Dream Boat (35 page)

The beat grew stronger. And as she watched the figure disappear into the bushes, she felt compelled to follow. He (Claudia presumed it was a he) was not difficult to spot -the silver glittered like a full moon in the dark, but that alone would not have been sufficient. The figure carried with it a tiny lighted brand to guide his path. Claudia followed the glow-worm up the hillside, along what seemed to be a beaten track. An assignation?

(Which reminds me, Min, how
are
the blisters coming on?)

Oh, damn, I've lost him! Up here, it was so dark she could not see her hand in front of her face, and there was no longer any glow to follow.

Hot and weary from the climb, Claudia leaned her weight against a tree and listened. For a minute, all she could hear was the blood pumping through her ears, then - was that a voice? It was. A man's. Talking deep and low, but strangely. There was no answering female. (Or male, come to that!) As she acclimatised to the terrain, Claudia realised the path looped round.

'Ouch!'

She rubbed the toe she'd stubbed against a heart-shaped stone and thought she saw a luminescence in the bushes. Correction, through the bushes! There was a horrible smell coming from somewhere, too, but it didn't put the man off singing.

Lost! Lost! Lost! My love is lost to me.

She passes by my house and does not turn to see.

Nice voice, but what's it doing behind a bloody bush?

Sweet! Sweet! Sweet! Her lips upon my mouth.

But now my heart is scorched, as the desert to the south.

Acoustics such as these are usually achieved by an echo like . . . well, like in a cave! Claudia shrugged. But then, why shouldn't there be a cave up here? The ancient Etruscans who had once worked these lands, pockmarked hills left, right and centre. In fact, in the vineyard adjacent to Claudia's own estate, they'd gouged out so many holes that the vintner used the whole damned hill for storage. Why shouldn't Mister Silver use one for his assignation?

Ra! Ra! Ra! O Father, great of might!

My sacrifice and prayers, do not they you delight?

Claudia listened to the haunting refrain of a young man

thrown over by his lover and whose heart aches because she will not take him back, despite his fervent prayers. Perhaps, though, the mysterious silver figure was not bent on an amorous liaison. Why the need for so much pomp if he was just after a fumble in the dark? Perhaps, like the ancient Etruscans, this cave was used for the Brothers' ceremonies - an extension to the Festival of Lamps? After all, if the Etruscans turned caverns into temples, why not the Pyramidiots? Claudia had only
assumed
this figure was up to something secretive and furtive.

Come! Come! Come! Death come to me, today.

For only in my tomb can I find the peace I pray.

That was the other thing, of course. The Etruscans also used their caves for burials, and Claudia could well believe it of this one. She did not recall ever smelling such a putrid stink!

Above her head, the man repeated the tune and Claudia had the strangest feeling that he was whistling while he worked. Worked at what? There was only one way to find out. Go and take a peep!

But before she had taken one step across the heart-shaped stone, the puff of light was extinguished. There was a rustle of greenery, then the silver figure emerged into view. Quickly, Claudia crouched behind a bush. The figure passed so close, the hem of his billowing cloak brushed her cheek, and it smelled only of myrrh and cloves, the commune unguent. Claudia waited until he was out of sight, then, humming, 'Lost! Lost! Lost! My love is lost to me', softly under her breath, climbed higher up the path.

'Janus!' Overcome by the hideous stench, she pinched her nostrils between her thumb and forefinger. What the hell's this bugger up to?

The cave was behind what looked like a wild fig, but as Claudia tried to scramble through the branches, the whole bush sprang away, to reveal the entrance. The stench was loathsome. The ancients used to paint their cavern walls with scenes of

riotous celebrations, but that smell isn't paint . . . more like rotting meat!

Squinting eyes made out the table. Sweet Janus, what evil practice are they up to? The Holy Council wearing tight, white costumes were seated round it, wearing their masks and . . . and what? Making some kind of magic, obviously, and using god-knows-what filthy brew. Claudia was now gagging on the smell, but strange. Her retching did not alert the seated group. Slowly Claudia realised the figures were not moving. Stuffed dolls? Or . . . or . . .

