Dream Boat (19 page)

The Clerk toyed, just for a fraction of a second, with confiding in the Dungeon Master, man to man, as it were, that he owed Orbilio a favour for the time when he . . . ahem. Well, he would not mention the actual nature of the debt - not to this burly, tough ox - but the point was, he could perhaps let drop that he owed someone a favour, and that if the Dungeon Master could perhaps see his way clear to excusing a certain young Gaul . . .

Uh-uh. The fat bastard was more likely to throw him to the tigers as well, for trying to bribe an officer of the Empire!

Nevertheless, as he deposited the product of what some called bureaucracy, others a meticulous attention to detail, on the warder's cluttered desk, the Clerk genuinely regretted that he had not been able to repay the favour that he owed.

In his hidden cave high above the valley, Seth washed himself thoroughly and regarded Berenice. He was wondering now whether he had been right to make her his favourite. Look at her, the bitch. Slumped. Not so much as a shudder of protest when he ran his hands over her, not a ripple of revulsion in the engagingly innovative way he took her.

'God knows, I've tried, Berenice,' he said wearily.

A few tricks that he knew, plus a few more he'd invented, but pain no longer made any impact.

'You can't blame me, if I find myself a new favourite.'

One thing, though, it wouldn't be Flavia. Seth had watched the new arrival carefully, quickly marking her as a firm candidate for his dinner table. She was not the type to make friends easily and that was good, because once they bonded, these girls, there was no chance of picking off one of a crowd. He took loners. Misfits among the misfits. Girls whose abrupt departure no one noticed, much less grieved over, and this Flavia was a perfect candidate - indeed, Seth had already allocated a mask. The vulture. Appropriately ungainly, appropriately ugly, but then her face wasn't important. Only her expressions mattered to him, her reaction to his deviant attentions.

All the same, the Dark One wouldn't choose a lump like that for his consort in the afterlife! He really wished Berenice had tried harder today. Outside, thunder roared like the Minotaur.

'It's your own fault,' he said, 'that you're displaced.'

Berenice did not respond. She sat, staring numbly, mutely, as though looking beyond the Master of Darkness, the Sorcerer, the Measurer of Time. With the full force of his weight behind his hand, Seth sent her neck jolting sideways with a crack, but those dumb, numb eyes didn't register. As though Berenice was half-dead already, having given up the struggle for life.

Suddenly joy surged within him, and his loins stirred once more.

'Of course!'

Of course,
Berenice would not fail him! Berenice
wanted
to be his favourite, his consort, it was her only way of telling him that she wanted - yes,
wanted
to die. To walk the chosen path with Seth. The others - he cast his glance round the table, at Thoth and at Horus, Bast, Isis, Hathor - the others he had left alone while they made their decision whether to live on and be damned to eternal desolation, or to struggle against his special knot which tightened with every effort and, in death, achieve blessedness.

His loins were positively jolting again.

Berenice was the only one who had actively
shown
him which path she wanted to take! Seth was a fool for not understanding before. Hadn't Berenice fed her own son a poisoned draught to be with him? Only through death could she find resurrection alongside her lord. Only through death could she find her true place for eternity.

Fire shot through his veins. Alone among the figures seated round his table, Berenice understood that the past stands for nothing, it's the future that's significant, and the future lay in Seth's magic hands. He knew now which god Berenice should become. Tenderly, he picked up the mask of the striking cobra, Wazt, the royal serpent who protected the Pharaoh by spitting her poison in attack, and he gently stroked the sacred scales.

'You want to die, don't you?' Seth ripped away Berenice's gag. 'Tell me, my child, how impatient you are to be with me!'

A flicker showed in the dullness of her eyes. 'Kill me,' she whispered. 'Please kill me.'

Seth made her beg while he raped her again.

The count was now up to six.

The sky had turned to an ominous purple as the group of travellers dismounted. Rain was surely only minutes away, it was dark as night in the hills, and all hands pitched in to secure the canvas awning over the trap. Nearly there, Zer said. Another couple of hours if it rains, less if the weather holds off.

All the same, they were glad to be stretching their muscles, Doodlebug in particular. He tried cocking his leg against one of the wheels and failed with spectacular success, and the look of pride and affection on Flea's face did not escape Claudia as nimble fingers threaded ropes round hooks, through eyes, pulling, knotting, testing the rainproof protection.

Satisfied with their efforts, the group clambered back on board, and Claudia thought, time is undoubtedly tight - just forty-eight hours before Junius is due to face death - but

the commune is closer to Rome than I'd even dared hope. A band of hired henchmen (cynics might call them thugs) were following at a discreet distance, all she had to do was grab Flavia and ride off with the girl.

She glanced around the wooded, rolling hills, whose tops were smothered in granite grey cloud, and asked herself, what could go wrong?

Dash in. Dash out. Swear an oath.

Nothing on earth could be simpler.

The first of the raindrops fell as Marcus Cornelius assimilated his steward's report. The raindrops were the size of dinner platters, and sounded like someone was breaking eggs on the path. He listened wearily, and made the man repeat his account, and the rain came faster and faster, spattering the tiles and bricks and timbers which lay in wait for builders to transform them into his dream of a grand banqueting hall.

Whatever the Dungeon Master's handshake had been supposed to convey, Orbilio knew damn well the bastard would weasel out of his debt. There would be apologies, conciliations, excuses, mitigations, but that fat son of a bitch intended Junius to die, and since a man without honour is no man at all, Orbilio would deal with him later. It meant, of course, that the Dungeon Master had devised a way of saving his son's skin - presumably by sneaking the scumbag out of Rome - but Orbilio could deal with that later, as well. Well, no. He might as well see to it while he considered his next move.

He called for his secretary and dictated at speed, as the rain drummed on the roof.

