Man Eater (34 page)

You? You gave me that alibi? Claudia gawped at Salvian. ‘The innocent have nothing to hide,’ she said smoothly. But that won’t stop me pickling your uncle in vinegar.

Food was being spread on the gaily coloured blankets. A slave chilled wine in Sarpedon’s crystalline waters. Alis and Pallas chased their counters over a chequered board. Timoleon was telling an eager Barea about the preponderance of stud farms which were springing up all over southern Italy. She did not feel like joining them.

Despite the bridge having no balustrade, Claudia leaned at a perilous angle over the water. It was so clear, you could watch bubbles of air rise to the surface, hundreds of them, each sending out tightly packed ripples which ran into its neighbour, swirling the surface and giving the spring effervescence. Rooks cawed in the sycamore trees and gnats danced over the shallows. Now if we could only transfer this to Rome, she thought contentedly, life would be perfect.

In the city, of course, water was a perpetual headache. The Tiber stood no chance of meeting the needs of the people, and between them, the aqueducts pumped in a hundred million gallons a day. Yet still it wasn’t enough. Not that she was affected personally, the Seferius household had its water piped in, but for the poor it was a real problem. As part of the appeasement process, she suspected that Augustus would promise more aqueducts, just as surely as he’d promise bigger and better spectacles for his citizens. Which brought her back to Sergius.

For him, the death of Agrippa could not have come at a better time. She looked round, but he was absent from the group. Oh, there he is, back at the temple. With a casual glance over each shoulder, Sergius paused by the steps, then ducked into a chasm underneath. That he was able to do so was down to the geography of the land, because what was originally a simple shrine built into the hillside to honour Sarpedon, whose holy waters seeped from the rocks there, had been extended over the centuries until it was now a full-fledged temple. So instead of a solid block of rock leading up, a stone stairway had been tacked on, and it was beneath this stairway that Sergius disappeared. Fascinated, Claudia sauntered across. A grove of Apollo’s sacred bay offered her the excuse of shade, and she was ostensibly watching the priest collect the leaves when she caught sight of Euphemia darting between the cottony leaves of the poplars.

‘Can I pick some bay for you, madam?’ the priest asked, for the oracle would chew them to induce his trance and deliver his prophecies. This, though, he would do in the temple proper…not under its stairs.

In the time it took for Claudia to shake her head, Euphemia had disappeared—or had she? Claudia caught a flash of pink just before Euphemia’s tunic was completely swallowed by the chasm under the stairway. Well, well, well. Who’s a naughty boy, then?

She paused in the temple precincts to read the inscriptions engraved in the walls, some admirable, some sickly sweet, one or two comic. A flock of pigeons pecked among the cobbles, plump as only temple pigeons can be when they’re fed on caraway to ensure they never stray, and rows of hyssop waited patiently for when it was their turn to be gathered to purify Sarpedon’s altar. A fountain representing the river god sang praises in his own language, a woman wept with relief after consulting the oracle. On the surface, life was simple here, continuous and peaceful—right now, it was hard to imagine such beauty, such sanctity could be sullied by a murderer walking among its willows and its cypresses…

Back on the island the wine flowed freely, jokes and laughter with it. Only Marcus Cornelius and the trainer seemed impervious to the atmosphere—and one could be forgiven.

‘I shall have to look you up when I’m in Rome.’ Tulola directed one long finger towards Orbilio.

‘Do that,’ quipped Claudia. ‘His residence has something no other patrician family possesses.’

‘Oh, yes. What’s that?’ she asked.

‘Fleas.’

Even Miseryguts responded to that one.

As she tucked into cold salmon, chicken legs, and antelope studded with peppercorns, Claudia’s banter revealed nothing of the turmoil within. Her trial was barely three days away, now, yet she had heard nothing from the lawyer. Had the messenger delivered the letter? Would Symmachus shrug off the threat of exposure? Supposing he was ill, and couldn’t travel? Claudia had no doubts of her acquittal, but the scandal would completely ruin her wine business. That she was female was sufficient to knock sales on the head. That she was a female with a penchant for cold-blooded murder was the final straw.

