by Marilyn Todd
One fist would clutch his wicked, curved blade, the other a torch to see by. His back would be bowed as he passed beneath the lintel, his movements slow. Suspicious. While his eyes searched forward, Claudia would spring. Land on his back. Her knife would slice through the top of his spine.
He’d be dead. She’d be free. Cal would be avenged, as she’d promised.
But! Her pulse raced with the tension. How long before Pul became curious? How long before he decided to check?
With a splutter, the candle in the tomb flickered and died.
XXXIX
Dizzy from exhaustion, the drug and the heat, Claudia twisted uncomfortably on her roost above the doorway. Funny how you lose track of time in the dark. Hours could have passed. Or just minutes. She wondered whether the lightning would have burned itself out yet. Had Drusilla had enough supper? Would her vineyards be scorched by the time she inspected them, leaving her bankrupt, the business in tatters?
She shifted position again, conscious of stone gouging out more of her flesh and damning to hell the tomb builders who could have made a bit more effort on the lintels. The shreds of her tunic had been welded to her wounds with blood, and dried stiff. Claudia wriggled numb toes and flexed aching arms. Come on, Pul. Surely you’ve noticed by now?
More time passed, yet not once did she regret being poised up here for attack. Sure it was unpleasant, but this happened to be the only place in this wretched subterranean prison where she would have the advantage.
Legs which were bare from the thighs down began to feel every pitting of stone. Come on, Pul. Earn your keep. Go out on patrol.
Nothing happened.
Claudia’s throat was swollen and throbbing from thirst. What the hell had Lais slipped her? Colchicum? No, she’d be retching by now, feeling cold. Probably pheasant’s eye, the Adonis plant. Mixed with the juice of the prickly lettuce. The bitch. But she wouldn’t get away with it. Sooner or later, Pul would have to check on his captive—
What was that? Yes, that scratching sound? There it was again. A scraping. Grating. Like stone, yee-ha, wrenching on stone…
All right, you bastard. Come and get it!
For what seemed an eternity, Claudia waited as the mighty slab was rolled aside. The whole tomb seemed to shake when it landed. She held her breath as tightly as the thin-bladed knife…
Cautious footsteps padded down the steep incline of the tunnel. A voice whispered her name, calling… To fool her. To lull her into trusting him. Dear Diana, did he think she was stupid? A rumble of thunder echoed through the underground chambers like the roar of the Minotaur. Claudia stiffened. The pain in her lungs was intense. The Oriental paused before ducking under the doorway. Claudia was poised. She’d been over this moment a hundred times in her head. The second he passed through, she’d dive on his back, knocking him flat to the ground. She’d lunge for his topknot with one hand. With the other, she’d bring down her blade—
‘Claudia,’ came a sibilant hiss.
It was the first time she’d actually heard the sound of his voice. The accent was guttural. It reminded her of—
‘Are you there?’
Damn right I am, buster. As Pul ducked beneath the lintel, she sprang. Down he went. Flat. She grabbed the topknot. There was more of it than she thought. Her right hand went up. Lightning flashed. The blade came down. Hard. And bounced right off the stone floor…
‘Tarraco?’ The guttural accent. The mane of hair. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘Hey.’ The Spaniard spat out the dust from his mouth. ‘You complaining?’
‘I damn near killed you, you oaf.’ She rolled off his back and stood up. ‘Had the storm petered out, you’d be dead.’ But for that one spear of light…
‘Maybe.’ He shrugged, and she could have killed him then and there for pure insolence. ‘Now I suggest we get out of here, yes?’
Good idea. Spinning on her heel, Claudia raced behind him up the passageway. He was no longer wearing the coarse workman’s tunic he’d been given in jail. He was back in hunter attire, short to the knee, one shoulder bare. This time, Tarraco was dressed to kill. At the entrance, he jerked his thumb towards the granite slab.
‘How did you shift it?’
‘How come you’re back on this island?’ she countered. For a second, she feared she could smell double-cross as strong as the scent of woodshavings and pine and the storm which whipped up the water.
