Jail Bait

by Marilyn Todd

  ‘Would that be your maid, madam?’

  ‘She has a preference for sardines and cooked chicken, unless—’ over his shoulder, Pylades saw Claudia delve into her trunk and retrieve a crisp parchment fan ‘—you happen to have a mouse handy?’

  As the feeling of faintness engulfed Pylades, he thought that at least now he had genuine grounds on which to consult his physician.

  *

  Quite what a Greek architect had been doing on a remote Etruscan promontory in the first place no one had bothered to ask, but his discovery of the spring combined with his perspicacity to develop the site had made Pylades a very rich man, you could tell from the gold clinging to his fingers and hanging round his neck. Even his fawn tunic, a masterstroke in understated elegance, had not escaped the soft breath of Midas. Claudia studied the retreating back of her host. Greek, of course, could mean anything—blond Adonises to strapping gladiator types, snooty Athenians to the proud Andros islanders—but unless she missed her guess, Pylades, with his swarthy skin and stocky frame, hailed from shepherd stock.

  And as for that beanpole strutting at his side, either Kamar had no use for the likes of tonic waters, manicures and mudbaths or the remedies weren’t working. With lips that turned perpetually inwards, he seemed as devoid of humour as he was of hair—in fact, he reminded Claudia of a tortoise with a particularly spiteful attack of the piles.

  Still. At least, Kamar hadn’t tried to make a pass at her—unlike that dirty-minded little toad, Pylades. Who the hell did he think he was dealing with? Some little bit of fluff playing second fiddle to a man who wants the best of both worlds while she has the worst of one?

  ‘I am no man’s mistress,’ she informed the gurgling watercourse as she strode across the footbridge. Claudia Seferius is master of her own damned destiny, thank you.

  She began to hum a jaunty marching song. It wasn’t strictly true, of course, what she had told Pylades about her attendants following on. In situations such as this, a girl couldn’t be too careful and it was best she brought no servants, not even her bodyguard, and even more advisable she left no forwarding address. When the heat over the Tullus incident died down, she’d slip home, but until then? Until then, no one knew where to find her. Unless one counts the sender of the letter…

  Whilst for the slaves there was no such luxury as siesta (sweatroom furnaces still need stoking, mud heated, towels aired), the silence in the banqueting hall was unnerving, broken only by the crackle of frankincense resin which burned in the wall-mounted braziers and the slap of Claudia’s soft leather sandals on the mosaic. With her eyes ranging over the gilded rafters and the statuary set in niches along the length of both walls, the voice made the hum catch in her throat.

  ‘I don’t advise the sun porch.’ The voice belonged to a young man sprawled across one of the couches. ‘It faces south and is far too hot this time of day. You’ll be burned lobster red within minutes.’

  ‘Will I really?’

  ‘The name’s Cal.’ He leapt off the seat and, to Claudia’s astonishment, performed a backward flip which ended in an elaborate bow. ‘Short for Calvus, and since you’re a new girl in school and this resort is vast, you’ll need to be shown a few ropes.’

  ‘Not by you.’ He was young. Maybe twenty. Which made him a full five years younger than herself.

  ‘I feel you—’

  ‘You’ll feel nothing,’ she said, sweeping past. ‘Better men than you have tried today.’

  Man? Even as it formed on her tongue, the word jarred. The quality of his clothes and the rings on his fingers suggested he was the son of a senator, or possibly a legate or a judge or a general. His education would have taken place in Athens, he’d have attended university in Alexandria, no doubt he’d have a year’s experience in a public department under his belt, say the Mint or the roads or temple rebuilding. In all likelihood, he’d have wed at sixteen and could well be the father of two with a third on the way.

  ‘No.’ He laughed. ‘I was about to say, I feel you misjudge me! You think I’m too young to know what’s what around here, but I have to warn you, there’s nothing I don’t know about Atlantis.’

  Claudia studied the crinkling green eyes and spade-shaped jaw and thought, I’ll bet there isn’t. ‘Like, for instance?’

  ‘Like, for instance, your name is Claudia Seferius, you’re a widow, you’ve recently arrived with your cat. The same cat, incidentally, that has already caused chaos in the kitchens, terror in the tackroom and absolute pandemonium in the parrot house.’

