Dream Boat (28 page)

Against his better judgement, Marcus smiled. No question this letter, which had been delivered late last night, came from quill of the Clerk of the Dungeons who had somehow swapped

the prisoners around, putting an Armenian criminal in Junius' place and setting the Gaul free. Orbilio was relieved. Not only because Claudia's bodyguard was out of danger, but because he'd always believed the Clerk to be an honourable fellow. Unlike that rat of a Dungeon Master, whose son - ho, ho, ho - would already be mourning his misfortune in a cell. The difference in his case, is that at least he'd get a trial.

So then. Orbilio dragged his hands down over his face. Junius was off the hook, that was one problem solved, though two still remained:

One. Whose was the body in the plaster?

Two. How to get Claudia free of Mentu's steadfast grip?

Claudia. His pulse quickened as he pictured those high, fine, chiselled features. Her long, curvaceous legs, her luscious breasts. Mother of Tarquin, how he yearned to nibble his way down that swan neck of hers, feel her tense with pleasure as he slipped the soft cotton from her shoulders, hear the gentle swish as it landed at her feet. At the thought of her naked, silky skin his loins began to stir and, in spite of the demons clashing cymbals in his head and the burning pain behind his bloodshot eyeballs, Orbilio began to laugh.

Oh, yes. She'd really fancy you right now. Face white and waxy. Stubble on your jaw and breath little better than a drainage ditch in summer. What a catch!

He thought about the whores he'd hired last night, seven in the end, who had met the stringent requirements he'd demanded.

And hoped to Remus that Claudia never got wind of his involvement with those lusty, busty Amazons.

He'd never live it down.

At that moment, the object of Orbilio's introspections sat slumped against the storehouse wall, her head buried in her hands. Some distance away, like so many seething maggots, the black dreadlocks of her wig soaked up a puddle of last night's rainwater where she'd hurled it.

Now what!

The gods of Olympus must be laughing their socks and slippers off. 'Better than turning nymphs into trees and mortals into stags, don't you think, watching the antics of that Claudia Seferius down there?'

How right they are! To save Junius from certain execution, Claudia follows Flavia to this quasi-Egyptian commune, and what a waste of bloody time that turned out to be! An administrative cock-up (what other explanation?) frees the Gaul without her wretched meddling, so all Claudia has to do now is find the silly bitch and leave. Only there's a problem. That grasping little street thief gets herself locked up in the temple jail, and the circle joins itself, except that this time it's Flea's life Claudia has to save, and the only way is by sleeping with Min!

Claudia threw a stone at the plaited wig, and missed.

Well, sod Olympus.

A bombardment of stones rained over at the wig.

And missed.

Claudia could almost hear Juno purring up there on her celestial throne. 'Mahvellous entertainment, dahlings. Do come and watch.'

One treat they'd miss, though, the gods gawping down from Mount Olympus. Venus and Eros could wreak what mischief they wanted, but there's no way Claudia would be lifting her skirts for that randy Vizier! The thought of his solid paunch pressing against her naked flesh brought goose-pimples to the surface. Never mind divine intervention, I'll turn myself into a tree - an animal - a goddamned constellation - before he gets his pudgy paws on me! Just let him try.

Flea's trial was not until tomorrow, though. Ample time to work on a plan of escape and typical of Min, dishing out his ultimatum and leaving Claudia to sweat on it. He'd want her to squirm. To reflect long and hard on the deal she would be making.

Bastard!

This time the rock hit the dreadlocks square on, and three more landed on their target before another thought occurred

to her. The five men charged with the daily running of this commune - the superintendents, so to speak - were not weak, compliant or submissive chaps, content to take life's easy road. On the contrary, they were forceful characters in positions of authority, accustomed to dishing out orders as much as to obeying them, and who revelled in the fact that they had minions of their own dancing attendance.

Min, the Grand Vizier, who uses emotional extortion to get what he wants.

Neco, the martinet, with a preference for physical rather than emotional torment.

Shabak, the blue-jawed physician, so lacking in compassion.

Penno, thin, suspicious, relishing his religious rites and rituals.

Geb, the Barbary ape on two legs, the Keeper of the Central Store, with the fearsome combination of vile temper and slow-burning grudge. The hairy godfather, who beat his wife.

Five bullies, with two traits in common:

-    they each have a need to control.

-    they share a universal hatred of womankind.

Five men, moreover, who are able to move freely round the commune and talk to people - girls - without drawing notice to themselves. Five men, all of whom are trusted by every member present, each in a position to cover his tracks, should his aversion to women become a deadly obsession.

Claudia stood up, brushed her skirts and looked around. Six girls had gone missing. Loners who had not been missed in either sense of the word. Six girls . . . yes, six (sweet Janus, please don't let it be seven!) Not Flavia! I know she fits the profile, but please, please don't let him get her.

Find Flavia. Grab Flea. Get out.

Find Flavia. Grab Flea. Get out. She repeated it like a mantra in her head. Find-Flavia-grab-Flea-get-out. But this was not going to be easy. Far from it. Everyone in the commune is allocated a task, and depending on how generous one's contribution, the softer the number. Claudia had not yet been allocated her own role, but anyone handing over olive

groves and vineyards across three hills of Frascati would get a cushy one. Mercy, on the other hand, had fled Brindisi clutching next to nothing. Why wasn't she scrubbing floors or kneading dough, grinding corn or weeding lines of vegetables with a hoe?

And of the ten women in Mercy's cell, which one had a personality? True, her views were loyalist, her devotion unequivocal, but in Mercy there was a distinct lack of sameness. Who had latched on to Claudia from the start, offering to show her the ropes? Mercy would call it befriending. Claudia called it keeping tabs.

Remember Mercy's concern that Junius and Claudia might know one another, her relief at finding they did not?