A flash of white teeth shone through the black of the night. ‘I am ten miles up the road, and I think, why? Why should I leave all this money behind?’ Tarraco picked up a quiver of arrows and slung it over his back. ‘Lais is dead, I did not kill her, why should I not take what is mine?’ He shouldered a bow and picked up the spear which leaned against the jamb of the entrance. ‘So I row back out here, to the north side, where I know no soldier will keep watch, and I creep round to the villa. But what do I see? Not guards, but Cyrus. The tribune himself. He’s with Pul and they’re laughing and drinking my wine on my terrace. I wait—and then who else comes along? My dear, sweet wife, Lais! Is clear then I am set up and sure enough, they start boasting about it. Laughing at me.’ He spread his hands expressively. ‘Now I must kill them.’
‘How did you find me?’ Claudia asked.
‘I come down to fill the boats with holes, but of course I cannot take the main road, so to speak, and that is how I see your flag sticking out of the entrance. Did anyone ever tell you what pretty knees you have, by the way?’
In the darkness, Claudia flushed. It was like the very first time, with the bear…
‘I must go,’ Tarraco said. ‘Soon dawn will break, the advantage of night will be lost.’
‘For gods’ sake,’ Claudia hissed, ‘you can’t tackle them all by yourself. Half the slaves are in on the payroll, we have to fetch help.’
I can’t wait to see Supersnoop’s face when I tell him about this! He’ll be eating humble pie for a month.
‘There is no help,’ Tarraco said soberly. ‘I’m on my own here.’
‘Nonsense. Cyrus might be corrupt, but the others aren’t, and I’ll bet you a copper quadran to a denarius that Marcus Cornelius is rounding up the soldiers, the entire garrison will be landing any minute.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Claudia had to strain to catch his words in the storm.
‘You don’t know Supersnoop.’ She laughed. ‘Him, miss the kudos of this?’
‘Claudia.’ There was a sound in his throat which she could not interpret. ‘Claudia, I have bad news, I’m afraid.’
An earthquake shook Tuder’s island and her knees fell away. Everything swam. Became viscous. Obscure. ‘How bad?’ she asked.
‘The worst.’ She heard him gulp. ‘Claudia, Marcus is dead.’
‘D-don’t be s-silly.’ He can’t be. Not Loverboy.
Tarraco’s face was twisted in pain. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and strangely she believed that he meant it. ‘Come.’ A strong hand latched round her wrist and hauled Claudia to her feet. ‘Perhaps you believe, if you see for yourself.’
*
He lay there, on his back, under a willow.
Wide-spreading branches hung over him. Concealing. Protecting. Discreet.
For a moment, Claudia simply stood there, admiring the tree, its elegant lines, its silky green leaves, the way it forked out from the base. Such a pretty tree. Spoiled by the puddle of red which leached into its roots. By the sprawl of the man who lay under it.
His face was so white. White as his bleached linen tunic. Except for the breast, where the blood had soaked through. She brushed the branches aside, and saw skid marks where he’d been dragged. Tarraco? More likely Pul. Blood matted the curls in his hair and ran down his face, to mingle with the blood round his neck. The blood ran in a perfect semi-circle…
Somehow her fingers were twisting themselves in his curls and she heard someone yelling. It was a woman’s voice, berating Apollo, for whom the willow was sacred.
‘You’re suppose
d to be the god of healing,’ she bawled. ‘Why can’t you heal this?’
Vaguely Claudia thought the voice might be hers.
The rains had begun. She could hear the droplets drumming on the leather leaves, bouncing off the hard-baked soil. They were running down her cheeks. They were salty.
‘Orbilio, you idiot,’ she said softly. ‘What did you have to do this for?’
Anger began to well in her breast. The fool! How could he have been so reckless, so stupid, as to come here alone? Her fingers were digging into his shoulders as she shook his lifeless body. So bloody arrogant, you thought you could take on the world single-handed! Bright red drops of rain spurted into her face, her lap, her eyes. Selfish pig. Never a thought for anyone else—Wait a sec! Do dead bodies bleed…?
‘He’s alive,’ she yelled at the top of her voice. ‘Marcus is bloody alive!’
‘Not for much longer,’ a baritone said dryly, ‘if you continue to shake him like that.’
Through the tears which coursed down her face, Claudia watched his long, curling eyelashes flutter and part and saw the smile which tweaked at one side of his bloodless, pale lips.
