Dream Boat

by Marilyn Todd

  He jabbed his fingers through his hair and felt them tangle. Him and his big mouth! Between them, they were driving her away and without Claudia around to bring chaos to his life, he'd be consigned to nothing more than living death.

  Existing in a vacuum: colourless, expressionless, without light or warmth or feature.

  'Unfortunately, I need a favour and, regrettable as it is, you're the only one who can help.' She fixed a hard gaze upon his water clock, the one fashioned like a temple, and clamped her luscious lips. 'I shall pay you, of course.'

  'Claudia!' A nail drove itself into his heart.

  'The problem, you see, is Junius.'

  Junius! The name cut through Orbilio like a Persian scimitar. Was this another Olympian joke at his expense? Mother of Tarquin, how many times had he lain awake at night, tormented by thoughts about the relationship between Junius and Claudia. Torrid images kept him from his sleep: the Gaul's corrugated musculature, his thick head of sandy-coloured hair, his strong, proud back - how familiar was Claudia with the body of her bodyguard? More than once Junius had been offered cash to buy his freedom, yet he'd never bothered and Marcus knew the reason. That fierce Gaulish scrutiny was directed on Claudia -and Claudia alone - indoors, and when outdoors his eyes would range in an ever-vigilant sweep to isolate potential threats of danger. That intensity burned deeper than any slavely duty, but the question was: was it reciprocated? Orbilio felt it a safe bet that the boy didn't always scowl and when his face was creased in smiles, it would become very, very handsome. A mongoose sank its fangs deep inside his gut and would not release its grip.

  'Your . . . bodyguard?' Does he cup your face in his hands and cover it with kisses? Do you hunger for his touch, the way I yearn for yours? 'What about him?'

  While bats squeaked as they foraged on the wing and moths fluttered round the torches in the garden, Claudia explained about the kidnap note, the later demand for ransom, how she'd set a trap to catch the messenger, Flea, who, it transpired, turned out to be Flavia's accomplice, and the reason Claudia was lugging her round like a monkey on a leash was that sooner or later that little bitch would tell her where Flavia was hiding and then she'd hang them both up by their earlobes and use

  them as a pair of dartboards. All this, her icy tones stressed, had not emerged till later. At noon, it had looked as though their only hope of getting Flavia back alive was to set a trap, with Junius in disguise.

  And, granite-faced, Orbilio was forced to listen.

  The mongoose sank its teeth in even deeper and began to shake its prey.

  He pictured them, Claudia and the young Gaul, their faces so close together they could scent each other's breath, plotting, scheming, laughing softly. Were they sipping wine - eating sweetmeats - as they made their plans in secret? Were they touching? Mother of Tarquin, were they (here the mongoose tore out shreds) were they even clothed?

  'As a result,' she finished coldly, 'Junius has been arrested and faces death without a trial.'

  Good, he wanted to shout. There goes any further prospects of Claudia sharing secrets, wine and heaven knows what with that cocky little bastard! 'And you want me to bail him out?'

  'Yes.' She spoke through clenched teeth and refused to look anywhere but up at his gutterspout. 'Will you do it?'

  He listened to the chatter of the fountain, the clatter from the kitchens, the rumbles of the jars of wine and olive oil being rolled up from the cellars and the legionary's armour clinking when he shifted position. Nearby, in the public park, an owl hooted.

  'Marcus. Please.' There was a catch in her voice. 'You can't let him die!'

  'Can't I?' Involuntarily he let out a short laugh. At least he knew which way the wind blew with her and that bloody Gaul and the minute he could, Orbilio vowed to visit the Temple of Jupiter and throw stones at the King of Heaven's statue. 'Oh, can't I, really! Follow me.'

  Like a concussion victim, he staggered down the path. Beyond the kitchens. Beyond his office. His hand, he noticed, was shaking as he plucked a torch from its bracket on the wall. All these months, he'd fantasised about Claudia sweeping in, begging him to extricate her from her latest escapade. In his

  imagination, he'd solved the problem swiftly and efficiently, winning her undying gratitude, so that next time they met, it would be with a pool of water at her feet where the ice had melted away. What happens, when she finally calls on him?

  'Orbilio!' Her voice snapped him out of his reverie. 'Orbilio, have you been sniffing the hemp seeds again?'

