Man Eater

Claudia pushed a bowl of warm elderberries in honey and ginger under his nose. ‘Lighten up,’ she said gently. ‘Take your uniform off and do what the others are doing.’

‘Huh?’

‘Have fun!’

‘Well, I-’

She tried another tack. ‘Salvian, let me ask you a question. Do you think I killed Fronto?’

‘My uncle says-’

‘I know what your uncle thinks. I’m asking you. Put it another way, do you think I am a dangerous criminal who’s likely to go berserk with a knife amongst these happy people?’

He gave a sheepish laugh. ‘No. Of course not.’

‘And you agree I could have stolen a horse and run away at any point this morning after I gave you the slip?’

‘I suppose so. But my orders-’

‘Oh, sod your orders.’ She stuffed a beaker of wine into his hand. ‘Let your hair down.’ She was helping him unbuckle his breastplate when familiar voices floated up. ‘Sssh!’

‘What is it?’ The bronze piece fell on to the rock with a crash.

‘Ssssh!’

Much of the exchange was drowned by the crashing torrent, but by swimming across the channel and snaking down the rocks between the wild cane plants, Claudia caught the final snatch.

‘-I don’t have to take that from you, you fat faggot.’ Timoleon’s strident tones were unmistakable.

‘Choose your words with care, dear boy.’ As were Pallas’. ‘Else I’ll think you’re soliciting.’

The gladiator turned purple. ‘How… How-’ he spluttered.

‘Much?’ Pallas asked mildly. ‘Well, I’m not willing but there’s a tender young boy in the stables who charges ten asses. Or would you prefer just the asses?’

There was an explosion as Timoleon lunged, and suddenly the Pictor party was there to restrain him. It took three of them-Barea, Corbulo and Sergius-to hold him, although Pallas, interestingly, hadn’t so much as flinched.

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ Sergius chided softly. ‘Let’s be civilized, shall we?’

‘I’ll get you, you fat bastard.’ Timoleon huffed himself free and jabbed an accusing finger at Pallas. ‘Never turn your back on me-’

Pallas held up both hands. ‘Perish the thought!’

The colour flooded back into Timoleon’s face and he swung a punch that would undoubtedly have broken Pallas’ nose had Corbulo’s arm not deflected it into thin air.

‘What was all that about?’ whispered Salvian.

‘Search me.’ With the swirling torrent between them and the others, there was no need for secrecy, but Claudia sensed he was enjoying this cloak-and-dagger lark. ‘Tulola’s name cropped up a few times,’ she whispered back, ‘but as for the rest-I caught the word Macedonia, and something about marriage.’

‘I’ve got it! Timoleon has a wife in Macedonia and Pallas is threatening to unmask him as an adulterer!’

Poor Salvian. Innocent as the sky at night. ‘Could be,’ she said, just to keep him happy. ‘Now let’s move, I’m getting cramp.’

‘Wow! I didn’t realize the water was so warm,’ he said, pedalling noisily across the current, ‘or so deep.’ Reluctantly he pulled himself out, then chewed his lip for a while as though wrestling with a momentous problem. ‘If I stay up here,’ his eyes were goggling between Tulola’s painted nipples and what her hand was doing inside Taranis’ pantaloons, ‘I’m still carrying out my orders, aren’t I?’

‘Absolutely.’

People were starting to notice. They began frowning, nudging, covering their children’s eyes at Tulola’s blatant antics and although the set of her face suggested she was unaware of their reaction, the gleam in her eyes told a different tale. Instinctively Claudia knew this was the first time she had dared be so bold in such a public place, that today she was testing her boundaries-and the sad fact was she had misjudged them. Disgust had never figured in her shocking scenario. She could not recognize it, poor cow, because even when someone hissed ‘Slag!’ she laughed at what she thought was a joke. Small wonder she’d picked on Taranis, a foreigner with no preconceived notions on Roman morals, as her start point.

‘Providing you don’t leave without telling me, Macer shouldn’t mind, should he?’ asked Salvian.

‘He’d be the first to approve,’ Claudia assured him, crossing her fingers behind her back.

‘Great!’ Like a ten-year-old, he ripped off his tunic and, pinching his nose, jumped feet first into one of the deeper basins, oblivious to the fact that two elderly matrons were drenched in the process.

Down in the lower cascades, the mood was no less lively. Rope dancers had bridged Metaneira’s sluggish stream and were performing acrobatic feats before a crowd just itching for them to tumble into the mud. Bent-backed laundresses rinsed scores of white shifts and hung them in the willows to dry, maids struggled to unknot their mistresses’ hair without breaking the teeth of their combs. Enterprising urchins trawled the pools for lost property and came up with everything from brooches to buckles, fans to false teeth. The boatman, Claudia noticed, was doing a brisk trade conveying courting couples to the privacy of the lower reaches.