Dream Boat

by Marilyn Todd

  'Your prerogative.' A strange smile twisted half his face. 'Just bear in mind, Flea's won't be the first death sentence we've pronounced.'

  An icy blast blew straight in from the Arctic. It sucked her breath away. 'You—' Claudia cleared her throat and tried again. 'You don't execute someone for stealing a few trinkets off a boat,' she said, and her voice carried only the faintest hint of a quiver.

  'We do here,' Min replied cheerfully. 'Unless, of course, I put in a word for her tomorrow.'

  'And what would it take for you to plead her cause, I wonder.'

  'Oh, I think you know the answer.' His faded eyes cast the merest flash towards his bedroom door before they stripped the linen from her body. 'Woman of the world like you.'

  'Go to hell.'

  'Highly unlikely,' sneered the Grand Vizier. 'I don't force any woman into anything she doesn't want to do.'

  'Find yourself a dictionary and look up "tyranny" then.'

  The insult rolled off him like raindrops off an oily rag. 'Just ask yourself, m'dear, how much is that scrawny kid's life worth to you? Bugger all to me, I'll tell you that!'

  Min's mocking laughter echoed in the empty corridor long after he'd closed his bedroom door.

  In the arena in Rome, the executions were well under way. Fourteen hardened murderers and rapists had cried and begged

  and pleaded for the mercy of the people, only to have their mangled corpses hooked away, fresh sand thrown over their coagulated blood.

  The Armenian waited with a patience he had grown used to over the past seven years. Whatever beast the executioners had lined up for him could not be half as bad as the horrors inflicted by his master - the abuse, the beatings, the rapes, the humiliation. He was glad the bastard was dead, unable to inflict any further torture. Whatever he faced now, would be swift.

  His turn came. The charge was read out.

  '. . . slave charged with wearing the toga in public . . .'

  What? For a moment the Armenian could not believe his own ears. I killed my master, he wanted to shout. I stabbed him. A cruel and terrible man, he deserved it, I'm glad, I would cheerfully do it again.

  Then his endless patience kicked in, and he accepted that the nature of his crime didn't really matter. The Armenian had known, the instant he'd been shackled in that empty slot, that the previous occupant had only recently departed. With prisoners pouring in at such a rate, a gap doesn't hang about for long!

  He recalled the strange, faraway look in the Clerk's eyes. His words. 'It's a sad day,' he had said, 'when decency is repaid with inhumanity.'

  At the time, the Armenian thought he was addressing him. Later, though, he had not been so sure and now, with the stench of blood gagging at the back of his throat, he understood the Clerk of the Dungeons had been talking to himself.

  So then. The Clerk had released the slave who had been caught in the act of wearing the toga and had set the Armenian in his place. Not an oversight, then, the Clerk not writing down his name.

  Idly, as a wolf mad with fury was prodded with red-hot irons in its cage, he wondered what name he was scheduled to die under. And whether it mattered much that in the Afterlife he would arrive with a set of false papers.

  Fire was brandished at the wolf to enrage and terrify it further. The Armenian could see the poor beast had been starved. Its ribs showed through its dull and unkempt pelt, and there were scars on its back from ancient battle wounds. Naked, the Armenian made no attempt at modesty by turning his back on the crowd. The scars on his own back were not for public consumption.

  Finally - mercifully - the wolf was released from its cage. Maddened by the smoke, disorientated by the baying mob, it ran around in uncoordinated circles, until amber eyes flashed fire at the only living soul within its reach. It stopped and snarled out its hatred of mankind.

  The Armenian threw down the bar he'd been given for defence, and heard the crowd boo. They wanted a fight. They didn't want to see a man's throat ripped out cleanly. The stamp-stamp-stamp of feet began to reverberate around the pit.

  Stuff them, he thought. This is my day. I have earned the right to do what I want.