  No, he thought dryly. The only thing I've been smelling is my own goose cooking! He held the torch high above their heads to light the half-demolished wall.

  'Janus!' Claudia leapt at its ugly revelations, but only to rip the torch out of his hand. 'That's one helluva hole in its skull,' she said, peering into the cavity, 'and - oh, yuk! A knife still stuck in the ribs.'

  'I think we can safely rule out suicide.'

  'Really?' she flashed back. 'And I thought you were a resourceful lot, your family. I'll bet, when they finish tearing this wall down, you'll find a pot of plaster inside and a trowel.' Her grin faded like the dog star at dawn. 'Look, I know this is murder, Marcus, and very serious, but I don't see how—'

  'It affects your bodyguard?'

  'Exactly. I mean, this is hardly last week's crime,' she said, running her finger over the skeleton's collarbone. 'Whereas Junius . . .'

  She let her voice trail off, and Orbilio followed her thoughts. Tomorrow was Thursday, the start of the Games of Apollo. Traditionally the dungeons used the third day to dispose of their unwelcome guests in the arena.

  Orbilio rubbed his weary cheeks. 'Suppose I told you I've been dismissed from the Security Police, my seals and passkeys confiscated?'

  'That's preposterous!' Claudia spun round to face him. 'You didn't murder this chap!'

  'No, I didn't. Neither did I wall him up inside my plaster. But while your confidence is appreciated,' more than words could ever express, 'it's unfortunate that my boss does not share your view.'

  For so long it had rankled the Head of the Security Police

  that Orbilio was a patrician while he himself came from an equestrian background. That Orbilio dined with magistrates and senators, never mind that these were his uncles and cousins and in-laws, all his boss saw was a jumped-up employee rubbing shoulders with men who in turn rubbed their own shoulder blades with the Emperor and who deliberately, or so he felt, excluded him from their 'club'.

  His boss didn't give a toss about villains, corruption or insurrection. He had wormed his way up the greasy ladder of ambition, a rung here, a rung there, using bribery, flattery and blackmail as stepping stones until he'd reached the top. Where even here he believed himself snubbed.

  What better chance to get his own back on 'Old Money'?

  'You may have noticed my praetorian visitors,' Marcus said thickly. He paused and shot her a taut grin. 'Not an obvious choice of guests, but then the choice was not mine to make.'

  His boss had wasted no time. Marcus Cornelius Orbilio was to remain under house arrest until this murder was solved.

  Chapter Twelve

  Down in the Cradle of Ra, the communal prayers for the god's safe transport through the Realm of Darkness were long over. Dinner had been cleared away hours ago, a simple repast of bacon, onions and lentils washed down with barley beer, and soft snores emanated from the dormitory blocks. Berenice was not close to sleep.

  She felt old.

  Older than her two and twenty summers, older than the hills which surrounded this lush valley, older than the Mount of Osiris which watched over them. Tears welled in her eyes. She had missed both prayers and dinner, the first because she'd been banned from attending while her baby continued to cry (some bitch called it grizzling), and the latter because she had no appetite and was truly sick of bacon. Why couldn't they have fish for a change?

  'We are self-contained,' the High Priest had replied, when she took him to task over the matter. 'Our valley sustains
us with wheat and fruit and vegetables, we have a garden for our herbs, pastures for our cattle, sheep and pigs. Ducks and geese and chickens give us eggs, and Ra himself has favoured us with a spring of sweet water from which issues forth a stream to wash our linens and flush out our latrines and bath house, but there is no trout stream running through our valley. We have no salmon spawning. Are we therefore not prepared to live without fish, Berenice?'

  She had felt her cheeks burn with shame, yet he pressed relentlessly on.

  'Do you, Berenice, deny that this is Paradise and that we

  are the Children of the Blessed?'

  'Blessed are we, thanks be to Ra.' The automatic chorus could hardly skip past her tongue, she felt selfish, mean and ungrateful. She had spoken to the High Priest as though this was some holiday retreat and, quite rightly, he had put her firmly in her place. This was her home. Did she not like it? The question was risible! It simply took some adjusting, that's all, and perhaps it was this contrast which spurred people -Romans, no less - to tear down what the Pharaoh Mentu had built. No matter how hard she tried, Berenice could not begin to guess at their motives. Jealousy? Spite? Revenge on those who'd turned their back on the Roman way of life?

