Man Eater

Once inside her bedroom, however, cosy and warm thanks to the gentle heat of the charcoal brazier, a sense of balance prevailed and Claudia finally thought to peel the cold, soggy tunic away from her skin. Yeuk! She hung the gown over the back of a chair and as clouds of steam rose up from her clothing and dribbles of condensation ran down the walls, she vigorously towelled herself dry. The very action-instinctive, elementary, primordial-was sufficient to restore perspective, and she cursed herself for allowing that snide little Prefect get to her. Now had the crocodiles eaten him, they’d have had a belly-ache to remember. Probably turn them vegetarian.

Flipping the towel into a roll to dry her back, Claudia wondered what Sergius intended to do with those plug-ugly reptiles. They won’t dance very gracefully, and somehow I can’t see them jumping through hoops. Ah, now, wasn’t there some talk of him employing Egyptian natives to swim amongst them?

She leaned down and rubbed between her toes. Good grief, people will hand over small fortunes to watch a gang of youths splashing around with the crocodiles. Indeed, these spectacles are going to turn established shows right on their boring old heads. What innovations, what vision this man Pictor has!

And talking of animals… Cat fur and rainwater is an explosive combination and by the time poor old Drusilla can leg it to shelter, she’ll have a hump the size of a camel’s. I really don’t know where she learned swear words like that.

Today’s storm, though, had an entirely different quality about it, throwing out an invigorating energy as opposed to the ill-mannered depletions of last night’s tantrums. It was, Claudia thought, listening to the raindrops pitter-pat on to the broad, flat leaves of the elecampane, the difference between a play by Plautus and a torrid melodrama. One blows life-the other just sucks.

It was only when she reached for a comb to untangle her curls that she realized that, even in her own bedroom, she wasn’t safe. The room had been searched. Not just cleaned. Not just heated. Not just tidied. She meant searched. By an amateur at that.

She teased open the door. ‘Pssst.’

‘Who? Me?’ The red-headed slave looked round in confusion.

Claudia crooked her finger. ‘Tell me who came into my room while I was gone and this little fellow is yours.’ Her hand opened to reveal a shining silver denarius.

The girl’s heather broom clattered on to the floor, but Alis seemed not to notice as she continued to pour libations at the family shrine.

‘Um-’

Utterly transfixed by the coin, you could see the girl’s mind working out how to spend it, which, of course, was the object of the exercise. A couple of asses would have ensured Claudia had her answer, but it would not necessarily have given her an honest one. Silver would.

‘Um-’

‘Um, what? Umpteen Umbrians umpiring under umber-coloured umbrellas?’

‘Ever so sorry, m’m,’ the redhead bobbed down and picked up her brush. ‘I can’t say.’

‘Blackmail is a depressing concept,’ Claudia reminded her. ‘Let me make it quite plain that a single denarius is all that’s on offer.’

‘Oh, no, you’ve got me wrong, m’m. I mean I don’t know.’ Her eyes said goodbye to the silver coin. ‘We’ve just changed shifts, see? But I could ask around, if you like.’

Good life in Illyria, anything but that. For the time being, this remains our little secret, me and the son-of-a-bitch who’s been prying.

‘It’s not important,’ she replied airily, flipping the coin towards the servant. ‘And this should ensure I never asked the question. Now, fetch me a raw octopus, will you?’

‘A raw- Sorry, did you say octopus?’

‘Are you deaf?’

Actually, it was the only thing Claudia could think of that would reduce Drusilla’s hump to a meaningful proportion. The cat could slap it about a bit, and it would make her feel she’d gone some way towards catching the horrid slimy creature for herself.

Claudia looked again at her jewellery box. Walnut, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and with a hinged lid, it was an exquisite piece of workmanship. It contained bracelets and anklets of gold and of silver, diadems set with sapphires, pendants set with pearls.

Also, until very recently, it had contained the wing feather of a wren.

In colour wrens are very similar to walnut. You place the feather on the rim of the box and then you close the lid very, very gently to keep it in place. But no matter how carefully you open it again, that feather, that microscopic, insubstantial, practically invisible feather, becomes dislodged.

Intuition told her there was no need to unlock the box to learn nothing had been stolen, but Claudia went through the motions anyway. The key, which she kept on the webbing under her mattress, had been replaced, but the searcher had not been careful enough. The key now faced east instead of west.

Claudia tapped her lip thoughtfully. Whoever it might be, the spy was not Marcus Cornelius Orbilio.