For once in her life, she had no rejoinder.
XL
Rain was belting down in earnest, stippling the lake and bouncing off the octagonal slabs of the path as it filled the air with the smell of freshly turned soil and the perfume of a million and one flowers. Hands on hips, Claudia stood in the cleansing torrent, her hair and her bodice plastered to her skin, and jotted down a mental note to sacrifice a bull, when she returned to Rome, to flame-haired Apollo. Who might (just might) have been listening…
Orbilio’s story was simple. Suspecting Tarraco would go to ground on his own territory, he had come out here to confront him and instead had seen, walking along the colonnade, the ghost of the woman he’d fished out of the lake. Moreover, she was conferring with the very man who’d lent his strong arm to assist! While Orbilio’s mind was absorbing this new arrangement, the woman clicked her fingers to dismiss her moustachioed henchman and the scales had fallen from Marcus’ eyes. This was Lais, not a ghost, but in the flesh, who had obviously murdered her double! Which turned the whole issue on its head and it was Lais, he realized, not Tarraco, behind the racket. Behind the rash of premature deaths in Atlantis.
Arresting her was easy, he said, although Orbilio’s voice dropped to a muted mumble at the part where he was forced to admit that he’d misjudged his prisoner’s vicious streak. A knife had sprung out of nowhere and slashed at his neck. Only his height and his instinct had saved him. The one, because in straining upwards, Lais had inflicted nothing worse than a flesh wound. The other, because in jumping backwards, he slipped on a loose lump of rock (hence the skid marks) and knocked himself out on the bole of the tree. Believing she’d succeeded in slitting his throat, Lais had left him for dead.
‘It is too close to dawn,’ Tarraco pointed out, when Orbilio suggested they row back to fetch reinforcements. ‘Come daylight, they will be on their guard. I must act now, while I have the advantage.’
‘Count me in, then,’ he’d said, but the Spaniard refused to even help him to his feet.
‘You’ve lost too much blood,’ he sneered, propping him against the tree trunk instead. ‘You will be liability to me, not asset.’ Expertly, he ripped Orbilio’s tunic into bandages and wound them round his neck and head, his fingers none too gentle on the lump. ‘Stay here,’ he ordered, handing over his broad, hunting dagger. ‘Keep a lookout, and you,’ he barked at Claudia. ‘You stay with him.’
‘While you go fighting one against thirty?’ How bloody typical,
‘I have quiver and bow.’ Tarraco grinned. ‘And I have plan. You wait here.’
But he should have known he was wasting his breath. As he padded towards the villa, a flash of yellow appeared at his shoulder. ‘Just curious.’ She shrugged. ‘Wondering how you plan to take on the whole gang single-handed.’
‘Easy.’ He laughed. ‘You watch this.’ And hefting a large jug of olive oil on to his shoulder from where he’d hidden it behind a potted palm, he scurried along the far wall of the villa, pausing to pour oil under each door as he passed and leaving a trickle which joined them all up. ‘Is what we Spaniards call a diversion,’ he said, arching one eyebrow in jest.
Claudia’s heart was pounding. Any minute someone could walk out of the villa. Catch them…
‘What about the rain?’ she asked. Surely it would extinguish the flames?
Tarraco’s response was a snort of disgust at so juvenile a question, but a second thought had occurred to her. Sure, the wooden doors would catch fire, the drapes inside, the tapestries, the rugs, the upholstery. But so too— ‘Once this fire takes hold,’ she said, ‘the whole house will go up—’ she paused to make sure he was listening ‘—with every antique and treasure.’
The olive oil faltered mid-pour. ‘Yes,’ he whispered, ‘I know.’ Then the flow continued at its old, steady rate, and despite the thunderclaps and the hammering of the rain, Claudia could hear her heart pounding louder.
‘So.’ He dribbled out the last few drops of oil and tossed his long mane back over his shoulders. ‘Are you ready?’
Will I ever be? Claudia drew a deep breath. ‘Naturally.’
‘Then stand back,’ Tarraco said. ‘It begins.’
*
Looking back, so many things happened at once that Claudia had trouble piecing them together. The rain didn’t help. Torrential, obscuring, drumming down on the paths and the roofs. Thunder, lightning, a dozen fires breaking out. From every door, screaming figures burst forth and, if they weren’t in a state of advanced hysteria as they came out, then the hail of arrows Tarraco loosed from his bow quickly hastened it.
