Man Eater

She rubbed her throbbing temple and plumped her bolster. What did they stuff them with? Marbles? Her ears strained in the blackness and heard the thumping of her heart even above the rumpus from the menagerie.

Oh, Drusilla. Curling into a ball, she stroked the woollen blanket as though the cat lay curled up on it. Where are you?

When the gig rolled down the embankment, Drusilla’s cage had burst open and the cat had bolted. More than bolted, she’d completely gone to ground, no amount of calling would coax her out. The heat from the charcoal had long since dissipated and Claudia huddled lower under the covers. Ideally she’d have left the shutters open, but the nights were too chilly and the best she could do was to drape her torn tunic over the sill and hope Drusilla would pick up her scent that way. Assuming…

Assuming, what? Surely you’re not going to take notice of that ridiculous bit of homespun which says that when an animal’s injured, it crawls away to die? Codswallop. Drusilla is sulking, and that’s the end of it. Claudia closed her eyes, yet still saw the image of a blue-eyed, cross-eyed cat-and the space where Drusilla snuggled in the crook of her arm seemed suddenly huge. Claudia punched the pillow, then doubled it over. What was in here, for gods’ sake? Acorns? All this trumpeting, growling, screeching and cackling…it’s enough to drive a girl demented.

Still. There seems to be a law which determines that beggars and choosers must walk separate paths and, be fair, this was the nearest settlement. She’d staggered to the top of the hill (why hadn’t someone told her this region was so lumpy?) and there it lay, the Pictor residence-salvation sprawled in the valley, four wings round a central courtyard, its terracotta tiles shimmering in the burgeoning sunshine. The Vale of Adonis, she found out later, named not after Aphrodite’s lover but the profusion of glossy red flowers that sprang from his blood and coloured the meadows so prolifically during the hot summer months. Which was perhaps just as well, because Adonis wasn’t the Immortal who sprang to mind in this narrow strip of land, crowded by woods and the hills so close the farm buildings had to stagger up the sides.

One’s first impression was of satyrs and centaurs, of Pan summoning wood nymphs on his mysterious reed pipes…

Claudia’s head lifted from the pillow. What was that? It sounded like…bugger. Just a seal. She turned fitfully, trying to blank out the problems that awaited her up at her own estate. What was so urgent-and so secret-that Rollo, her bailiff, daren’t commit it to paper? Since her husband’s death, his relatives had installed themselves at the villa, no doubt plotting ways to disinherit the widow. Was that it?

The night droned on. The caged beasts struck an uneasy truce and eventually Claudia’s eyelids surrendered once again. But, instead of seeing her mother-in-law’s desiccated features or hearing the carping voice of her sister-in-law in her dreams, the figures of the family whose roof she shared drifted in and out of Claudia’s consciousness.

Roly-poly Pallas. ‘Darling girl, whatever happened? Sit down, sit down. You must drink this, I insist.’ Irrespective of the blood streaming from her forehead, a glass of strong Falernian wine was pressed into her hand.

Pallas changed. He remained the same age, early thirties, but grew leaner, and a hand’s span shorter. The puffing and fussing gave way to authority, and it was Sergius Pictor, head of the household, with his thick, springy curls and saturnine good looks, who was assessing Claudia’s injuries and striding off to pick up her injured bodyguard and driver…

A pale-faced creature introduced herself as Alis, Sergius’ wife, and then turned into his echo. ‘Oh, yes. We must send a wagon immediately,’ she was saying, even though Sergius and the slaves had left…

Another girl, younger than Alis, dark and sultry, could be seen in the background as she leaned against a pillar, watching, pouting and chewing on a lock of hair…

Pallas returned and was forcing a second glass of wine on her when Claudia heard the clatter of chariot wheels in the courtyard. Funny. She hadn’t heard horses.

‘Tulola.’ It was Pallas who made the introductions. ‘Our dear host’s sister.’

There was something odd about the chariot. Richly decorated, richly embellished, it was designed for racing and now, Claudia realized, tall slinky Tulola was dressed as a charioteer. But something was wrong. And then she spotted them. The creatures who pulled it. Six Negroes, glistening with the sweat of their recent exertions…

Tulola was walking towards her. ‘You poor creature.’ She had a long, low stride, almost as though with every pace she had to step over an obstacle. ‘You’re bleeding.’ There was compassion in the voice, if not the eyes, and when she ran her hand down Claudia’s cheek, the fingers were stiff and splayed…