Man Eater

Macer had pulled out a handkerchief and was buffing his fingernails in silence. The atmosphere was so heavy you could have cut it into slices and fried it in olive oil, but no one dared break it, not even Claudia. What, her mind raced, was this little maggot driving at?

Time seemed to stand on its head and do nothing. The field workers were returning for their midday meal, a donkey brayed in the distance. Pungent smells of roasting goat and cabbage, chestnut bread and sprats wafted round the banqueting room. Pallas’ stomach began to growl. Finally the Prefect put away his handkerchief and turned to face Claudia. The tip of his thin nose was quite pink.

‘Tell me, Claudia. Why did you kill him?’

A hush settled over the room.

The breath caught in Claudia’s thoat. ‘Quintilian? Is he dead?’

Macer’s eyes narrowed. ‘Not to my knowledge, no. I was referring to your friend in your doorway.’

It was Corbulo, sitting beside her, who sprang to her rescue. ‘This is outrageous! We’ve already established the man’s a complete stranger-’

‘I beg to contradict.’ Macer was calm to the point of disinterest. ‘We have done nothing of the sort. As a matter of fact, the deceased was a local man named Fronto and he is well known to me.’

‘Remus!’ Sergius, who had turned as pale as his wife, pushed Alis aside and slumped on to the stool. ‘What-? I mean, if you knew about his activities, why didn’t you lock this pervert away?’

‘Fronto might be many things, sir, but he was no sexual deviant. In fact, until very recently, he was employed on my staff.’

Macer silenced the buzz of excitement with his hand. ‘Quiet, please. Moreover,’ he continued, ‘the description of the arsonist laying waste those lands so close to your own, my dear Claudia, matches your description of Fronto to a T.’

Claudia jumped to her feet. ‘For gods’ sake, man! Do I look the sort of woman who goes around stabbing total strangers?’

The Prefect studied her for a full five seconds before a slow grin spread across his face. ‘No, Mistress Seferius, you do not.’ He bared shiny, white teeth. ‘Which is precisely why you thought you could get away with it.’

VI

The imbecile! The half-wit! The absolute bloody cheek of it! Claudia stomped out of the room and slammed the door into next week. Behind her swarmed a sea of faces, some slack-jawed, some shouting, some still digesting the evidence, though none made an effort to stop her. Let them try, she thought. Just let them bloody try. The opulence of the atrium flashed past unnoticed. Pyrenean marble. Friezes. Frescoes. Gold lampstands. Lavender stalks and elecampane burned unheeded in silver braziers, a fountain splashed in vain. Garlands of daphne draped round the columns might have been invisible.

What was he thinking of, Macer, fixing the trial for next Wednesday? She was overtaking a bronze bust of somebody’s pug-nosed ancestor and imagining a scene, not too far in the future, in which Macer lay prostrate at the Emperor’s feet, begging to be spared the disgrace of patrolling the Dacian frontier for the remainder of his career, when she stopped dead.

I’m seeing things. By the gods, that moron has made me hallucinate!

At the far end of the atrium, however, clouds of dust bellying out from the cloak he was shaking, that tall, strong figure of a man was most definitely of the flesh. Patrician stock, you could tell by the length of the tunic and the high purple boots. Military background, you could tell by the set of the shoulders, the dead straight line of the backbone. Totally unwelcome, you could tell by the mop of wavy hair and a hand that would be used any minute to cover his mouth and stifle a laugh.

‘Well, beat me on the bottom with a bun!’

In fact the aristocrat made no effort to conceal his grin. ‘I’ll have you know, madam, I’ve not ridden ten hours solid just to satisfy your strange sexual fantasies.’ He agitated his hair with his hands. ‘At least, not until I shake the dust off.’

How strange. No matter how many times she’d tried to stamp on his memory, his features were exactly as she remembered them. Right down to the rich baritone. She wanted to move, but found someone had glued her soles to the floor.

‘So!’ With a practised swirl, Marcus Cornelius Orbilio folded his cloak and handed it to the porter, who closed the vestibule doors behind him. ‘Since when have you taken to disguising yourself as a marigold?’

‘I did it to pass the thyme. Is this visit coincidence?’

‘Not entirely. I thought I’d give you the chance to explain why you sent my letters back.’

The sour smell of powdered soil and horse sweat tickled the back of her throat, and yet it was a citrusy scent that lodged in her nostrils and refused to budge. Can’t imagine where that came from. ‘Letters?’

‘Not only my beautifully scripted scrolls-if I recall, last time you returned the entire messenger.’