Sipping the chilled red wine, she refused to acknowledge defeat. A lot could happen in three
days…
you only had to look at the last week to see that. But there was work to be done if she intended to rebuild the business. Realistically, she’d need to appoint an agent, someone clients could deal with on a daily basis without feeling this preposterous sense of emasculation. In no way would this affect her control over the business, but at the party the other night, Corbulo had given her one hell of an idea.

What was wrong with a little diversification now and then? Not in the way Corbulo suggested (cattle and cabbages, indeed!), but her surveyor had sown the seed. Thrasian grapes? Why not? Seferius wine was renowned for producing full-bodied reds, what was wrong with fruity whites? And since we can’t shift this year’s plonk, why not keep it another year and flog it abroad as vintage? Some could be turned into raisin wine—now that’s
really
catching on as an after-dinner tipple…

‘You caught them, didn’t you?’

She hadn’t heard Pallas approach, but that wasn’t surprising. He moved fast, for his bulk, and she recalled the speed with which he dashed off when he saw Macer coming. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Sergius and his adulteress. You caught them
in flagrante
.’

‘How did you—?’

Who was he spying on? Sergius? Or me? From the corner of her eyes she could see Pictor, his arm wrapped round his wife and with the same look of devotion plastered upon his handsome face that he always wore. Euphemia sat on a fallen tree trunk, one leg over the other, watching the boats on the lake.

‘Darling girl.’ Pallas reached for an artichoke. ‘I know
everything
that goes on round here.’

Claudia stood up. He was tall, Pallas. She had to crane her neck to look into his eyes. ‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ she asked quietly, unable to disguise the amusement in her voice. ‘You’re the peeping Tom.’

Pallas tipped his head back and roared so loudly that Timoleon and Barea had to start their arm-wrestling all over again. ‘Me?’ Tears rolled down his fat face. ‘My dear child, Eros forsook me long ago.’ For an instant, his expression hardened. ‘She intimated at a certain lack of proficiency on my part.’

Eros might be many things, but Eros was not a ‘she’. ‘Are we’, Claudia hazarded, ‘talking about your wife?’

‘To be accurate,’ he said bitterly, ‘the word she used was “pathetic”.’ Then the old Pallas bounced back, gossiping for all he was worth. ‘No, no, it’s Euphemia who steams up the windows. Trying to find new ways to keep her stud entertained, and who better to learn from than Tulola?’

Sergius didn’t know, or he’d never have called Macer. ‘Honestly, Pallas, I’ve never been to a house with so much intrigue under one roof.’ Claudia paused to nibble a handful of raisins. ‘You don’t believe the murderer is one of the henchmen, do you?’

‘Do you?’

‘Me?’ She gnawed at a honey cake. ‘I’ve no idea
what’s
going on.’

Amusement filled his face. ‘Haven’t you, now?’ he chuckled, ambling over to join Marcus by the bridge. ‘Haven’t you really?’

Pallas’ laughter hadn’t died before Tulola had taken his place. It was inevitable, Claudia thought. The girl couldn’t face her own company for long.

‘What was all that about?’ she asked, slowly brushing an invisible crumb off Claudia’s tunic.

‘Sex.’

‘With anyone special?’ Tulola’s eyes were fixed on Orbilio’s rigid back.

Mummy Duck with seven, eight, good grief, nine fluffy ducklings paddled past and a coot honked from the margins.

‘Pallas was telling me he’d given it up. Apparently his bitch of a wife called his manhood into question, it left a telling scar.’

Half a minute passed before Tulola answered.
‘We’d…
had a row,’ she said awkwardly. ‘It was the heat of the moment. Words often get said that shouldn’t. I didn’t expect him to take it to heart—’

‘You and Pallas are married?’

‘Were, sweetie.’ Tulola’s smile was clearly an effort. ‘It all happened a long time ago. But I’ll have you know, I’m still very fond of the old bugger.’

Claudia watched a small dog chase a squirrel up an oak tree. Round and round the bole it ran, barking, yapping, jumping up. High in the branches, the squirrel curled its tail up its back and swore. ‘hak, chak, chak, chorrrrrr. Chak, chak, chak, chorrrrrr.

Claudia’s mind was whirling as well. Chak, chak, chak, chorrrrrr. By the gods! Tulola and Pallas? Chak, chak, chak, chorrrrrr. Small wonder Sergius put up with this amiable parasite, he had little choice.