She could not help the strangled scream which escaped her.

Trembling violently, Claudia counted the figures round the table. Eight. Holy Jupiter, until now, they had believed only seven girls were missing.

She buried her hands in her face. Tell me it's not true. Sweet Janus, tell me this is some sort of doll council. That some madman hasn't abducted eight young girls and killed them. 'What else do you think would cause this vile stench?' a little voice sneered. 'You said yourself, it smelled like rotten meat.' Claudia refused to hear the truth and stuffed her fingers in her ears. No, she screamed silently back, these are stuffed replicas. These are not mummified remains! 'Really?' the voice inside her asked. 'Then why was he bringing bandages up here?'

Claudia's teeth were chattering. Eight girls, not seven. Who - she closed her eyes - who was number eight?

She reeled away, flattening herself against the hard rock face, because already she knew the answer to her question. Oh, Flavia! All the things she'd planned to say to her - about the worry she'd heaped upon her anxious step-parents, how selfish she'd been to betray Junius just for a few gold coins to throw in Mentu's money box and what did she think she was playing at, the selfish cow? I'm so sorry, Flavia, I didn't mean them. I didn't really mean them.

Tears rolled in rivers down her cheeks.

Fifteen years old and she'd ended up the eighth victim of the most perverted killer ever to have walked this earth. Poor

Flavia, she hadn't lived! Never sailed the oceans, never felt the soft touch of a man.
Or had she?
And Claudia knew the answer to that question, too.

Scrubbing her tears away with the back of her hand, Claudia forced herself to look at the table once again. There's something wrong with the tableau. Eight white bodies, but. . . but one of them wasn't white from bandages. One of them was white from naked flesh, glistening in the dark.

Racing across the stone floor, her heart hammering, it occurred to her that it was possible, just possible, that Flavia wasn't dead yet. Using both hands, she hauled off the jackal mask.

And screamed.

The face did not, after all, belong to little Flavia. The face was thin, the complexion flawless, the cropped hair tawny brown.

His eighth victim was Flea.

Pain speared through her. White hot, searing, it ripped and clawed and savaged at her breast.

Oh, Flea, Flea. What have I done?

Claudia cupped her hands around the urchin's cheeks. They were warm, but they were not warm with life. Those luminous green eyes bulged forward, her tongue protruded from her lips. And the ligature around her neck told its own horrific story.

She felt her head spin. Flea, Flea, what terrible price did I make you pay? What was I thinking of, bringing you here? Orbilio's description echoed inside her head: 'Wild child.' Skinny - scrawny - foul-mouthed - funny. She thought of the feral beast, wielding a knife down the cul-de-sac because she'd been trapped. Trapped. Flea was born to be free. To be wild . . .

Suddenly, in the midst of her horror and her grief, Claudia caught a whiff. Scent. Myrrh and cloves.

She made to turn, but something flashed before her eyes and closed around her neck.

'Wha—'

The word was cut off sharp. The ligature tightened. She tore

at the cord. Heard heavy breathing. She heard a wailing in her ears, and a drumming.

Someone said, 'I have you now, my pretty one. You belong to Seth.' But Claudia was not listening.

Her legs thrashed out. She at clawed the air, there was a monumental roaring in her ears. With a twist, she arched herself backwards, kicking, writhing. The noose continued to tighten. She heard a rasping sound. A rattle. And knew it came from her own throat. A fire burst behind her eyes.

Then everything turned black.

Marcus found it hurt when he tried to sit up. It hurt his ribs, it hurt his head, it hurt his numbed arm from where he'd been lying on it. But most of all, it hurt that he had failed Claudia.

And now it was dark. He must have been unconscious for hours. He rubbed tenderly at his poor cracked ribs, and as he did so, became aware of movement on the grain. A shadow, darker than the rest, fell over him. He reached for his weapon, but the scimitar had gone.