  Claudia stiffened. How could he possibly know so much?

  ‘Easy.’ He grinned, suggesting he read minds as a means of acquiring his knowledge. ‘While Pylades was greeting you in the hall, I nipped into his office to look up your registration.’

  Simple as that? Well, why not…?

  Cal, she noticed, had remained beside his couch as she headed towards the sun porch, therefore it came as something of a surprise to see a blur of blue linen flash by.

  ‘Most people,’ she pointed out, ‘walk or even run to catch up.’ She’d never met one before who cartwheeled through life.

  Cal jumped upright to block her way. ‘You don’t listen,’ he said, and his corn-coloured hair flopped back into place. ‘It’s too hot on the veranda this time of day, you’ll make yourself sick. Walk with me, instead. Everyone enjoys a walk round the museum—’

  Claudia pushed her face close to his. ‘Do I look like you could shear me for wool?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Or cut me into lamb chops?’

  ‘I’m afraid you’ve still lost me,’ Cal said.

  ‘Neither,’ she added, ‘do I go “baaa”, is that sinking in? Good. Because, now we’ve established I’m not a sheep, perhaps you’d allow me to do my exploring on my own.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ He slipped his arm into hers. She slipped it away. He slipped it back again. ‘Everyone needs company and Atlantis,’ he whispered, steering her towards a hidden alcove, ‘is stuffed to the gunwales with secrets.’ Gently he ushered her behind a gilded statue of Bacchus. ‘For the price of a kiss, I’ll reveal the trick Pylades uses to keep the hall so cool.’

  Claudia caught the sharp tang of the alecost on his tunic. ‘I’m prepared to live in ignorance.’

  ‘One little kiss,’ he cajoled, ‘on the lips.’

  Claudia freed her arm with a jerk. ‘I know that routine, Cal. A kiss on the lips—and then it’s all over.’

  And yet, caught in the smoky intensity of dark beech-leaf eyes, had she not been tempted? Just a fraction? Had hot blood not surged through her veins when his hand brushed her cheek, stirring up feelings she’d long ago believed buried?

  Acknowledging defeat with a click of his tongue, Cal leaned across her, pushed against the side wall and suddenly Claudia found herself outdoors, in the middle of the grove of young walnut trees which surrounded the Temple of Carya.

  ‘There!’ He laughed. ‘Wasn’t that worth a—?’

  ‘No.’

  Dear Diana, this boy wouldn’t know a refusal if it clocked him round the ear with a haddock. So why was that curiously pleasing?

  In the grove, silent and secluded, offerings to the nymph dangled among the flaccid leaves—gaily coloured ribbons, terracotta plaques, wooden figurines, as well as an array of silver votive bells waiting for a breeze to set them dancing. By the gods, shade or no shade, it was hot! Sensing her discomfort, Cal whisked the fan from her hand and flapped the parchment with vigour, his eyes following the ruffle of her hair and the billow of her turquoise cotton gown. It was only when his gaze fixed upon her breasts and didn’t waver that Claudia snatched the fan back. Behind them, the door had swung to and, hidden by the painted decorations on the stucco, there was nothing to suggest its existence.

  It was like a door to the Underworld, opening into a silent copse where no birds sang and only masculine voices floated out from the temple, one loud and deep, the other high and protesting.

  ‘That�
�s Mosul, the priest,’ Cal explained in a voice so oozing with poise that it cut short further imaginings. ‘Hates Jews so much you’d think he was a Babylonian, but my word, what a perfectionist. He won’t allow Leon—that’s who he’s railing at now—to go near the spring in case the young acolyte upsets Carya and her holy waters dry up.’ Cal’s arm found its way round Claudia’s waist. ‘I’ll let you in on another secret.’

  Using the closed fan, Claudia swatted him away, though not before they had both registered the five-count delay. It felt good, a man’s touch, she reflected. But then it had been a long time…

  ‘Come.’ His hand closed round her wrist and Claudia found herself spinning between the trunks of the walnuts and into a clump of dank elders before being plunged into a steep, descending darkness. Cool! It was cool! She gasped with shock as her back connected with the chill of the rock face. He’d led her to a cave, where the stone was cold but not slimy, to a world which was dark but not damp. And at a time when sheets soaked through in the night and grey mould covered the bread, this was surely the Elysian Fields.

