Man Eater

Quintilian’s frame began to shake with silent laughter. I’m with you, Claudia, my love, my little doxy. But you don’t listen, do you? How many times did I tell you, don’t meddle in business. I’m sorry you’ve wasted your money on a patch of exhausted soil, but you had it coming. Oh, you women, you think you’re clever, getting a surveyor to report on the land, but I’m way, way ahead of you, girlie. The report you saw was a forgery. Surprised, Claudia? Shouldn’t be. For five pieces of silver that weasel who lives under the aqueduct will copy anything, it was easy to change the names of the plots. Give in gracefully, there’s a good girl. So you got a bloody nose? This letter will have got it off your chest-a very beautiful chest, if I may say so, my dear, one I hope to get closer acquainted with in the not too distant future-let’s call it quits, shall we? Think about my offer, it’s a generous one, and besides, you can’t keep the business, can you? In, what, eighteen months you’ll be forced to remarry, it’ll pass to your husband, so you may as well enjoy the money while you’re able. Let us therefore be friends, Claudia. Don’t let bitterness come between us, eh?

He picked up the scroll and read on.

‘I know you don’t approve of women in commerce, Quintilian, but I wasn’t sure you’d stoop so low.’

Low? A spot of forgery? You should see some of the other tricks of the trade, Mistress Seferius, this is just skating the surface.

‘On the other hand, it seemed sensible to take certain precautions. Such as asking the surveyor to make two reports, one verbal and one written.’

Quintilian’s shoulders began to stiffen.

‘Ah, I see you have guessed. For some time, I’ve suspected one of my secretaries of spying-documents rearranged, that sort of thing-it seemed sensible to leave nothing to chance, and that included swapping the names round. It’s not entirely clear what you will be able to do with Vixen Hill, but I’m sure you’ll think of something, Senator. That is a very useful little stream which runs through it.

‘PS: You do realize its source begins in Hunter’s Grove, don’t you? I’ll let you know well in advance when I plan to divert it.’

XXVIII

A world away from the Vale of Adonis, with its narrow fertile belt and dark encroaching forest, the Spring of Sarpedon surrounded itself with rich green meadows from which wooded hills rolled gently backwards, growing blue and hazy with the distance. Sacred white oxen grazed and lowed on grass heavy with anemones and dew, larks sang on the wing and peacock butterflies gorged themselves on nectar.

Unlike the sulphur pools, today was no public holiday. There were no sausage-sellers, no rope-walkers, no acrobats on Sarpedon’s holy turf-and yet it was impossible for spirits to remain low amid such Arcadian beauty. The mechanics for water collection remained well out of sight, ensuring this remained a tranquil place, where bodies and differences could be aired without impediment, a place for promenading and serenading. Tall cypresses cast shade on the lakes, crack willows dangled their fingers in the water, ferns sprang up like children. Blushing maidens wore garlands of blue iris and vervain, young men showed off their prowess at rowing on the lake, the poor scattered handfuls of flour, instead of metal, as offerings.

When the wagon lurched to a halt in the temple forecourt, Sergius was still expounding about his ideas for the future and if enthusiasm was rewarded in gold, he would be richer than Midas by now, thought Claudia. It had troubled him deeply, seeing his trainer reduced to a ghost-and she realized that Corbulo had not yet told Sergius of his intentions to leave when his contract was up. Either that, or Sergius was confident of talking him round. Any fool could see there was a glittering future in these circus spectaculars. Equally, he would argue, only a fool would walk away.

Corbulo’s attendance today had uplifted not only Sergius. Everyone’s spirits had been given a boost. That’s not to say they hadn’t barred their doors and windows overnight, but here, out in the open, under a wide and welcoming sky, the general consensus was that the killer could only be one of Sergius’ hired henchmen and that’s the price you pay for taking on transitory labour. He should have employed men from Tarsulae. Never mind there are no young men left, and never mind the locals would have blabbed to all and sundry. It was his own fault, he was told, he’ll know better next time.

Yet all too quickly the badinage was cut short as news about the Regent spread, and as they crossed the bridge to the island, the tone was sombre. It was Agrippa this, Agrippa that, and Taranis was confused.

‘I no understand. Why unrest in Rome?’ he asked, throwing his hands in the air. ‘Why threat of uprising?’