Man Eater

With a blissful sigh, she slipped into one of Thoas’ small saucers (who’d call them scallop shells?) overhung by broom. With her arms outstretched against the rim and her legs buoyed by the eddy, Claudia tipped her head back and closed her eyes. Sunshine and spray stroked her face like velvet as the gurgling force strove to heal the scabs and bruises that were the legacy of the gig turning somersaults. Slowly the fresh, salty smell of the sulphur began to prevail over the smoking, dying ovens and an occasional hiss told of tong-loads of charcoal being cooled in the torrent. A red kite hovered and mewed over the hilltops beyond.

‘Now we’ve established you have no link with Fronto, you’d better tell me who has a grudge against you.’

Funny thing about broom. It has no discernible scent and yet bees flock to it.

‘I know you’re not asleep so you might as well answer.’

She could hear them, buzzing, backwards and forwards, closer and fainter…

‘Claudia, I asked you a question.’

One eye opened and swivelled in his direction. ‘I know.’ Then the long lashes closed together once more.

Orbilio stretched out in the shallows, crossed his legs at the ankles and folded his hands behind his head. ‘This is the ticket,’ he said breezily. ‘I could lie here for hours marvelling at the way the minerals have built up over the years. Just like marble, really. Or quartz. Dozens of differing blues, greens and greys-’

‘No one.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

You heard. ‘I said no one has a grudge against me, the idea is preposterous.’

‘You mean, everybody loves you, it’s not just me?’

‘Sorry? Are you still here?’

‘Just call me Limpet.’

Marcus the Mollusc. I like that. It has a ring to it. ‘It seems to me, my little sucker, that I am what you policemen call a pasty. The wrong place at the wrong time.’ She sat up and massaged her neck. ‘Macer will twig on soon enough.’

Orbilio shielded his eyes against the dazzling sun. ‘I wouldn’t put money on it. He sees only the bright lights of Rome and a glittering career serving the Emperor. You’ll be lucky to escape with exile. And I think you mean patsy.’

Claudia slipped back into the waters. ‘You’re so full of wind, Orbilio, I suggest you try putting it up someone else. You don’t frighten me.’

‘Then you’re a fool,’ he said savagely, sitting up and swiping the hair out of his eyes. ‘Someone at the Villa Pictor hates you enough to set you up for murder. Think about that for a minute.’

Thoas’ waters seemed to run damned cold all of a sudden. Claudia waited a full half-minute before flipping on to her stomach and leaning her arms casually on the rim. ‘Tripe,’ she mumbled, more to convince herself rather than him.

Orbilio turned to lie beside her. ‘Something stinks here, Claudia, and it isn’t the sulphur. Look at them. Look carefully. They’re all down there. Are you sure-absolutely sure-you don’t recognize anyone?’

She wanted to stand up, toss her head and stalk off back to the changing cave. Only her knees wouldn’t let her. Claudia took a deep breath and concentrated.

On the riverbank, Timoleon displayed his scars to a gaggle of children, cutting the air with an imaginary trident, casting an illusory net. He was the only one she knew (if that was the word), and then only from the arena. Surely pitted against superior armour and weaponry, a retarius didn’t have the luxury of examining his audience in return?

What about Pallas, buckling his belt as he emerged from the latrines? She tried to picture him thin, and failed.

Or Sergius, playing knucklebones with his sister? Would those tight curls and saturnine good looks pass unremembered? And tall, slinky Tulola, even with a traditional Roman hairstyle, would surely have made an impact?

What of Taranis, cheering them on? The only person present today who hadn’t ventured into the water? Or Corbulo and Barea, wrestling on the rocks? Two foreigners. One Etruscan. Three strangers.

That left Alis. Yes, Alis. She was too flowery, too insipid, too middle-aged even at twenty-eight, to make a lasting impression…unless, of course, the whole thing was an act, in which case- Good grief, Claudia, pull yourself together. Where’s the poor girl’s motive? Godsdammit, where were any of the motives?

Wisely or not, Claudia told Marcus about Euphemia’s threats and his breath came out in a whistle. ‘Little peach, isn’t she?’

Watching her as Coronis fixed lapis-lazuli studs in her ear, her heavy breasts straining against the flimsy shift as she chewed the obligatory lock of hair, the fruit that came uppermost in Claudia’s mind was in fact a pear.

‘Dearly as I would love to lay the blame at Princess Sulky’s door, I doubt she has the intelligence to plan a complicated crime. Assuming,’ she added pointedly, ‘there was anything to plan.’

Orbilio rolled over and rested the back of his neck on the mottled rim to allow the spray from the waterfall to tickle his face. ‘Pulling a knife implies hot passions,’ he said. ‘This is cold. Very, very cold.’