Unless Claudia very much missed her guess, Mercy's job here was as minder.
Mercy was a spy.
Sooner or later, too, she'd catch up again with Claudia and, like the very best of barnacles, would cling firm next time. Claudia vowed to be vigilant.

Across the courtyard, three figures shambled into view. Anubis, in his jackal-headed mask. Bast, the cat goddess. And between them, his arms firmly linked in theirs, trailed a third and the third man wore no mask. Claudia's breath came out as a whistle. She waved. The trio speeded up.

'Hello, there. Sorrel, isn't it?'

You don't forget a name like that.

'Didn't I see you last night?' she yelled after them. 'On the temple platform?' Hauled up wearing nothing but your loin cloth by guards wielding scimitars after you'd been caught trying to escape? The boy's vacant expression didn't change. His legs were dragging.

'Mistaken identity,' Bast hissed. 'This boy's simply fainted in the heat.'

'We're taking him to Shabak,' Anubis puffed. The strain of dragging a muscular youth at the double was beginning to tell. 'For a potion.'

Claudia's own knees wobbled.

I'll bet you are, you bastards.

Hugging her arms to her body, she now saw the full extent of Min's threats and how trouble-makers were dealt with in the commune. For who could mistake the purpose of those bright poppy heads waving in the breeze at the back of the orchard?

At first the dose would not be voluntary. Like the boy, Sorrel, it would involve some form of temporary incarceration. But quickly the addiction would kick in of its own accord, eliminating any need for detention. Within a week, Sorrel would be pleading not to leave this beautiful valley.

And - unless she trod carefully - so would Claudia Seferius.

Was that what had happened to Flavia? Had she protested at being put to work in the fields, the kitchens or the brewery? 'Another trouble-maker, Shabak, for you to deal with!'

The insidious evil of the valley began to clamp round her, crushing, squeezing, forcing the breath from her lungs.

I must get out.

Claudia could not explain the feeling. But hanging over her was the spectre that soon - very soon - something terrible would happen.

Wait a tick! If Flavia was being held prisoner until she became addicted and pliable, then it stood to reason she and Sorrel would be held in the same place. Right. Follow Bast and Anubis, see where they take him, and find out whether Flavia's there too.

Min's threat echoed in her brain. 'Provoke any further disruption and I'll personally see you regret it.' Did this constitute provocation? Claudia had a feeling Min would construe it that way.

With wings on her ankles, Claudia flew across the open courtyard. She looked left, right, peered ahead. Shit. She had dithered too long. There was no sign of any animal gods. No sign of any drugged prisoners. Damn, damn, damn. Where are you, Sorrel? Where have they taken you?

From the corner of her eye, she caught a shadow. Just a hint, before it ducked backwards to mould itself into the shade of the storehouse wall. She scurried after it.

Nothing.

Then - yes, there it was again. Darting to the left.

As before, the merest hint.

She sped past the windowless store. Hooked to the left. Caught up slightly. Enough to see that the shadow was a man's. Alone. Should she follow him? What about the trio? There he goes. Her sandals skidded on the stone. He's trying to double back. Cut down here.

Racing after him, still undecided, Claudia turned the corner. And cannoned into him.

Too late she saw the sharp swing of the scimitar.

Will you unhand me?' wheezed the shadow, flat upon its back. 'Or do I have to cry rape?'

Claudia blinked. It can't be! 'Orbilio?'

'I used to be, before your kneecap changed all that.' 'What? Oh.' She removed the offending joint and his skin ceased to be grey. 'Marcus Cornelius, what the hell are you doing up here? Last I heard, you were being eaten alive by seven slobbering Amazons.'

'Me? I'm strictly a one-woman man,' he said, but all the same she rather thought he winced.

'You look terrible,' she said, peering closer.

'Thanks.'

'Whey-faced. You need a shave. And your eyes are a particularly unattractive shade of bloodshot.'

'You know how to cheer a man up, don't you? Well, if it's any consolation, my head hurts, too.'

'Classic case of Amazon overdose.'

'I needed them,' he said miserably.

'Only seven? You must be getting old.'

'No, no. I needed them to help me sneak away from the house.'

Claudia felt a bubble burst. Relief? From what? She didn't care how many women he slept with, that pain inside was where she'd jarred herself in falling. Then - slowly - laughter began to rise in her diaphragm. 'You
didn't?'
No wonder he'd asked for big women!

A similar vibration came from his. 'I bloody did.' He grinned, propping himself up on both elbows. 'What's more,

I was that convincing, dressed in drag, that three erstwhile respectable businessmen propositioned me as I crossed the Forum!'

'Well, I hope you didn't sell yourself too cheap.'

'The whiskers put them off, otherwise I'd have made a mint. In fact, when this thing's over, I'm seriously thinking of changing my career.' He flopped back on to the cobbles and sighed contentedly. 'Alternatively,' he said blissfully, 'I could become a gigolo.'

'You'd starve.'

'Nonsense. I'm already experiencing the effects of women giving me the old once-over.'

'Have you been sniffing those hemp seeds again?'

'One look, and
you
were all over me, for a start!' He closed his eyes. 'Still are, in fact.'

Ah ... As she scrambled off his prostrate form, she thought she heard him mumble 'pity' but she wasn't sure. There was something curious going on inside her body. Heartbeat playing up, funny breathing. Her cheeks must have caught the sun, they were burning, even in the shade of the storehouse wall. Clearly, she thought, I'm out of shape. What else could cause this disruption to her system? She vowed to visit the gymnasium, the minute she returned to Rome.

'I'll do a deal,' Marcus said, brushing down his tunic. 'You don't tell anyone I wear women's clothes at night and I won't tell about how you chased me through the streets and pinned me flat against my pommel.'