Man Eater

‘Me too.’ Euphemia speared a scallop with the same knife she’d drawn on Claudia. ‘I’m fed up seeing your miserable faces all the time.’

Hark who’s talking, thought Claudia, ‘Celebrate how?’ she asked.

Sergius wiggled his blade out of the tabletop and called for the fruit. ‘I rather thought an outing to the springs would be nice.’

‘I d-don’t think we should leave-’

‘Rubbish, sweetie.’ Tulola waved aside the Tribune’s protests. ‘It’s a brilliant idea. This hanging around is driving us demented, even you, Salvian, young as you are.’ She leaned over and tickled him under the chin until he turned red as a turkey cock.

‘M-my uncle-’ he spluttered.

But Sergius was not a man to be put off the scent. ‘Come along, you lot, what do you say?’

Careful glances were exchanged, which in turn became conspiratorial glances until finally they became smug, triumphant glances.

And at least ten hands shot up.

*

In Rome, Senator Quintilian bade farewell to the last of his callers and settled back contentedly, running his hands over the carved boar’s head that comprised the arm of his chair. This was the time of day he liked best, when the long, noisy line of clients and lobbyists had finally trickled away, leaving behind their dreary petitions, most of which he’d burn later. Dismissing his scribe, he poured himself a large glass of tansy wine and closed his eyes. Skilful time management ensured him one hour-one single, solitary, precious hour-before different calls were made upon his person, usually generated by that ambitious wife of his, but just as important, nevertheless.

Later, of course, he would take himself off to the baths for a long dip, a spot of exercise, another dip, then a massage, preferably in the company of a buxom whore, each enterprise designed to refresh him both physically and mentally. However, it was this lull before the noonday rush that nourished his spiritual needs, this Golden Hour, where time was meaningless and he could admire the marble on his walls and on his floors and of his statuary, gloat over his successes in the Senate House, brush up on his oratory.

Here, in the peace and splendour of his own office (he daren’t set foot outside, or his wife would nab him), calmed by the aromatic wine, memories would be awake. Of the Gallic campaigns of his youth. Of the curios he’d brought back from Egypt and Noricum and Thrace. Of the political struggles over the years, triumphs and failures, good times and bad.

Surrounded by exquisite works of art, he could block his ears to the sounds of the city on the far side of the wall-the cries of the mendicants, the hammering of the restoration work, the brawls, the brays and the barks-and reminisce about his sons, the first two, strapping boys who had both died fighting alongside their Emperor, and about his first wife, fifteen years in her grave. Then he would cheer himself up thinking about the three boys his second wife had given him, because Diana, Goddess of Fertility, had blessed the Quintilian line.

Nothing but sons, he was proud of them all.

The youngest was a funny little chap, my word he was, waddling up on those fat little legs of his, chortling away. Only this morning, Quintilian had watched him in the peristyle, racing his toy chariots between the columns. Whose idea was it, anyway, to harness them to mice? Comical, I can tell you, watching the big black one…

‘Who the hell are you?’

‘Letter, sir!’ The messenger saluted and closed the door behind him.

Bloody hell, who let him past? Quintilian looked at the scroll on his desk. It could wait. That idle sod of a secretary could read it aloud after luncheon. Where was I? Ah, the racing mice. Yes, that little fellow of mine’s a real chip off the… There was something oddly familiar about the seal on that scroll. Of course it was upside down, he couldn’t see properly…

What the buggery?

Quintilian blinked and sat up straight. Damnation, that was his own seal! He ripped it open and began to read. Mars Almighty, it was from the Widow Seferius. How the hell did she do that?

‘To refresh your memory, Vixen Hill was purchased yesterday on your behalf’-no salutation, straight in, he noticed-‘and I ended up with Hunter’s Grove. With me so far, Senator?’