The Mammoth Book of Locked-Room Mysteries And Impossible Crimes

to purchase a slave from the block.

“Just the one?” Claudia had asked. Normally people picked up quite a number. “One is hardly worth coming to Rome for.”

Suddenly the opening was there for the blond hunter to score points over his aristocratic rival. “My lovely Claudia,” Max had rasped, his eyes stroking her curves. “For me, one person is always enough.” Arched eyebrows indicated the auction block. “Which of those slaves would you recommend?”

“It depends on what qualities you’re looking for,” she’d purred back, with barely a glance in Marcus’ direction.

“In men,” Max replied huskily, “it has got to be staying power. Don’t you agree?”

“I wouldn’t settle for anything less.” From the corner of her eye, she saw the flush rise on Marcus’ face and, noticing Junius jabbering away in his native tongue to a fellow Gaul beside the auction block, she found it delectably easy to add, “Personally, I’ve always found Gauls to have extremely strong backs…”

Marcus by that time was glaring daggers and Max, capitalizing on this sexual undercurrent, instantly bid for the Gaul, whose name, it transpired, was Soni. The same Soni who had done the hunt so proud today.

All in all, Claudia thought, things were going exceedingly well…

Especially that exquisite moment when, swallowing his pride, Orbilio enquired whether he might attend Max’s forthcoming hunt. Knowing these were extravaganzas to die for, Claudia watched his face turn to thunder when Max oh-so-politely informed him that, alas, he only ever took ten men on a hunt and, he was so very sorry, but the next was fully booked…

As it happened, Claudia had been in the courtyard this morning when the hunt had set off. And there were eight men present, not ten. Dear me, she really must remember to mention that numbers thing to Marcus next time she saw him-

If she saw him again. The chances were, now he knew she was ensconced here with Max, he’d stop pestering her and stick his nose into someone else’s illegal wranglings.

“… I parried to the left, made a feint, dodged back to the right, but he was too smart for me…”

“… I was impaled once, right here.” More linen was bunched up to expose violated flesh. “Tossed me right on to my shoulder, he did…”

He! A wave of disgust washed over Claudia. They talk about boars, bears and wolves as though they were the hunter’s equals, yet how often do you see stags armed with a slingshot, or running with their own pack of dogs? She looked round the banqueting hall, at watery red eyes, fists thumping on tables, where words were already slurring, and wondered how these cloistered, overweight city-types would fare in one-to-one combat. With no bearers carrying their spears or their arrows. With no dogs at their side to hound wild creatures into panic. Just them out there, with only their wits to keep them alive…

“Having fun, darling?”

“Absolutely.”

And what would it be like, living with a constant succession of drunken braggarts, day in and day out? Max coped admirably, but then the post-hunt entertainment – this orgy of showing off afterwards – was part and parcel of the package he sold. He was, she decided, a magician. An illusionist. A man who – abracadabra! – turns fat slobs into young bucks, and should they look in the mirror back in Rome and see who they really are, then hey presto! All they need do is hand over more coins and suddenly they’re heroes again. The “war” wounds were not only worth the pain and aggravation. They were fundamental to the whole process.

She recalled their return this afternoon, whooping and hollering in the courtyard amid carcasses of slaughtered beasts and a welter of blood-caked spears, concerned only with the glory of their own achievements and not a single thought for the wounded. Or a lowly slave, who hadn’t come home…

“Is our hero not invited to join the celebrations?”

For perhaps a count of ten you could have heard the proverbial pin drop following Claudia’s question, then everyone clamoured at once, most of them bursting into raucous, drunken, astonished laughter.

“You mean Soni?”

“Not in here, love!”

“Soni? Join us? Now that’s rich!”

Claudia felt a tug on her elbow as Max gently steered her away from the couch. “That,” he said, speaking through his forced smile, “was extremely embarrassing, darling. My guests comprise merchants, politicians – the cream of Roman society.” He paused. “They do not take their dinners with slaves.”

“They take their dinners with dogs.”

“Cyclone and Thunderbolt are exceptions,” he said, and his blue eyes were steel. “The other dogs remain in the kennels, and never, ever do any of the bearers join in the banquet.”

“No matter how competent?”

“No matter how competent.” She felt his whole body unstiffen. “I admire your liberated ideas about slaves and equality,” Max said, winding one of her curls around his little finger. “But it’s my job to give these men what they want, and believe me, they don’t pay several thousand sesterces to dine with common slaves. Ah! The desserts.”

Platters of melons and cherries, quinces in honey, almond cakes and dates stuffed with apple passed by in mouth-watering succession.

“Come sit by me while we eat, it gives me an excuse to slip my arm round your lovely smooth shoulder.”

“Shortly,” Claudia promised. “There’s something I must attend to first.”

“Of course.” Max gently released the ringlet. “Hurry back, darling,” he whispered, rubbing the sapphire ring on her finger. “Your beauty is all that makes the evening tolerable. Oh, and Claudia-”

“Yes?” She turned in the doorway.

“Betrothal rings go on the left hand, my love.”

IV

The room in which Junius lay was lit only by a single lamp of cheap oil, whose stuttering flame cast staccato shadows against the far wall. No mosaics covered his floor, no painted scenes brought bare plaster to life. Even the welter of bandages which swaddled his head seemed uncared for.

“You blockhead,” Claudia whispered, wiping a bead of sweat from his cheek. “What did you have to go and get yourself beaned for?”

Dust motes danced in the wavering flame, and the scent of her spicy Judaean perfume blocked out the smell of caked blood. He was lucky, according to Max’s physician, that no bones were broken, he’d taken one helluva tumble, but watching the shallow breathing and the waxy texture of his skin, lucky was not the first word which came to Claudia’s mind. Her hands bunched into fists. Dammit, Max knew the