Dream Boat (12 page)

'Orbilio.' Claudia reached into her robe and drew out a key. In one fluid movement, the manacles were off her wrist and Flea found herself chained instead to the leg of a wrought-iron bench. Claudia's tone softened, became silky. 'Marcus.'

'What do you want?'

Claudia glided into the courtyard, where Flea's howls of protest couldn't carry. Here the sticky breeze was blocked out by high walls redolent with the smell of the climbing roses and sweet briar which scrambled over them and the

blue glazed pots of heliotrope, night stocks, oregano and dill dotted beneath them.

'Tut, tut, you men, you're always in such a rush.' She positioned herself on a white marble bench beneath the statue of Venus and patted the empty space beside her. 'Why don't you pour us a nice glass of wine?

He closed his eyes, to try and shut out the curls piled high on top of her head (apart from three, which had tumbled loose over her left ear). He tried to ignore the gown which hugged the fullness of her breasts, showed the fierce points of her nipples and revealed hints of sun-bronzed cleavage in the breeze. He resisted the urge to inhale the spicy perfume which trailed around her, or hook those ringlets in his little finger and return them to their rightful mooring posts.

'Claudia, this is not a convenient time.' His eyes rested on the legionary standing in the shadows. 'What is it you want?'

Orbilio had not meant for the words to come out so sharply. He caught the brief flash of emotion in her eyes before the shutters hurtled down.

'I'm sorry,' he said. What on earth was he thinking of! 'It's just that—'

'How foolish of me to imagine I'd be welcome here.' Claudia's tone could have curled parchment. 'I'll make it brief.'

Shit. To buy time, he bent down to scratch the ears of the puppy who'd waddled out to find them, allowing Doodlebug to show his gratitude (and many other things besides) by flipping over on his back, squirming and whimpering with pleasure.

'It's a . . . work thing,' he explained, indicating the soldier standing at the far end of the peristyle, hopefully out of ear's reach. 'I'm under pressure—'

'Then I won't detain you.' Dammit, her face had set like a gemstone in a ring.

He jabbed his fingers through his hair and felt them tangle. Him and his big mouth! Between them, they were driving her away and without Claudia around to bring chaos to his life, he'd be consigned to nothing more than living death.

Existing in a vacuum: colourless, expressionless, without light or warmth or feature.

'Unfortunately, I need a favour and, regrettable as it is, you're the only one who can help.' She fixed a hard gaze upon his water clock, the one fashioned like a temple, and clamped her luscious lips. 'I shall pay you, of course.'

'Claudia!'
A nail drove itself into his heart.

'The problem, you see, is Junius.'

Junius! The name cut through Orbilio like a Persian scimitar. Was this another Olympian joke at his expense? Mother of Tarquin, how many times had he lain awake at night, tormented by thoughts about the relationship between Junius and Claudia. Torrid images kept him from his sleep: the Gaul's corrugated musculature, his thick head of sandy-coloured hair, his strong, proud back - how familiar was Claudia with the body of her bodyguard? More than once Junius had been offered cash to buy his freedom, yet he'd never bothered and Marcus knew the reason. That fierce Gaulish scrutiny was directed on Claudia -and Claudia alone - indoors, and when outdoors his eyes would range in an ever-vigilant sweep to isolate potential threats of danger. That intensity burned deeper than any slavely duty, but the question was: was it reciprocated? Orbilio felt it a safe bet that the boy didn't always scowl and when his face was creased in smiles, it would become very, very handsome. A mongoose sank its fangs deep inside his gut and would not release its grip.

'Your . . . bodyguard?' Does he cup your face in his hands and cover it with kisses? Do you hunger for his touch, the way I yearn for yours? 'What about him?'

While bats squeaked as they foraged on the wing and moths fluttered round the torches in the garden, Claudia explained about the kidnap note, the later demand for ransom, how she'd set a trap to catch the messenger, Flea, who, it transpired, turned out to be Flavia's accomplice, and the reason Claudia was lugging her round like a monkey on a leash was that sooner or later that little bitch would tell her where Flavia was hiding and then she'd hang them both up by their earlobes and use

them as a pair of dartboards. All this, her icy tones stressed, had not emerged till later. At noon, it had looked as though their only hope of getting Flavia back alive was to set a trap, with Junius in disguise.