  'Beware the enemies of Ra!' Mentu, dressed as Osiris with his blue painted face and gold mask, repeated his warning every night as the Boat of a Million Years returned to the temple to make its voyage through the underworld. 'For they seek to destroy us!'

  To destroy this idyll? Berenice would die - no, she would kill - to preserve what the Ten True Gods had founded in this valley. The High Priest, with his shining shaven head and low brow ridge, was right. This was Paradise. Ra had given her hope and love and self-respect, and if this meant spending her days pollinating fig trees, clipping fleeces or following the harvesters to glean the ears of barley left behind, so be it.

  But for two days now her son had been fretting, his face was flushed and, as of this afternoon, a light purple rash had spread down his back. Berenice ran the back of her little finger across his burning forehead. He was only five months old and there had been moments, especially today, when she regretted leaving behind the squad of nurses and nannies she would have had fussing around him at home.

  'Ssssh. Ssh, little one, you'll be all right in the morning.'

  Berenice looked up at the silent, thickly wooded hills. She was tired, she thought. Overwrought and over-reacting. The very notion of leaving here, of returning to her former, pampered life, was disloyal both to Mentu and to Ra, and her cheeks flushed with contrition. Yet, as she rocked her infant

  son, the thought still niggled that a commune without slavery, with everybody equal, was all very well, but when one is used to having servants do this, servants do that, the days can be pretty exhausting.

  Stop this, Berenice! Stop it at once. You're tired, worried and exhausted by the heat. Once the baby recovers, you'll be fine.

  The pungent smell of chives and basil wafted from the herb garden. Suppose, though, her son had fallen ill, because its mother was unhappy? That had to be a possibility.

  How she wished she had someone to talk to! Family, friends, someone to confide in, help her get a perspective. Dear me, they were friendly enough, the folk here, but they weren't the type one could indulge in with weighty, in-depth discussions, or have a laugh or a gossip. They were serious, pious and dedicated and, unlike Berenice, not stifled by the constant repetition. The endless succession of prayers, the repetitive rituals, the fact that one never thought for oneself, was even allotted the clothes on one's back - one set for work, the other for rest, and each set identical to his neighbour's, right down to the conformist jewellery and unguents. Weeks ago, Berenice had stopped using that sickly concoction of myrrh and cloves, it had started to make her feel queasy. What was wrong with using lemon balm on her skin? Or having fish for a change for her dinner!

  'Sssh, darling, ssh. I'll make you better, Mummy promise.'

  As the long night wore on, she tried to recall what might be happening back home, but because she'd abandoned the Roman calendar willingly in favour of the Pharaoh's ten-day weeks, his ten-month years, Berenice had lost track of 'proper' time. According to the High Priest, this was the Month of the Crocodile. Did that mean it was July already? Berenice could not remember, everything was the same every single day.

  Why should this concept grate? she wondered. Why on her and her alone? The others were happy enough, why wasn't she? Tears welled in her eyes. Crumbs, this was what she'd wanted, wasn't it? Longed for? Her whole life orchestrated

  for her, removing the responsibility of thinking for herself? It had been worth every silver denarius she'd donated for a routine which had been soft and soothing on her mind, but today - why did she long for home all of a sudden?

  'Come on, darling, take a drink.'

  But the child refused her breast. It must be the baby. She sighed. This is so beautiful, this valley, so calm and peaceful. When he's better, I'll be better. She kissed his downy head. Or was he sick because of her? Picking up on her anxiety?

  Spinning thoughts jumbled her mind as Berenice closed the door on her darkened bedroom. She laid the snuffling infant in his cradle, undid the straps of her gown and let it fall to the floor. Heavens, had she ever known such heat! She moved to the basin on the table to rinse her face and body, when she pulled up short. A goblet had appeared! Berenice sniffed. Wine!

  'Will you look at that!' she whispered softly to the baby. She hadn't tasted wine since she had arrived here last autumn, pregnant with the child who was not her husband's. 'A gift from the gods!'

  Only the Ten True Gods were allowed wine to drink, the faithful were given beer. Berenice gulped it down, savouring the richness as it trickled down her throat. Strange, not drinking it for so long, she'd forgotten what it tasted like. Far sweeter than she remembered.