In no time at all, his messenger's heels splashed through the streets to deliver an oilskin package which would ensure the immediate arrest of the Dungeon Master's son together with an investigation into the Dungeon Master's own financial affairs (with the specific objective of determining how so modest a wage could run a large country villa), and as the courier dodged the drips from the gutterspouts and vaulted the puddles, Orbilio considered the time scale ahead.

Twenty-four hours and the arena would be empty. Only the cleaners would remain, raking up sand sticky with the blood of the dead and hooking up the corpses to load them on to carts for the furnace. Tigers, lions, leopards would be skinned first, the stench would be vile, flies would swarm thicker than dust storms.

He could be wrong, of course, about Mentu's followers being forbidden to leave. Perhaps, now they were back in Rome, they were too ashamed to talk about their foolhardiness and mingled with contrition and anonymity in the backwater of family life? Balls. Nobody left because nobody
could,
and that would apply equally to Claudia Seferius. Marcus felt his mouth go dry. Her tongue might scare the spots off a cheetah and her glare strip the bark off an elm, but Orbilio was willing to bet that Mentu had armed guards stationed round the place, as well as drugs to keep recalcitrant members in line. He did not envisage for one second that she'd be home in time to save the Gaul.

He rubbed his knuckles into the hollows of his eyes. If he could solve the murder, that would free up his movements, but so far, his efforts had proved fruitless. A veritable army of scribes and secretaries, even his accountant, had been despatched to track down the slaves who'd previously lived in this house but although they'd located a handful, no one recalled any building work to that bloody storeroom. Bugger. Orbilio's main hope now lay in tracing a groom who'd bought his freedom about six months before the great auction and had set himself up as a mule doctor. He might recall something. The question was, where were the groom's stables located?

The hunt went on . . .

Lamps were lit round the atrium. Out in the courtyard, the legionaries at the back gate stamped their feet to shake off the trickles of water which ran down their legs, a dog's howl cut through the hammering of the rain and the thunder. The mother of the puppy, Orbilio imagined, conducting a head count and finding one mouth short at the teat!

Marcus watched the slanting torrent, the lightning whose

brilliant flashes were blurred by the clouds. Jupiter, it was hot! Rose petals lay stripped and battered on the path, most of the herbs and flowers had been flattened by the rain, their heads bobbing in puddles slow to drain, and the clove-like spice of basil filled the air, along with the intoxicating scent of earth.

What would he be doing, were he not under house arrest, that was the question?

The body in the plaster would be high priority, but hardly topping his list. A visit to the jail would be pointless. No matter how hard he leaned on the Dungeon Master, the rotten bastard would still protect his son, covering if not condoning what the boy had done (and would, of course, continue to do, be it in Rome, Sardinia or Gaul). It was too late at this stage for bribes and escape from the dungeons was, by design, quite impossible. Shackles. Locked doors. Iron grilles. Armed guards.
Quite
impossible!

No. Were he able to walk free from his house, Orbilio would ride straight to the court of Mentu. He could not be certain that Claudia's life was at risk from the Brothers of Horus, but by the gods, he could not be sure it was not!

Very quickly she would be exposed as an impostor and whilst they would not dare imprison her, he did not doubt that at some stage - and soon - a tragic accident would befall her, her food poisoned, perhaps, or a snake might find its way in to her bed.

As the storm thrashed and writhed overhead, Orbilio thought of Junius. His vehement defence, his passionate protection, contrasting so starkly with the cool stare, the solid, unwavering stance. He pictured the hard blue eyes, the sandy hair, the solid musculature. It would be the cocky bugger's arrogance, rather than his dignity, which carried him through his ordeal in the dungeons and on Saturday, goddammit, the Gaul would walk with back straight and eyes uplifted into the baying crowd and, even as the jaws of death clamped over him, he would not blame his mistress for what befell him.

Marcus rubbed at his temples and acknowledged the pain in his chest for what it was. Jealousy. The thought of the boy

pressing his lips, his hands, his body to Claudia's skin pierced him like a dagger through the heart. And maybe it was because he didn't want the Gaul to end up a martyr that Orbilio's eyes misted up, but whatever it was, Mother of Tarquin, he didn't want the boy dead. Not like that. Yet there was sod all he could do. Eight legionaries guarded his doors, vigilantes patrolled in the streets.

Junius was destined to die.

Claudia's life was in danger.

And Marcus Cornelius was powerless to act.

In desperation, he reached for the wine jug.

Tingi!' He called louder, and only partly to be heard above the pounding of the rain. 'TINGI!'

'What?' The steward came running. 'What is it you want, sir?' His eyes took in the pitcher of wine which had been full just a half hour previously, and the lopsided, foolish grin plastered on his master's slack face.

'Why, Tingi, old friend, I want what everyone else ish getting, this shecond night of the Games.'

The steward took a step back from the blast of the wine fumes.

'I want entertainment,' Marcus said, punching a limp fist into the palm of his hand, 'and if I'm not allowed out to enjoy it, by the godsh, I'll bloody well have it brought here.'

From the vestibule and from the courtyard came the sound of sniggering.

'By entertainment,' the Libyan frowned, silencing the guards with a glower, 'you mean . . . ?'

'Women, Tingi.' Marcus reeled forward and clapped him on the shoulder. 'By entertainment, I mean
women.
Big, tall, lusty, busty girls. I want them to be able to sing, to dance, to tell dirty jokes, I want girls who can drink me under the table and then bonk me to oblivion, two at a time.'

'Two at a time?'

'Whatsha matter? Have I developed a stutter?'

He appeared to have developed a weave, though, and groped for a pillar which would support his drunken weight.

'There's only one course of action under circumstances like these. Throw a party.'

'Sir!' But the steward's protests were waved away.