And, granite-faced, Orbilio was forced to listen.

The mongoose sank its teeth in even deeper and began to shake its prey.

He pictured them, Claudia and the young Gaul, their faces so close together they could scent each other's breath, plotting, scheming, laughing softly. Were they sipping wine - eating sweetmeats - as they made their plans in secret? Were they touching? Mother of Tarquin, were they (here the mongoose tore out shreds) were they even clothed?

'As a result,' she finished coldly, 'Junius has been arrested and faces death without a trial.'

Good, he wanted to shout. There goes any further prospects of Claudia sharing secrets, wine and heaven knows what with that cocky little bastard! 'And you want me to bail him out?'

'Yes.' She spoke through clenched teeth and refused to look anywhere but up at his gutterspout. 'Will you do it?'

He listened to the chatter of the fountain, the clatter from the kitchens, the rumbles of the jars of wine and olive oil being rolled up from the cellars and the legionary's armour clinking when he shifted position. Nearby, in the public park, an owl hooted.

'Marcus. Please.' There was a catch in her voice. 'You can't let him die!'

'Can't I?' Involuntarily he let out a short laugh. At least he knew which way the wind blew with her and that bloody Gaul and the minute he could, Orbilio vowed to visit the Temple of Jupiter and throw stones at the King of Heaven's statue. 'Oh, can't I, really! Follow me.'

Like a concussion victim, he staggered down the path. Beyond the kitchens. Beyond his office. His hand, he noticed, was shaking as he plucked a torch from its bracket on the wall. All these months, he'd fantasised about Claudia sweeping in, begging him to extricate her from her latest escapade. In his

imagination, he'd solved the problem swiftly and efficiently, winning her undying gratitude, so that next time they met, it would be with a pool of water at her feet where the ice had melted away. What happens, when she finally calls on him?

'Orbilio!' Her voice snapped him out of his reverie. 'Orbilio, have you been sniffing the hemp seeds again?'

No, he thought dryly. The only thing I've been smelling is my own goose cooking! He held the torch high above their heads to light the half-demolished wall.

'Janus!' Claudia leapt at its ugly revelations, but only to rip the torch out of his hand. 'That's one helluva hole in its skull,' she said, peering into the cavity, 'and - oh, yuk! A knife still stuck in the ribs.'

'I think we can safely rule out suicide.'

'Really?' she flashed back. 'And I thought you were a resourceful lot, your family. I'll bet, when they finish tearing this wall down, you'll find a pot of plaster inside and a trowel.' Her grin faded like the dog star at dawn. 'Look, I know this is murder, Marcus, and very serious, but I don't see how—'

'It affects your bodyguard?'

'Exactly. I mean, this is hardly last week's crime,' she said, running her finger over the skeleton's collarbone. 'Whereas Junius . . .'

She let her voice trail off, and Orbilio followed her thoughts. Tomorrow was Thursday, the start of the Games of Apollo. Traditionally the dungeons used the third day to dispose of their unwelcome guests in the arena.

Orbilio rubbed his weary cheeks. 'Suppose I told you I've been dismissed from the Security Police, my seals and passkeys confiscated?'

'That's preposterous!' Claudia spun round to face him. 'You didn't murder this chap!'

'No, I didn't. Neither did I wall him up inside my plaster. But while your confidence is appreciated,' more than words could ever express, 'it's unfortunate that my boss does not share your view.'

For so long it had rankled the Head of the Security Police

that Orbilio was a patrician while he himself came from an equestrian background. That Orbilio dined with magistrates and senators, never mind that these were his uncles and cousins and in-laws, all his boss saw was a jumped-up employee rubbing shoulders with men who in turn rubbed their own shoulder blades with the Emperor and who deliberately, or so he felt, excluded him from their 'club'.