  'Oh!' The room began to spin. 'Silly Mummy.' She giggled. 'Drank too fast and feels all woozy.'

  She slumped down on the bed, black waves sweeping over her. When she tried to move, she couldn't. The door to her bedroom opened, and misty eyes saw Hathor in the doorway, her coppery cloak sweeping the floor, the soft cow eyes turned on Berenice. She ought to be afraid, she thought, seeing visions in the early hours, but she wasn't. Hathor had come to help. Hathor had given her the wine.

  'Hathor looks after mothers with their calves,' the vision said, and Berenice thought it odd, such a deep voice for a goddess. 'Hathor has seven of her own.'

  I know, Berenice wanted to say. The Calves of Hathor weave the web of life. But her throat was paralysed, and she could say nothing as the goddess began to stroke her heavy, naked breasts.

  'As I thought, Berenice, the problem is your milk.' With each caress, the cow's breathing became heavier, turning into fast, rasping snorts. 'Give this,' Hathor said eventually, 'to your baby.' A small phial appeared from the folds of the loose metallic gown and was placed softly on the table. 'When he falls asleep, take him to the gates of the temple and leave him in his cradle.'

  Berenice wanted to cry in gratitude, but no tears, no words would come.

  'Providing you do as I say, Berenice, your son shall live.'

  The girl closed her eyes as the healing hands of Hathor squeezed the poison from her breasts.

  'When Ra brings the Kiss of Dawn to the valley, so shall he breathe the Kiss of Recovery on your son, but only - only Berenice! - if you lay this sacred amulet on the heart-shaped stone at the precise moment he turns his light upon your child. Will you do this, Berenice?'

  I will, she said inside her head, gazing with adoration at the pebble which, when one came to look carefully, looked just like any other little pebble. Who would imagine it held such strong healing powers? Silently, she repeated the directions. Twisted chestnut, blah-blah-blah, heart-shaped stone. I've got it. The directions are etched in my brain. Hathor swirled away into the night and Berenice, naked and cleansed, sighed contentedly. Oh, praise be to Ra! Surely I shall worship him all the days of my life!

/>   Chapter Thirteen

  Claudia sat on the pile of rubble in Orbilio's half-demolished storeroom and rubbed at the pain which throbbed in her temples. Like an invisible demon, the breeze from the marshes picked up splutters of sulphur from the torch, added to them the dry dust of cement and stirred the whole lot around to make a sticky, foul, unbreathable porridge called air.

  Face facts, Claudia. You're staring defeat in the whites of its eyes.

  In a few, very short hours, eight days of Games to honour Apollo will kick off with a procession from the Capitol, with people lining the streets, dancing, singing, everyone wearing floral garlands. The parade will then end at the Circus Maximus under the Palatine and, to a hymn accompanied by sacred flutes, an ox, a cow and two white goats will lay down their lives to Apollo, their horns gilded and beribboned, while banners hang from every balcony and roof. Claudia had organised kingfisher blue for hers, hundreds of them, streaming from the window sills and gutterspouts, draped around the thresholds front and back, and Junius, goddammit, would not live to see one of them!

  'I don't understand,' she said, as the pain in her forehead intensified. 'How can Flavia be innocent in law, when there's no question that she set up this abduction?'

  Orbilio perched on the pile of bricks beside her. 'People can't kidnap themselves,' he said wryly. 'The most she could face is conspiracy to defraud, but you said yourself, there were only rocks in the box and, before you say anything you might regret, Mistress Seferius, don't forget the goldsmith's

  a witness. No modifications to your testimony acceptable!' He shifted uncomfortably on the rubble. 'Therefore, since no monies have passed hands, no crime has been committed.'

  Bitch! Claudia chewed her lower lip. Of course, if Flavia hadn't actually collected the ransom, there was still time for a switch . . . oh, don't be stupid! The chances of Flavia leaving two thousand gold pieces lying untouched in the Camensis was about as likely as this skeleton dancing off into the dawn!

  'It's bloody unfair!' she said, spiking her hair. She knew that, at that moment, she would not have trusted herself with Flavia, fifteen years old or not. 'She walks away scot-free, while Junius gets to face a starving leopard.'