Neither, she realized, did Alis.

And it was Alis who footed the bills.

XXIX

Blame it on the heat, blame it on the chilled red wine, blame it on the boogie, but by the time lunch was over, the presence of one muscular man-tracker by her side did not seem desperately intrusive. Not, for instance, the way it had been in her bedroom. Nevertheless Claudia was still not sure how she came to be sitting under a willow in the middle of the island one minute and walking round the lake with this handsome patrician the next—especially since not one word had been spoken aloud. Behind them, the Temple of Sarpedon grew smaller and smaller, and even the lake fell from view.

‘A copper quadran for your thoughts,’ Orbilio said at last, swishing his ankles in the long grass beside one of the many gabbling streams that drained the lake and made these meadows so green and so lush.

‘Treecreepers.’

‘I…
beg your pardon?’

‘If treecreepers always creep up,’ she pointed to an oak across the stream, ‘and nuthatches always creep down, what happens when they meet?’

There it was. That infuriating hand covering his mouth. What’s
wrong
with a smile, for gods’ sake? You don’t pay tax on it, no one can steal it, why be stingy with it? Claudia, who had no time for misers, said, ‘Tulola—’

‘That bitch! She’s evil, she corrupts! Everything and everybody!’

A dipper braved the gabbling waters, oxen lowed in the meadows and a dappled white butterfly came to rest on a radish.

‘Relax,’ Claudia breezed. (What a grouch) ‘She doesn’t always get her man.’

There was a dangerous fire in his eyes. ‘What do you mean?’ Also something lodged in his throat, by the sounds of it.

‘Salvian,’ she explained. ‘Loyalty to his lovely wife triumphed over lust.’

Poor Tulola. Where will she end up? Next month she’ll be thirty, with Barea, Taranis, even Timoleon moving on. Moving away. Away from her. She’s no fool, she knows they’ve used her, and even Salvian, with his ill-fitting armour and his stammer and his blushes, can see the gold is only gilt. What, she wondered, were the chances of Tulola asking the oracle what lies ahead? Does she plan to take Rome by storm with her sensationalism? Claudia hoped not. She’d be shunned, literally, by the upper classes, who prefer to keep their vices to themselves. Or is she (radical thought) banking on getting back with Pallas? Surely she must realize that, like the others, he’s just trading off her while it suits him and, worse, his respect for his ‘cousin’ is nil.

‘But that wasn’t my point.’ She told him about Tulola and Palla’s marriage.

‘Is anyone what they seem?’ he asked, tossing a stick into the stream and watching its progress round rocks and through miniature rapids.

‘Timoleon never was,’ she said, momentarily diverted by the flash of a kingfisher diving upstream.

Once saluting to the roar of the crowds, fifty-seven dead men notched on his belt and riches and adulation dripping off him like bathwater, Timoleon had degenerated into a flabby caricature of himself with only the past and a nickname, Strong Arm, to sustain him. Ten more years and what’s left? Already pushed out by younger blades nipping at his heels, Timoleon had sought recourse in his native Umbria—only to discover he still doesn’t belong. Friendless despite his massive wealth, a bandit he remains, whether the killings were legal or not. She swallowed bile. Fifty-seven lives snuffed out, each valued at just one handful of laurel leaves…

‘What do you make of Taranis?’ Orbilio asked, leading the way back towards the spring.

What, indeed? It was the Celt who bore the brunt of Timoleon’s frustrations. Not because of a certain laxity in personal hygiene. Not because he didn’t shave his body hair. Eight years in the arena had sharpened Timoleon’s primitive skills, because underneath the barbarian’s shaggy mane and baggy pants, Scrap Iron sensed what the others had not.

A threat.

‘I’m inclined to agree.’ Orbilio pushed aside the willows for her as they rejoined the lake. ‘But like the gladiator, it’s just a gut feeling.’

Codswallop. Instinct is the result of years of experience, of watching, listening, fitting pieces together. Claudia always trusted her intuition, and considered all that she’d seen and heard about Taranis.

‘He’s no trapper, that’s for sure.’

The way he backed off when wild beasts were around was amazing. So what sort of threat could he pose? Then she remembered he was always talking politics, always asking questions…