His boss didn't give a toss about villains, corruption or insurrection. He had wormed his way up the greasy ladder of ambition, a rung here, a rung there, using bribery, flattery and blackmail as stepping stones until he'd reached the top. Where even here he believed himself snubbed.

What better chance to get his own back on 'Old Money'?

'You may have noticed my praetorian visitors,' Marcus said thickly. He paused and shot her a taut grin. 'Not an obvious choice of guests, but then the choice was not mine to make.'

His boss had wasted no time. Marcus Cornelius Orbilio was to remain under house arrest until this murder was solved.

Down in the Cradle of Ra, the communal prayers for the god's safe transport through the Realm of Darkness were long over. Dinner had been cleared away hours ago, a simple repast of bacon, onions and lentils washed down with barley beer, and soft snores emanated from the dormitory blocks. Berenice was not close to sleep.

She felt old.

Older than her two and twenty summers, older than the hills which surrounded this lush valley, older than the Mount of Osiris which watched over them. Tears welled in her eyes. She had missed both prayers and dinner, the first because she'd been banned from attending while her baby continued to cry (some bitch called it grizzling), and the latter because she had no appetite and was truly sick of bacon. Why couldn't they have fish for a change?

'We are self-contained,' the High Priest had replied, when she took him to task over the matter. 'Our valley sustains us with wheat and fruit and vegetables, we have a garden for our herbs, pastures for our cattle, sheep and pigs. Ducks and geese and chickens give us eggs, and Ra himself has favoured us with a spring of sweet water from which issues forth a stream to wash our linens and flush out our latrines and bath house, but there is no trout stream running through our valley. We have no salmon spawning. Are we therefore not prepared to live without fish, Berenice?'

She had felt her cheeks burn with shame, yet he pressed relentlessly on.

'Do you, Berenice, deny that this is Paradise and that we

are the Children of the Blessed?'

'Blessed are we, thanks be to Ra.' The automatic chorus could hardly skip past her tongue, she felt selfish, mean and ungrateful. She had spoken to the High Priest as though this was some holiday retreat and, quite rightly, he had put her firmly in her place. This was her home. Did she not like it? The question was risible! It simply took some adjusting, that's all, and perhaps it was this contrast which spurred people -Romans, no less - to tear down what the Pharaoh Mentu had built. No matter how hard she tried, Berenice could not begin to guess at their motives. Jealousy? Spite? Revenge on those who'd turned their back on the Roman way of life?

'Beware the enemies of Ra!' Mentu, dressed as Osiris with his blue painted face and gold mask, repeated his warning every night as the Boat of a Million Years returned to the temple to make its voyage through the underworld. 'For they seek to destroy us!'

To destroy this idyll? Berenice would die - no, she would
kill
- to preserve what the Ten True Gods had founded in this valley. The High Priest, with his shining shaven head and low brow ridge, was right. This
was
Paradise. Ra had given her hope and love and self-respect, and if this meant spending her days pollinating fig trees, clipping fleeces or following the harvesters to glean the ears of barley left behind, so be it.

But for two days now her son had been fretting, his face was flushed and, as of this afternoon, a light purple rash had spread down his back. Berenice ran the back of her little finger across his burning forehead. He was only five months old and there had been moments, especially today, when she regretted leaving behind the squad of nurses and nannies she would have had fussing around him at home.

'Ssssh. Ssh, little one, you'll be all right in the morning.'

Berenice looked up at the silent, thickly wooded hills. She was tired, she thought. Overwrought and over-reacting. The very notion of leaving here, of returning to her former, pampered life, was disloyal both to Mentu and to Ra, and her cheeks flushed with contrition. Yet, as she rocked her infant

son, the thought still niggled that a commune without slavery, with everybody equal, was all very well, but when one is used to having servants do this, servants do that, the days can be pretty exhausting.

Stop this, Berenice! Stop it at once. You're tired, worried and exhausted by the heat. Once the baby recovers, you'll be fine.