Man Eater by Marilyn Todd Page A

‘you’re a bloody poor lay.’
    The woman tumbled out with an ignominious bump as the bedframe clattered back down.
    ‘Any whore worth her salt leaves a man with a memory of his night gymnastics, but you—’
    He stopped abruptly. Sitting bolt upright on the tessellated floor, outrage bulging her forty-year-old eyes, was the heavy-hipped wife of the ex-tribune, ex-prefect, ex-consul.
    Orbilio produced his most disarming grin while his mind turned somersaults.
    Quite how he’d ended up with his patron’s wife in his bed remained a total blank. Bu t it was fairly certain that by calling her a whore and a money-grabbing bitch, his prospects weren’t as hot as he’d hoped.
    Especially when she seemed intent on spitting obscenities at him, interspersed with ‘don’t-you-think-you-can-treat-me-like-this-and-get-away-with-it’ and ‘you-haven’t-heard-the-last-of-me-not-by-a-long-chalk’.
    Shit.
    He thought he caught other threats, including one that seemed to imply that those ivory-inlaid doors would be slammed in his face assuming he was ever foolish enough to contemplate such a move, but on the whole her tirade was drowned by his feeble (but insistent) protestations.
    ‘Joke, you say?’
    The vindictive bitch was deaf to his excuses as she snapped on her sandals.
    ‘Well, if you fancy a joke, Marcus Cornelius Gigolo, how about the one that goes: You’ll pay so dearly for what you called me, you scheming bastard, you won’t have those twenty sesterces left to rub together by the time I’ve finished with you!’
    With that, she slammed the door and he could hear her clip-clopping over the tiles like some old billy goat, which—having seen her by lamplight, chins sagging and her make-up streaked—she more than closely resembled.
    His hands were shaking as he gathered together the rest of his possessions, grateful more than words could express for the long ride ahead. Bacchus, old boy, you are out of my life. Forever. Henceforth it’s milk for Marcus. Goat’s milk, cow’s milk, camel’s milk, dandelion bloody milk, just keep me away from the wine. He adjusted his belt and pulled tight his cloak just as Tingi knocked at the door.
    Yet it was not via the door that Marcus Cornelius Orbilio finally made his exit.
    It was through the open window, with Tingi’s words still ringing in his ears as he legged it towards the stables.
    ‘There’s a Master Gisco in the atrium. Shall I show him in?’

V
    Prefect Macer might not have been the highest star in the military firmament, but, by Jupiter, he was the brightest. From the elaborate embroidery on his scarlet tunic to the eye-watering shine on his hammered breastplate, the good soldier eliminated any doubts the good citizens of Umbria might harbour as to their place in society once he had entered the scene.
    It was clear he also felt his star was in the ascendant.
    For the short term, his bearing announced, I might be posted to the back of beyond, but don’t get used to my face.
    Basking in this new-found importance, he’d mustered the entire Pictor household in the banqueting hall first thing after breakfast and was now intent on establishing identities. Barea came from Lusitania, did he? Whereabouts? Which tribe did you say you belong to, Taranis? The Atrebates? Never heard of ’em. Negotiating for bears, eh? Is it true Caledonian beasts fight better? Well, I never—Scrap Iron, isn’t it? What an honour. I must have seen you fight a dozen times…
    Claudia found her gaze wandering towards the window. Perfect spring day, no trace of fog. She could make out patches of beans, cabbages, leeks and onions, pens of pigs and goats. Yellow blossoms of the cornelian cherries attracted bees. A reaping machine rusted happily against a buckthorn hedge. Chickens were scratching, oxen were being yoked, field workers were trekking off, hoes slung over their shoulders.
    Cats, however, were still thin on the ground, especially Egyptian ones.
    Claudia swallowed the lump in her