Man Eater

As the shadows made their inexorable progress across the forum, Claudia sat on the steps of a bronze mounted hero and tried to come up with a feasible alternative to the monstrous thought that kept swelling and swelling inside her head. Any minute, and I’ll explode like an overripe pumpkin, because it can’t be true, it can’t, it can’t. Those boys have to be local. What other explanation could there be? She dare not admit, even privately, that they might have been hired in Narni or Hispellum. Or that the prospect of returning to the Villa Pictor, to share her roof with a murderer, was more than she could cope with…

There are, of course, ways to combat fear and the swell of nausea that comes with it. You tense all your muscles, then release them. You take little breaths, and sigh them away very slowly. And you do this while reciting an epic poem backwards, preferably one of Virgil’s. Claudia was halfway through the sack of Troy before she felt able to attack the practicalities of her situation.

She moved round the statue to follow the shade. Firstly, since the chances of another getaway seemed unlikely, the hiring of a lawyer became paramount. The man she wanted-correction, the man she intended should represent her-was middle-aged, lived on the Esquiline and took an equal interest in horseflesh and beekeeping. He won an average of seven cases out of eight, charged exorbitant fees for his services, and was, somewhat predictably, fully booked for months in advance.

But this lawyer would come to Narni on Wednesday.

In an effort to conceal her vast gambling debts from her husband while he was alive, Claudia had taken to offering certain services to men rich enough to pay for such exclusivity. How well she remembered the lawyer’s love of horses. In fact, the number of times he’d whinny and neigh while she led him around by a bridle beggared belief. Damn right, he’d be here on Wednesday

Then there was the little matter of the land sale in Etruria. With the auction just two days away, she had no intention of allowing Quintilian to win this round by default. Best write to her agent, telling him…

Having rooted out a scribe shifty enough to ask no questions and having entrusted her scrolls to a multi-scarred army veteran whose appearance was forbidding enough to deter even a hardened thief, Claudia drew a deep and satisfied breath then rapped at Fronto’s iron-studded door. The house was an impressive affair of gilded stucco and far too many servants, but why oh why, she wondered, wasn’t she surprised to find Marcus Cornelius Orbilio waiting in the atrium, one leg flung over the other, his hands folded behind his head, as he leaned his chair against the gaily painted wall?

‘Great minds think alike,’ he remarked to the room in general, and Claudia stuck her tongue out just at the point Fronto’s major-domo arrived, flanked by two of the ugliest infants you could hope to find in a freak show. The lady of the house was not home, he apologized, and again Claudia was not surprised. Had she been married to the dung-beetle, she, too, would have been out celebrating. The steward, however, suggested the widow might be found at her father’s clothes shop on Pear Street, he would be happy to furnish the guests with directions.

Orbilio had been busy, he told Claudia, linking his step to hers as they hiked up the hill. At the time Macer took over the prefecture, Fronto had been working in what some called civilian and others a mercenary capacity, though whether Macer decided external help was unnecessary or whether it was a straightforward personality clash, no one could say for certain. But one thing was sure. Fronto was off Macer’s payroll faster than a comet through the night sky. Moreover, Fronto was not only celebrated for taking backhanders in the army, but since retiring he’d acquired the reputation of a Master Fixit among certain unsavoury orders of the Tarsulani. In other words, Orbilio said, if anyone had been able to arrange for a group of hooligans to run Claudia off the road, that man was Fronto.

‘I think what I’m saying,’ he said wearily, as they turned left at the Shrine of Ceres, ‘is that every goddamned person on Pictor’s estate could know about this scumbag’s activities.’

After that, they walked to Pear Street in silence, where clothes shop, Claudia discovered, was something of a euphemism.

‘Be charitable,’ Orbilio whispered. ‘The old man who owns it sees plenty of life in those rags yet.’

‘I know,’ she hissed back. ‘I just saw one jump.’

Balbilla’s father had the sweet breath of the terminally ill, although one didn’t need to get that close to see how it was with him. ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish,’ was all he managed to get out before their voices brought an overweight, spotty creature in ill-fitting mourning clothes clambering down the rickety steps from the garret.

‘What is it you’re looking for?’ The lump wiped her tear-swollen face and began to pick over the rags.