Man Eater (21 page)

‘Sharp? If that imbecile has his way, I shall be standing before a judge in six days’ time.’

‘Ah, but have you considered the possibility our Prefect might be using you as bait? That by focusing attention on you, it leaves him free to investigate the real killer?’

Holy shit, no, it had not occurred to her. Well, well, well. But before Claudia could draw breath to follow up, the big man had launched forth again.

‘I’m just pleased our man in the crocodile pond wasn’t another of his long-lost troops. I had visions of a whole host of his ex-employees turning stiff on our doorstep, one after the other.’

‘It’s weird, don’t you think, two dead strangers in three days?’

‘This is Umbria, darling. Anything can happen around here, you only have to look at Timoleon to see that. What the f—?’

The screeching was inhuman, and it came from the far end of the courtyard.

‘Jupiter, Juno and Mars!’ Claudia blinked hard. Hands up to protect himself, feet slipping wildly, Taranis had nowhere to go, his back was already to the house wall and strong as he was, he was no match for the wild creature attacking him.

‘Bastard!’

Tulola was pummelling the Celt’s chest and shoulders with her fists, screaming like a demon, the skin on her face so tight with anger that her exposed teeth looked huge and obscene.

‘
Bas-tard!
’

Taranis could offer no resistance. He cringed lower and lower under the demented assault, his forearms fending most of the blows.

‘That’ll teach him to try and sneak off,’ Pallas whispered, linking his arm into Claudia’s and leading her back down the path. ‘Although, under the circumstances, one can hardly blame even that pig-ignorant hippopotamus.’

‘It tallies with my theory. Tulola likes not only to control her men, she needs to be seen to be doing it.’

Could you call that ferocious onslaught being in control? It seemed to Claudia that Tulola had fooled herself into believing she could bewitch any man she wanted and keep him in her thrall for as long as she, not he, desired, until occasionally a Taranis appeared to show her the reality. And Tulola, to judge from that little tantrum, was patently allergic to reality.

More painful still must be the realization that when you’re knocking thirty, it’s a very fine cloth that separates the uninhibited dominatrix from a rancid old slag.

‘Her husband was the first to rebel, you know.’

‘Oh?’

Pallas resumed his seat by the fishpond. ‘I’m going back six, maybe seven years, though you need the whole picture to understand. You see, their parents may have fixed the marriage, but for the young couple it was every bit a love match. Puppy love, of course. Tulola was only fourteen, but the stars were in their eyes and that was enough for them.’

He snapped his fingers to catch a slave’s attention. ‘Bring us more wine, will you, my good man? Only make sure it’s Falernian this time, I want none of that Campanian rubbish.’

‘What went wrong?’

‘The concept of young marriage is not without foundation, but as you know, what lies at the core of one’s character at fourteen remains the same at forty. Tulola, naturally, came a virgin to her wedding. Unfortunately, so did the bridegroom.’

‘Ah.’ Claudia poured the wine. ‘Your cousin began to experiment?’

‘Tarsulae was reduced to a small town by then, where gossip became a marketable commodity. It’s good stuff, this Falernian, how does it compare with your Seferius wine? What grape do you use?’

How should I know? ‘What happened when he found out?’

‘Now that, darling girl, is where it gets
really
interesting. Uh-oh, look who’s coming. Quick! Run!’ Faster than a jackrabbit, Pallas had grabbed the jug and was lumbering back to the house, but Claudia’s arm was caught in a vice.

‘Ah, Mistress Seferius! How enchanting you look in cinnabar.’

Macer, you slimy little salamander, how obnoxious you look in daylight.

He released her arm. ‘May I join you?’

Why don’t you crawl back under your stone and wait for the moon?

‘I am, you see, eager to hear your account of the terrible events of last night.’

Oh, Pallas. How wrong can you be.

With his handkerchief he brushed the marble before allowing his red embroidered tunic to make contact, but, alas, not before Claudia had tipped the remains of Pallas’ lunch on to the seat.

‘In case my story clashes with that of the crocodiles, Prefect?’ She tossed the plate in the shrubbery and flicked an ant from her finger. With any luck, there would be a small army of the little beggars sinking their pincers into his bottom even as she forced herself to smile at him. ‘Or out of concern for my personal safety?’

‘I fear you are making fun of me, Mistress Seferius, but murder is a serious matter.’

‘Especially when one is at the sharp end and the distinction between breathing and investigating the possibilities of an afterlife are beginning to blur.’ She leaned forward so her nose was a mere hand’s span away from his. ‘These bruises are not fake, Prefect. Last night someone tried to kill me.’

His smile was pure reptile. ‘I realize that, my dear Claudia, and one of the things I am trying to establish at the moment, apart from his identity, is a connection linking Fronto with the dead man and,
ergo
,
with yourself.’

‘The eternal triangle, how original. We’ll see your name carved on great monuments yet.’

Actually he was more the sort who’d want a sundial for his memorial to ensure you saw his name whenever you looked.

‘Mock me all you wish, Mistress Seferius, only there is a nasty smell to this place which has less to do with the menagerie than appears on the surface.’

Do smells appear on the surface? Frankly, she was too disinterested in this little maggot to waste breath baiting him, and besides, if there was a ready answer, then he would find it as soon as he stood up. Pallas had had mullet on his plate, as well as mustard and vinegar and soft-boiled eggs.

‘So while my men delve for clues, perhaps you and I could go over a few of the facts that you have already presented to me, since there appear to be one or two anomalies in your statement.’

If you’ve only found a couple, then I’m doing better than I hoped. ‘Such as?’

‘Well, for one thing, you told me you had sent your servants on ahead by ox cart, when in fact you did nothing of the sort.’

