Man Eater

For the Head of the Security Police, the day held particular significance. In the morning came the Purification of the Trumpets up on the Aventine, where holy water was sprinkled over military instruments to symbolize lustration of the whole Roman army. He, naturally, would be at the fore, and despite his equestrian, as opposed to patrician, background and his lack of military training (he had bought his way to the top, a common practice among magistrates), this was one of those rare chances to be seen, by the populace, rubbing shoulders with the high and the mighty.

Moreover, his brother was one of the two dozen carefully selected priests who would make the third and final Salian War Dance in the afternoon. Unfortunately, although they were twins, his brother was a baboon, and sure as eggs were eggs, he’d cock up. It had cost a small fortune to wangle his brother into this elite band, and almost half as much again to teach the twit his steps. Jupiter’s balls, it wasn’t choreography, for gods’ sake. All he had to do was beat his fucking shield with his fucking sword and leap about a bit at set points along the way, but could he do it? Could he hell! Twice already the Salian Priests had peformed their ritual dance, and twice the silly bugger had fucked up. If he dropped his sacred shield just one more time, he’d wring his fucking neck.

With the sweat pouring down his neck, he called for his litter.

‘Where to, sir?’

‘Home,’ he barked.

The whole fucking city’s out revelling, even my fucking wife, and I’m stuck indoors writing fucking letters! He threw off his toga and called for his secretary.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ his steward explained. ‘It’s a public holiday, your secretary’s out celebrating.’

‘I know it’s a public holiday, you arsehole. Just fetch him.’

What is it with Orbilio? I’m dumped with a fraud case, where thousands of sesterces of public money have gone missing with none of the suspects living the life of riley, which means someone’s salting it away, and I’m at a particularly crucial stage of the investigation when what happens? My undercover man buggers off to Umbria! Well, I don’t have too much choice about that. His family has clout in this city, the name means something, and if the Emperor doesn’t mind him following some tart round the country, why should I bother?

‘Assign the case to someone else,’ Augustus had said mildly, when he made his weekly Security report. ‘I’ve heard interesting stories about the Seferius woman, and young Marcus has potential, don’t you think? So unless there’s an emergency, why don’t we give him his head?’ Because it’s set the fraud back several weeks, you silly arse, and when the suspect buggers off with a trunk full of public money, it’s my balls you’re going to fry, that’s why!

‘Umbria’s out of his jurisdiction, sir.’

‘I’m sure he knows that.’ The Emperor never invited his subordinate to sit. ‘It’ll be another learning experience for the boy.’

‘As you wish, then.’

‘I do. I do wish,’ Augustus had replied. ‘But I still want a result on this fraud, and fast. If word gets round that one man steals from the Empire, others will jump on the bandwagon. Do I make myself plain? I want this bastard nailed quickly, and if you aren’t up to the task, others are.’

Great. The Emperor takes away my best man, leaving me with a god-almighty chasm and, when I try spanning it, he promptly burns every bridge! He already knew the Emperor didn’t like him, but until then he didn’t realize how deep it went. However, there was more than one way to skin a coney, and rumour had it Augustus was thinking about reintroducing the old post of Priest of Jupiter after a gap of some seventy-five years. Now if he could just get his twin brother ordained…

‘Where the fuck’s my secretary?’ Everything hinged on how well his twin performed tomorrow afternoon.

‘We’re still trying to locate him,’ replied the steward. ‘Shouldn’t be long now.’

‘It’s been too bloody long already,’ he snarled. ‘Put a bit of steam under it, will you? No bugger drowns in his own sweat!’

Least of all you, thought the steward, backing silently out of the door.

The Head of the Security Police cleared the top of his desk with the sweep of his hand. Stuff it. He’d put Metellus on the fraud, and if the case went down, Metellus could bloody go with it. He paused, to kick a scroll into touch. Naturally if the money was recovered-well, he’d deliver it personally to the Emperor up on the Palatine. His toe was playing with the upended inkwell when the door burst open.

‘You wanted me, master?’ The secretary, red-faced and stinking of cheap wine, rolled through the doorway with his pen and parchment.

‘Write!’ he ordered.

But the secretary misheard. He thought his boss said ‘right’, and he had to pinch the man’s belly twice before the idiot had sobered up sufficiently to pay attention.