‘The army,’ someone shouted. ‘They have us surrounded.’
‘Run for the boats!’
‘Too late, they’ve been holed!’
‘The north shore,’ someone else yelled. ‘Head for the north shore and swim.’
Like a swarm of angry bees, the servants scuttled up the hill, while behind them, the western wing of the villa crackled like the dry tinder that it was. Windows popped, fireballs ran through the corridors, fanned by the swirl of the storm. Tiles fell in, smashing, crashing, as flames licked along wooden floors and gobbled up dry timber rafters. The smell of burning oil mingled with the stench of peeling paint and plaster, of wool and cotton and hemp. In the kitchens, pots cracked in the heat, glass exploded, shelves collapsed as they burned through, dashing jars and crocks to the floor. The stink of burning pepper, leather and vinegar turned the night into acid.
His quiver empty, Tarraco hurled it into the flames. ‘Bastard,’ he spat. ‘Lais didn’t fall for it.’
Claudia followed his gaze. Whilst the flames swirled high into the air along the domestic quarters and storerooms, the atrium and the courtyard had halted their progress. Even fire couldn’t find a purchase on marble. And beyond the atrium, in the calm lee of the peristyle, the gangleaders toughed it out.
‘I suppose that was the end of the oil?’
In reply, Tarraco flung his bow into the furnace and kicked a flowerpot at his feet. ‘I should have risked being seen in the courtyard,’ he spat. ‘I should have poured the oil through that hidden door first.’
He was wrong, of course. Despite the lateness of the hour, such was the state of emergency on the island that few were asleep. Tarraco would have been dead the first time he set foot in the garden. But as he stormed up and down, chewing on his knuckles and swearing at himself under his breath, Claudia knew that to point this out would not quell his anger.
‘Here,’ she called.
With his face black from temper and smoke, Tarraco turned towards her. Just in time to catch the spear which came flying towards him. ‘What’s this for?’ he growled.
As the roof of the storehouse collapsed in on itself, Claudia jabbed a finger in the direction of Lais’ chamber. ‘I thought it was about time we hunted some bears,’ she
said.
There’s at least one hide I want nailed to my wall.
XLI
They may not have fallen for the cheap diversion, but Lais and her cronies were far from relaxed. One peep behind the second tapestry revealed four people in varying degrees of agitation.
On the left, Cyrus, half-drunk, throwing his chubby hands in the air in a frantic effort to convince Kamar that the fire was the result of a lightning strike on the villa. Janus-fucking-Croesus, how could it be the army? He was the tribune, for gods’ sake, didn’t he have the garrison firmly under control? No buts, Kamar, that was hysteria spewing from the mouths of frightened slaves. They too, he snarled, hand on his scabbard, were overreacting.
At the far end of the room, Pul had his great curved blade drawn and was swishing it about in a series of practice decapitations, and Lais, the Queen herself, was marching up and down the lamplit chamber, clenching and unclenching her fists, shouting to everyone to sit down. Just sit down and shut the fuck up.
‘Now,’ Claudia whispered. There’d never be a better time, they were rattled and edgy and, despite how they saw themselves, all four were offguard at the moment. ‘I’ll take Lais and Kamar,’ she hissed, ‘and leave the soft touches for you.’
Beside the Argonaut tapestry, Tarraco grinned and hefted the spear in his hand. ‘Are you sure?’ he mouthed back. ‘Is not too late to swap.’
Out in the courtyard, a spark from the west wing dodged the raindrops and was caught by the long line of clipped box. For a count of five, it was touch and go between wet leaves and oily resins, then whoosh! Half a bush was alight in an instant.
Claudia and Tarraco watched the flames zip along the line and exchanged glances. What he had failed to achieve, nature amended. Another minute and the fire would spread to this wing…
Claudia’s eyes flashed to the bed and the bulky tables and chests. There was only one way into that room. Therefore only one exit. She swallowed hard. An hour ago, in the underground tomb, she would cheerfully have barricaded Lais into her den and set light to the fire herself. But that was theory. This was practice. Could she hack it in cold blood?
