Man Eater

But where Barea had almost nothing-no personal possessions, no keepsakes, no mementoes to speak of-Timoleon more than made up for it. A set of silver cutlery with the initials ‘S.I.’ (Scrap Iron?) engraved on it. Combs of ivory, knives with bone handles carved in the likenesses of ducks’ heads, Mercury the messenger, snakes and seahorses. He had tunics of every damned colour of the rainbow, ranging from complex twills to embroidered cottons, one even woven with a fine gold thread. There were travelling cloaks with hoods and travelling cloaks without them, boots, shoes, sandals. She wondered, as she rifled through his five sets of underclothes, whether Barea felt envious of his colleague’s comprehensive wardrobe and decided probably not. He was an easy-going soul, Barea, who travelled light both physically and spiritually. Three serviceable tunics, one heavy cloak and his well-earned Cap of Freedom, proudly hung on a hook above the bed, that was all he had need for.

Not that the horse-trainer couldn’t afford more. In a small wooden chest under his bed he had a fair pile of coins stashed away, as well as a promissory note from Sergius for payment at the end of his contract. Interestingly, the casket also contained a sprig of what looked like dried heather, a small silver bell-the sort tied round the neck of a sacrificial lamb-and a ring set with a stone of green glass. For a man with few possessions, these few trinkets must be treasures indeed. But of what?

Whereas Barea’s chest had been locked (a minor complication for Claudia’s hairpin), Timoleon felt no need for secrecy. Had he been able, she suspected he’d have slapped his finery over the walls to show off, and from the crumpled appearance of most of the clothing, it seemed they were often taken out and admired. She moved on to the untidy row of onyx, glass and alabaster pots which contained a variety of precious oils. Poo! What’s that? Claudia sniffed again and chuckled. Dates mixed with castor oil mixed with carobs meant just one thing. Poor old Scrap Iron’s got piles!

She was replacing the lid and turning to his jewellery box when she heard voices outside. One deep, masculine and heavily accented. The other, unfortunately, pitched too low to identify.

‘I tell you again, is not necessary.’

She daren’t risk opening the shutter. With so many lanterns, even the smallest crack would light up the yard and Claudia had a feeling this was a conversation that was meant to be secret. Why else hold it outside what should have been an empty room on the wing opposite the dining hall? Cocking her ear to the embrasure, she strained for the reply and heard only an indistinct muttering which could have been male or female, young or old. Claudia wished they’d move closer to the building.

‘Has been enough trouble as it is. Suppose someone see you?’

Mumble, mumble, mumble. Dammit, I wish I could see you! Just a shadow, a silhouette, to show me who you are.

‘Look, is late. Dinner already under way, people start to wonder. We talk later, yes?’ Taranis put a bit more coaxing into his voice. ‘Yes?’ Which obviously paid off. ‘Good.’

Claudia realized she had two choices. She could either abandon her search of the gladiator’s room, knowing it was unlikely she’d get a better chance. Or she could finish her task and risk Taranis’ suspicions.

The decision had to be made fast if she was to beat the Celt to the dining couch…

Zigzagging between the chests of finery, she paused. Either way, she thought, meeting the painted eyes of the portrait on the wall, she had a horrid feeling she had been watched.

Marilyn Todd

Man Eater

XII

In the opulence of Sergius Pictor’s dining room, where vivid paintings of Ganymede, cup-bearer to the gods, covered the walls and Bacchanalian revels patterned the floor, the death of one slave girl, Marcus Cornelius Orbilio reflected sadly, had left no appreciable impact on the diners. Only Claudia, he noticed, avoided his-and indeed anyone else’s-eye, picking at her baked eggs and slipping a partridge into her napkin when she thought nobody was looking. The others, predictably hyped up from the outing, were drinking heavily and laughing loudly. Except one.

‘For pity’s sake,’ Tulola chided. ‘Cheer up.’

‘What’s up, sunshine?’ asked Timoleon. ‘You’ve got a face as long as an elephant’s dongler.’

‘A yellow one,’ put in Taranis, without bothering to empty his mouth.

Sergius’ petulant expression deepened. ‘The Megalesian Games kick off in a fortnight, what’s to be cheerful about?’

‘Uh-oh.’ Corbulo took a deep draught of wine. ‘I feel a nag coming on.’

‘Hands off,’ mocked Barea. ‘Horses are my job.’ Everyone laughed, the slaves topped up the glasses and even Sergius was tempted to smile.

‘I hear the Emperor’s most trusted general, his closest friend, his dearest ally has come home sick.’ Provocatively Tulola licked mustard sauce from a spear of asparagus. ‘Isn’t that right, policeman?’