Man Eater by Marilyn Todd

gambling. In less than a week, she’d squandered the whole of the Campanian profit.
    Several students were clotted round the golden milestone, virtually obliterating it in their efforts to hear their master’s rhetoric, even though this wasn’t a school day. That’s because the master was Pera, and Quintilian intended that his sons, when they were old enough, should also learn from Pera. He was truly inspirational, that man.
    Unfortunately, although gambling wasn’t strictly legal, the senator was not prepared to pee in waters where his own friends swam. He had waited, patiently paying his spy and biding his time. When not at the races or the games, Claudia Seferius had spent a very dull winter poring over her accounts and when, divinely inspired, he put in an offer for the whole wine business (via a middleman, of course) he was incensed to his gills that she rejected it out of hand.
    I’ll teach you, you arrogant, long-legged bitch, not to dabble in matters outside your sphere.
    To that end he had sacrificed a pig to Mercury, well renowned for his chicanery in the world of commerce, and, exactly ten days later, Quintilian’s spy reported Claudia Seferius intended extending her estates in Etruria.
    Hundreds of other plots were going begging up and down the country, but masculine pride was at stake. Quintilian could not afford to lose this round, and he made his enquiries. With the Seferius bint, it boiled down to a straight choice between Hunter’s Grove and Vixen Hill, both neglected by their peasant owners for reasons stretching back to the civil wars, when conscription took men away for months at a time. With permanent peace came the disbanding of a staggering sixty percent of the army, leaving Augustus acutely vulnerable over his responsibility to his veterans, which he also had to balance against a huge number of prisoners-of-war and the problem of feeding an ever-swelling populace. Not for nothing was this man called a genius.
    Many peasants, too poor, too weary, too battle-scarred to start over from scratch, leapt at his Land Purchase Scheme and happily upped sticks to Rome, where they could be housed and fed by the State and where someone else’s back broke under the plough. For others, like the owners of Hunter’s Grove and Vixen Hill, it was more of a gravitational pull, but the Land Purchase Scheme kept on rolling, the answers to everybody’s prayers. So what if the rich got richer? So what if estates grew to obscene proportions? We’ve got slaves from the wars, haven’t we? Let them work my lands, I’ve deserved this break.
    Ripe for selling, trilled the agents. Ripe for commission, thought Quintilian. Few were beyond a spot of doctoring—transplanting olive trees, piling the outhouses with grain and vegetables and jars of wine—when in reality the olives would be dead by the time you arrived, the borrowed stores returned to their rightful owners. A good surveyor—correction, an experienced and honest surveyor—could name his own price in cases like this, and this is where the Seferius chit came in.
    Quintilian turned down a side street, then turned left again to where the buildings closed in.
    Claudia had hired such a man to assess the two sites and make an expert recommendation. To the senator’s astonishment and admiration, she had done so with great secrecy, and it was only because of his spy that he found out.
    The door that he stopped at abutted the aqueduct and was bolted.
    ‘Who is it?’ The voice was a boy’s in the process of breaking.
    ‘Ung.’
    ‘Eh? Oh, it’s you.’
    Quintilian sidled through the small gap that appeared and followed the lad up the wooden steps to an attic stinking of tallow, cabbages and cat pee. In a corner, a short, squat cove with dirty fingernails and chapped lips prised himself off his pallet. Quintilian thought he saw something black scuttle under the bolster and turned his head.
    ‘Ung!’
    An imperial flick of the fingers dismissed the boy and he