  Against the far wall, serpentine lights danced a horizontal shimmy and water plink-plink-plinked into a pool. The spring. Cal had brought her to the sacred spring, where the shadows were the reflections of ripples on water and where the drips were the tears of the nymph.

  In the darkness, Cal moved closer and the suddenness overwhelmed her. ‘Cal,’ she warned.

  But a husky voice whispered, ‘Come to me, Claudia. Love with me.’

  ‘Cal, I—’ Her own voice was as ragged as his. Sweet Jupiter, how long since she’d felt release with a man?

  Again he was reading her mind, sensed her desires, her pent-up frustrations. ‘I know what you want,’ he said, and by all that was holy, she did.

  His hands cupped her chin, she could smell the freshness of mint on his breath. Sex with a stranger, wasn’t that every woman’s fantasy? Who would know? A young man, handsome and confident, in a place hidden by sanctity? Who would ever find out?

  ‘This will be the best ever, I promise,’ and she knew it was no idle boast. From the moment she’d set eyes on him, Cal had oozed sex.

  Claudia fought for control. Her pulse raced, her flesh was on fire. This was no callow youth fumbling his way over her breasts or trying to press up against her. Cal’s seduction was moulded. A shudder ran through her body. His touch, when it came, would be light and exploratory. Take its time…

  ‘Go with it,’ he urged, and still he had not so much as kissed her. ‘Don’t fight what’s inside you.’ When his thumbs moved up to caress her cheekbones, she knew he was aware of her trembling. ‘Let me give you,’ he rasped, ‘super sex.’

  ‘In that case, Cal.’ Was that strangled voice hers? ‘I’ll have the soup now and take a raincheck on the sex.’

  He laughed, and the laughter was good, and Claudia found herself respecting the man who backed off when he knew the answer was no. Indeed, her heart raced that little bit faster.

  ‘Oh, Claudia, there are so many things I must show you,’ he whispered. One finger hooked a wayward curl and gently released it. ‘But for now, let me impart one more mystery.’ He pointed towards the back of the cave. ‘Do you see it?’

  She blinked at the yawning blackness to the right of the cistern. ‘A tunnel?’

  ‘Apertures have been gouged in the rock to let in light and once you acclimatize to the gloom and that rather steep slope, you’ll be fine. Trust me.’

  Claudia hesitated. That passageway looked less than inviting…

  ‘Chicken!’ Grabbing her hand, he raced towards the gaping hole, leaving her no option but to tumble behind him.

  The tunnel smelled of mildew and copper and had a faint whiff of fish, but Calvus was right. Once you got used to the punctuations of light then dark, light then dark, the way was smooth, being tamped earth—and it was also exciting. A secret underpass, he explained, a shortcut from the temple down to the lake, passing directly beneath the sun porch and emerging…

  ‘Ta-da!’ He gave a theatrical flourish of the wrist.

  ‘Ooh, a thicket of alder and willow, how lovely.’

  Cal aimed a mock punch and pointed upwards through a gap in the greenery to where, forty feet above, rose the colonnade which surrounded the little domed loggia which in turn led off the famous Athens Canal.

  In spite of herself, Claudia was impressed. ‘How many secrets have you uncovered here, Cal?’

  ‘Me, I know everything,’ he said with exaggerated loudness. ‘In fact as long as one understands the golden rule here, one understands everything.’

  Claudia tilted her head on one side. ‘And what, pray, is this golden rule?’

  ‘That whoever owns the gold, rules. Now.’ With the back of his hand, he shooed her away. ‘Off you go, Claudia Seferius, get the exploring out of your system and when you return, we’ll settle down to some serious flirting.’

  Will we, indeed?

  ‘I’ll be waiting,’ he said, ‘right here, on this spot.’ He leaned his weight against the rock and crossed his arms over his chest. ‘With a picnic of lobsters and mussels, peaches and cherries, which we’ll wash down with a jug of chilled hyssop wine, and as the sun sets over the lake I’ll tell you why Pylades named this place Atlantis.’