'I took it,' the voice said. 'In case anyone came in.'

Orbilio blinked.
'Flavia?"

'You came to rescue me, didn't you?' Her eyes were bright from emotion. 'I recognised you immediately, even though you were in disguise. I
knew
you'd come to save me.'

The emotion, he realised, was neither relief nor satisfaction and he remembered that, although he'd only figured once in Flavia's short life, she'd had something of a crush on him. Obviously, the passage of several months had made little difference to her feelings! He groaned, and this time it was not from pain.

'I would have brought you water,' she said, crouching down beside him and wiping a damp curl from his forehead, 'only I didn't want to leave you. Spies, you see, have to face death by Ordeal of the Lakes. That means they first roast you on a spit over the Lake of Hellfire, then they boil you alive.'

Orbilio felt he ought to be grateful. Instead he snatched the scimitar from her hands. 'Give me that,' he said brusquely. Dammit, the girl wasn't even holding it properly.

'Here, let me.' Eagerly, Flavia helped him to his feet. He towered over her.

'Are you responsible for this?' he asked, rubbing the goose egg which had risen up behind his ear.

'Me?' The idea horrified her. 'Flea did that.'

She would, he thought. Act first, think later, that was that little street thief's motto! 'I suppose she saw me in uniform, and thought I was part of the act.'

'Did you know she was a girl?' Flavia looked puzzled. 'I had no idea, until she pulled me out of the coal hole.'

Even though it hurt his ribs, Orbilio grinned. What a pair, those two! And what a difference ten years makes. Suddenly he felt old enough to be their father. Weary enough, too . . .

'The pair of you deserve a damned good spanking,' he said, although he had a feeling his voice lacked the authority he meant it to carry. 'You for running off, her for knocking me out cold.'

'I told her, you'd come to rescue me,' Flavia gushed, trying unsuccessfully to link her arm in his. 'She said afterwards that she was sorry.'

Like hell, he thought, putting his foot on the rope ladder. Flea would be glad to get her own back. Dammit, he liked Flea. He imagined that was what Claudia had been like at that age, too. Feisty, spunky, sharp and streetwise. But with more intelligence!

'Where's Claudia?'

'Is she here, too?' Flavia spiralled into a sulk.

'So's Junius,' Marcus added happily.

'Is he mad at me?'

Orbilio heaved himself on to the gallery which ran around the grain store. 'What do you think?' he asked mildly. 'You left the poor sap to die.'

'But -' Flavia's face was deep red, and he hoped it was not purely from the exertion of climbing the ladder. 'But he was only wearing a toga,' she said.

'For a slave, that incurs the death penalty,' Orbilio said, 'so you'd best be nice to him from now on. Now keep close

and follow me. Uh, you don't need to keep that close.' He disengaged her arms from round his waist, and thought it doesn't take long, crush transference. One day she's in love with Ra, now it's me again. Now if it was the other Seferius woman snuggling up against me in the dark.

'What's so damned funny?' Junius, stepping from the shadows, did not let his harsh eyes so much as drop to Flavia.

'Where's Claudia?' Marcus fired back.

'She's not with you?'

Another time, Orbilio would have enjoyed watching his opponent squirm. But tonight the stakes were not coins, they were not even human emotions. The stake was flesh and blood and had long tumbling curls.

Quickly he explained to Junius how Flea had mistaken him for part of the commune security force, how she'd discovered Flavia's hiding place and, finally, how Flavia had sat with him until he came to consciousness. 'Why weren't you bloody guarding her?'

'She told me to stay put,' the Gaul growled back, and Marcus knew this was not the time to fight.

'That woman,' he said, spiking his fingers through his curls, 'is a law unto herself. Let's find her and move out.'

'She'll be with Flea,' Flavia suggested. 'And Flea won't leave without some puppy she's got herself attached to. Let's try the stables.'