilio crouched to search for clues. Or was there a more sinister purpose? Had the straw been crushed in an effort to crane a head over the barrier?

His mind busy on the peeping Tom, Orbilio stepped back and felt his boot slide on the slippery, shiny straw. Windmilling wildly, one arm knocked the pole as his other cannoned through the stall divider, knocking the lantern from its niche. The dry fodder caught instantly. Scratched and bleeding, Orbilio smothered the flames with his cloak, but it was not fast enough. Eyes rolling, the donkey bucked against the woodwork, terrified by the splintering and the smoke and the blood.

As he lunged to restrain the animal, his foot slipped sideways in something soft and he fell forwards just as the ass bolted out of its stall.

Prostrate on the barn floor, Orbilio stared at its galloping rear end, looked round at the demolition, looked at the sole of his boot and thought, ‘Shit.’

IX

Sulphur pools. The very thought conjures up visions of burning yellow treacle and the smell of eggs that have not fared well in the sunshine, of vulnerable invalids being purged by rich and zealous doctors. From parasites to paralysis, dropsy to dysentery, sufferers have been led like white bulls to the sacrificial altar to stew in the sweat baths and guzzle down jug after jug of crystalline emulsion, coming away relieved not of their symptoms but of several sesterces, but swearing until copper quadrans covered their eyes that they’d never felt fitter in their lives.

Claudia couldn’t wait.

Today, being a public holiday, humankind of every shape and variety had been drawn to this phenomenon of nature, whinging, laughing, splashing, grousing, and every damned one of them putting his heart and soul into it. You could almost sniff the roistering from the top of the hill, and it was as close to heaven as you could get away from Rome. Far from noxious, the air smelled fresh, like the sea, and even the rushing waters were blue, except where they swirled in the channels and over the rocks and thrashed white like the waves in the ocean.

An ox cart had set off at first light taking the women, the food and the servants while the men, apart from Pallas, enjoyed a hearty breakfast of pancakes before saddling up and racing each other like schoolboys. Claudia, who believed the only thing you should put on a horse was a bet, also declined Tulola’s offer to accompany her in her chariot, and opted for a good couple of hours’ gossip with Pallas and his considerable picnic breakfast in a fast, two-wheeled car.

‘Did you hear that Timoleon?’ He fanned away the dust kicked up by the hoofs. ‘“We Corinthians are born riders”? Croesus, that man must have a brass neck as well as brass balls.’

‘Oh?’

‘Well, look at him! He’s no more Greek than the Emperor.’ Pallas peered at his reflection in a silver serving dish propped against the buckboard.

‘You don’t like him, do you?’

‘Darling girl, I don’t like any of them,’ he replied cheerfully, smoothing his eyebrows into shape.

‘Excellent.’ Claudia snuggled up beside him. ‘Because if you can’t find a good word to say about these people, you’d better pass me a honeycake and tell me all about it.’

As a result, the journey whizzed along. Timoleon, he hold her, was a local boy, born near Tarsulae to farming stock. When the Emperor had diverted the road, his family had merely broadened their horizons and taken up banditry. It was only due to his age that the youngest brigand escaped execution and served five years in gladiator school instead, where he obviously worked hard to suppress his Umbrian accent and where he adopted the name Timoleon. After his sentence was up, he opted for a further three years in which he earned himself the name Scrap Iron as well as the immeasurable riches that went with the crowns.