‘Macer, you surprise me. You’re the Prefect of a legion covering a very large territory,’ which as we both know boasts a microscopic population, ‘yet you find that an anomaly?’

Puncture his pride and you prick Macer’s innermost soul. ‘I don’t’—the bluster was almost painful—‘quite follow you.’

‘Come, come. Surely you must have realized that in questioning me before fifty, sixty witnesses, I was hardly going to admit, a woman of my social standing, to travelling without servants. What would people think?’

‘You’re saying you lied to retain your self-respect?’

‘Wouldn’t you? The truth, Macer, is that I have been a widow for but a short time.’ She dabbed at the corner of her eye. ‘This opportunity to travel unencumbered, it was like a godsend. I am not’—sniff—‘the type of person who needs a retinue of slaves to flaunt her status and naturally I keep a chest of clothes at my dear husband’s farm.’

He scratched the tip of his thin nose. ‘Let’s recap, shall we?’ Damn. It didn’t work. ‘You received a note from your bailiff urging you to come to Etruria at once?’

‘Correct.’

‘You decided this was a much-needed escape from a crowd of attentive servants and, with the exception of Junius, left them in Rome?’

‘Correct.’

‘You hired a gig from the stand, taking your chances with a new and untried driver?’

‘Correct.’

‘You left the Via Flaminia at Narni in order to take a shortcut through Umbria on the abandoned road and spent the night at Tarsulae simply because that was the only town with a half-decent inn?’

‘Correct.’

‘The following morning you were run off the road by person or persons unknown and stumbled upon the Villa Pictor by chance?’

‘Correct.’

‘You did not recognize Fronto, even though he might (note, I say might) have been the arsonist, you did not argue with him, you did not plunge a kitchen knife into his belly?’

‘Correct.’

‘And last night another man, who has yet to be identified, tried to kill you by throwing you alive and kicking to the crocodiles?’

‘Correct.’

He breathed on one of his gold medallions and polished it with the heel of his hand.

‘Suppose I put it to you, Mistress Seferius, that you are lying through your lovely white teeth? That right from the very beginning you have tried to pull the wool over my eyes?’

‘I don’t think the servant issue constitutes major controversy, Prefect, I’ve explained—’

‘Servants? My dear Claudia, that’s neither here nor there, just another minor incident which shows your contempt for what you undoubtedly think of us yokels. I am referring to a far more contentious matter, the crux of your defence if you prefer.’

‘If I knew what a gog was, Macer, I would undoubtedly turn into one on the spot. Exactly where
does
the crux of my defence fall down?’

The Prefect stood up and flexed his shoulders. ‘There are several small irregularities, insignificant in themselves, yet lumped together they do cause me considerable grief. For instance, listening to the stories which abound, you’ve been through Hades and back, yet I see no broken limbs, Mistress Seferius. No cracked skull, no concussion.’

‘So if I was dead, you’d believe me?’

Macer’s teeth bared in a smile which didn’t extend to his eyes. ‘Your driver sustained a broken arm and Junius was, most fortuitously, knocked out, whereas you, my dear Claudia, you’ve had three encounters with violence in as many days and mere superficial scratches to show for it.’ He ran his finger under his collar. ‘And then there’s the cat.’

‘Drusilla? What about her?’

‘I have inspected her cage personally.’ He stared up at the darkening sky. ‘There is nothing wrong with that bolt.’

‘I never said there was, I merely said it shot open and she went to ground. If your accusation hinges on my hiding my own cat, I can’t wait to see the jurists’ faces. Is that your case, Macer?’

As he turned, she was eye-level with the splattered remains of Pallas’ lunch.

‘Not quite. There is also the little matter of the note.’ She stared at the stain. If it came out at all, it would need bleaching several times, and that’s a nasty place to have a big white mark, on your bottom.

‘Note?’

A fly settled on the egg yolk and she resisted the urge to swat it.

‘The message from Rollo. You see, my men have been asking questions at your villa and your bailiff seems a decent sort of chap. Honest, up-front. Quite without guile, I should say.’

A chill wind passed across the garden. ‘So would I, that’s why I employ him.’ She hoped this change of temperature was attributable to the impending storm.

‘So when Rollo tells me he didn’t send you a note, I am rather tempted to believe him.’

Claudia watched the Prefect stride up the path, where her attention was no longer held by the splurge on his tunic, but by his parting words. Because for once she agreed with this smarmy, smug weevil. She, too, was inclined to believe her reliable, hard-working bailiff. If he said he sent no summons, he sent no summons.

Which meant Marcus Cleverclogs Orbilio was right.

Someone at the Villa Pictor hated Claudia Seferius enough to want either to frame her for murder, or, when that failed, kill her outright. By definition, last night’s attacker must have been a hired assassin, but would the brains and the money behind it stop there?

The sky turned dark as charcoal, a rumble of thunder bellowed along the Vale of Adonis, then another, then another. But long after the heavens had opened, Claudia remained bolt upright on the smooth white marble bench as though she had been grafted there.

How long before the killer tried again? she wondered.

And what method would they employ next time round?

XVII

Like other people’s lives after personal bereavement, the Villa Pictor set about its business none the wiser and certainly none the worse. As Claudia dripped across the atrium floor, two men staggered towards the kitchens, laughingly balancing an amphora of oil between them. A gap-toothed maid buffed up the bronzes. An applecheeked redhead tickled the corners of this splendid marble hall with her heather broom. Alis was making devotions at the family shrine, a young Syrian topped up the water-clock, the porters changed shifts in the vestibule.

Proof positive that victims don’t suddenly glow in the dark to distinguish themselves from the rest of humanity.

And proof that the expression on one’s face doesn’t necessarily reflect the fact that one’s brains are bubbling so loud you’re surprised other people can’t hear them.