  The wolf began to bound across the sand, picking up speed. He could smell its rancid breath. Felt flecks of its saliva hot on his face. It sprang. He could see its fangs, long and yellow. In its amber eyes shone death.

  One. Two. Now! The Armenian slashed his arms against the beast's flying forelimbs. Snap. The wolf's eyes bulged. A racking sound came from the back of its maw. It jerked. Then fell on top of him. Stone dead.

  Mesmerised, the crowd roared and this time the stamping was ecstatic. To wild whistles, the umpire - dressed, as always, as Mercury, messenger of the gods - stepped into the arena. He prodded the wolf's nose with a hot iron and when the beast didn't move, pronounced life officially extinct. He turned to the audience and asked, should the victor live? Or shall he face a second encounter with the beasts?

  The spectators screamed so loud the Armenian couldn't hear. Didn't try. But this strange pounding in his heart was a sensation for which he would die happy.

  Eventually he identified it as pride.

  Through misty eyes, he gazed into the crowd. To a universal raising of the thumbs.

  'Junius, the Gaul,' the umpire intoned sombrely. 'You are free to return home, on the strict understanding that you never again impersonate a Roman citizen. Do you agree?'

  'I do.'

  'Can you confirm your mistress resides at the following address?'

  With tears drizzling down his cheeks and splashing in the sand, the Armenian was forced to admit that he didn't have a clue.

  They sent him to Claudia's anyway.

  For the young girl who'd been working in the laundry, the prospect of a wolf cleanly ripping out her throat was heaven.

  She would give anything for that.

  To be spared what Berenice had suffered. What she, herself, would have to endure.

  Straight away she'd recognised Berenice under the striking cobra's mask, even though the corpse was naked. There was no telling what had killed her. Not the bonds, they'd only ripped open the flesh as they dug in. Perhaps he'd slit her throat? Quick and clean. That way, she wouldn't see it coming.

  The girl's heart sank. Berenice's wounds had not been cleaned. Surely the blood from a cut throat would not have been mopped up and the others left to dry? There were no tell-tale arcs of red across the painted walls or on the bandaged remains of the others seated round the table. The laundress shuddered under her gag.

  Three chairs remained empty.

  Four masks lay on the table.

  One for her.

  Beyond tears, beyond pain, beyond hope, the girl wondered what terrible sins she had committed to warrant so barbarous a death.

  Outside the cave, footsteps crunched up the path. So far, she had not even seen the face of the man behind this

  sickening tableau - he'd worn the mask of the falcon, which he'd obviously taken from the corpse sitting opposite. She knew that, if she saw his face, she would recognise her killer. She wondered how much trust she'd placed in him in the past.

  The footsteps stopped. A strong hand pulled back the scrambling fig. Light flooded in. Her heart was pounding, she felt sick. Sweet Ra, she didn't want to die.

  At that point, the processes of decay began to take their inexorable toll on Berenice. And when the cobra mask lolled forward of its own accord, the girl from the laundry fainted dead away.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Orbilio's head weighed a ton. While he was napping, someone had taken out his brain and replaced it with a lump of granite. His eyeballs were on fire, his mouth had been filled with sand, there was a white-hot burning in the region round his liver. When a whiff of stale wine tickled his nostrils, he willed the nausea to pass. He did not want to think about what he had done. His memory gave him little choice. He leaned forward and was sick.

  Demons began beating the granite block with cymbals.

  He wanted to groan, b
ut his tongue had trebled in size and in the process had cemented itself to the roof of his mouth.

  Green spots danced before his open eyes. Red ones when he closed them.

  Resting his groggy frame against the wall, he reached inside his tunic and extracted the crumpled letter, waiting patiently until the handwriting settled into focus.

  Dear Sir,

  Further to your recent request, please be advised that we are right out of Gaulish hunting dogs at the present time. However, Armenian hounds are every bit as reliable and, in view of the urgency of your requirement, we shall ensure our best champion attends the forthcoming hunt.

  Your obedient servant, etc., etc., etc.

  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.