  ‘You’ll be wasting your time,’ she warned, working her way out of the thicket to where, across a rough patch of grassland, a tethered flotilla of fishing boats bobbed on the lazy blue water.

  In the shade of his upturned coracle, a fisherman snored open-mouthed, the net he’d been mending half submerged in the water, his heather needle slack in his hand. From the reed-beds, a single moorhen croaked, and flies buzzed round a dead fish washed up on the shingle.

  The spell had been broken back there in the cave. Claudia was no longer tempted by the touch of Cal’s flesh—furtive couplings were not the answer to either her problems or his. But all the same, she knew with full certainty that, despite the numerous paths which led back to Atlantis, Claudia Seferius would return to that tunnel to share a jug of chilled wine with a young extrovert who knew too many secrets.

  Including (who knows?) her own.

  IV

  Phew, it was hot! You’d think a stretch of water five miles by six would afford at least a modicum of relief, but no. On the foreshore it was as sticky as ever and Claudia’s fan turned out to be a waste of seven sesterces. The humidity transformed crisp parchment into limp lettuce and Claudia lobbed the folded fan like a javelin into the lake, but the margins proved shallow and its boxwood frame lodged in the silt, sticking out like a defiant childish tongue.

  Still. If one cave had been gouged out of the rocks, by heavens, there’d almost certainly be a number of others.

  Unhooking a small grey boat from the jetty, Claudia headed for the island closest to the promontory and whose slopes, like the cliff on which Atlantis was perched, rose almost vertically from the water. According to the man who’d carried her luggage, the island had remained uninhabited until, attracted by Pylades’ development, a rich banker decided this would make a perfect place for retirement. Clearing the wooded slopes along the southern shore, he built himself the sumptuous Villa Tuder (modestly named after himself) and systematically indulged the place with riches including a fifty-foot-high statue of a man, his hand outstretched in supplication to the dawn, although from this distance it was impossible to make out more than a hazy glimmer of the villa, let alone any embellishments.

  However, Claudia had no desire to mingle with bankers, retired or otherwise. That north shore, she suspected, would be deep in shade right now, and undoubtedly oozing with caverns, cool and dark and running with water.

  The blades sucked and slurped as the rowboat cleaved a course across the still, blue waters. Some idiot on the road said the island was dangerous, a place to avoid after a group of yobs set loose a boar a couple of days ago as a joke. Clearly he was winding her up, otherwise he’d know, as she did from experience of the creatures which roamed her own
estate, that boar were timid beasts. Granted they got a little humpy when they had a litter to protect, but the only problem Claudia had experienced was keeping them away from the vines, whose tender young shoots appealed so wholeheartedly to their taste buds. So no. One hairy pig was not a problem. It was this stifling, unbreathable heat.

  Across the wide expanse of water, Atlantis shimmered like smoke from a candle, diffusing the landscape so that the building merged with the lake and the sky. There were, she supposed, worse places to lie low, but without dice? Without theatrical performances and dazzling displays in the arena? Atlantis had got off to a promising enough start, but without leopards pitted against tigers or dancing elephants to cheer, it looked like being a bloody long break from civilization.

  Tying the little boat to a stem of wild cane, Claudia waded ashore and stripped off her pink cotton robe, draping it over a juniper bush. Now about that babbling brook…

  Soft sandals made no sound on leaf litter moist from prolonged humidity, it was like walking on sponge, and the woods were eerily still. No birds, no rustle of leaves, no scamper of squirrels, just the incessant sawing of crickets. Even bees would wait until the sun angled low before raiding the brambles and banks of wild mint. Amplified by the heat, the fragrance of white clematis and pines scented the air, and the oaks and the beech wafted out waves of tranquillity.

  What was that?

  Claudia paused by a poplar and listened. There it was again. A scuffling sound. Like a barrel rolling through scrub. And again.

  ‘Hello?’ Her voice sounded thin, even to her own ears. She lowered the pitch. ‘Anyone there?’

  The shuffle ceased, and then she remembered the boar. Good! Now it had heard her, it would either retreat or stand still and idly she wondered whether it would be lonely out here or whether the yobs, in their ignorance, had released it among a herd of its kind.