Man Eater

Claudia snapped into wakefulness, instantly aware of the empty space beside her. She cradled the cat’s cushion then thumped and punched and rearranged the lumps in her own bolster. What was in here? Chicken bones? It was good of the Pictors to take her in, she supposed. To patch her wounds, tend the two injured men, to feed, clothe and rest her. But the instant Drusilla turns up, she thought, I am o-f-f, off.

Suddenly there was a blockage in her throat. Oh, she’d find her way here, no question of that. In fact, Claudia had no doubts whatsoever about the intelligence of her sharp, Egyptian cat, only The trill of a blackbird interrupted her musing. Just one or two notes and faint at that-she could barely make them out between the howls and the growls-but others would follow and the evidence was conclusive.

Juno be praised, the long night was over.

The road accident instantly forgotten, she flung the counterpane round her shoulders and fumbled her way to the window. It was going to be another dank start, she thought, easing open one narrow shutter, but at least the fog lifts quickly as she knew from experience. She unhooked the second leaf. Oh. Her tattered tunic hung limp on the ledge, but of Drusilla there was no sign. And the mist in front of her suddenly seemed denser.

‘You don’t fool me, you wretched feline.’ Claudia’s breath was white in the pre-dawn air. ‘I know you’re out there.’

Just because the bones of your ancestors lie in the tombs of the Pharaohs, don’t think you can put on airs and graces with me.

‘Sulk all you like, but we both know that one sniff of a sardine and you’ll be over this sill like a shot.’ Whose was that silly, reedy voice? ‘And remember, it’s not my fault you used up four of your lives in one go.’

What was that? It sounded like a soft scuffle. There it was again. Claudia’s breath came out in a rush. ‘Drusilla?’

Tossing the bedspread aside, she picked up her skirts and raced across the room. Although the grey light of dawn was growing paler by the minute, it was nowhere near sufficient and Claudia cursed the upended brazier as bronze collided with shinbone. It was only because she was swearing and hobbling and bleeding and hurting all at the same time that she didn’t realize, until she reached the door, that whatever talents these clever Egyptian moggies might possess, rattling handles isn’t one of them.

‘What?’ She unlocked the door and flung it open.

The man in the doorway was staring at her. ‘I…I…’

His mouth hung open, and either he had a speech impediment or-as she very much suspected-he was stinking drunk. For good measure he produced another guttural gargle and lurched forward.

‘Get away from me, you revolting little dung-beetle!’

He really was the most unprepossessing creature she’d ever had the misfortune to lay eyes on.

The dung-beetle’s mouth opened and closed. ‘I…’

Claudia put out her left hand to push him away while the other tried to slam the door in his face, but he was too fast. He dived towards her. Using both hands, Claudia pushed against his chest, but his arms had closed round her shoulders.

‘Wrong room, buster.’

She daren’t risk connecting her knee with his groin for fear of unbalancing herself-and the prospect of this horny sod on top of her didn’t bear thinking about. Along the atrium, still bright with night-torches, a blonde slave emerged from the kitchens with a wide, steaming bowl. Good. Between the two of them, they might be able to prise this animal off. She tried to call out, but the pressure of his body against hers was threatening to squeeze the life right out of her. Mercifully the girl looked up…and, incredibly, began to scream.

Silly bitch, Claudia thought, nearly buckling under the weight of the gargling lecher, but at least it’s brought help. Doors were opening left, right and centre.

Almost rhythmically, Claudia and the drunk danced in the doorway. He pushed, she pushed, he pushed back, but all the time she was growing weaker and weaker. Surely someone has the sense to yank him off?

Inexplicably everyone seemed to be yelling, and it was only when Claudia finally lost the battle with the dung-beetle and they toppled sideways together, she began to understand why.

The dung-beetle wasn’t drunk. The dung-beetle wasn’t gargling.

The dung-beetle had a bloody great knife in his belly.

II

‘I honestly don’t know what the fuss is about.’

Claudia had changed out of the blood-soaked shift and was silently tapping her toe on the floor. The dining room faced east, where the first rays of sunshine had punched through the mist to give a rich, buttery quality to the landscape beyond and bejewelled the narrow stream that bounced down the hillside to make the valley so rich and so fertile. An early orange-tip butterfly made its wispy flight past the window to investigate the white clouds of arabis that tumbled over the rocks beside the water, and a wagtail bobbed up and down in delight. ‘It’s not as though I killed him.’