by Marilyn Todd
He counted. Eight. And only two to go!
Seth really could not believe his luck.
Chapter Thirty-two
Like other rites and rituals practised by the Brothers of Horus, the Festival of Lamps was another mishmash of Egyptian heritage blended and jumbled so effectively that they emerged at the other end as a single hybrid. A chimera. Like the sphinx, the ceremony was part this, part that, part something else, until eventually it took on its own identity.
Claudia was in danger of losing hers.
Marcus was not where he was supposed to be. Junius was not where he was supposed to be. Flea - am I repeating myself? - was not where she was supposed to be (because Claudia would have staked her life Flea would have headed straight for Doodlebug), and Flavia, bless her little cotton socks, was nowhere to be found.
So much for organisation!
Under the oppressive clouds, no moon shone down. The wooded hills stood black against the sky. Implacable. Remote. In the lampglow, the ceremonial pool shone like molten copper and around it women clutching burning brands huddled close, their bodies stiff with prayer, as the High Priest stood, hands outstretched and raised, entreating that this holy water receive the blessing of the sun god, from whom all life is made.
Resurrection. Regeneration. Fertility and potency. Powerful stuff, Claudia thought, powerful stuff the brothers were brewing.
And these Pyramidiots guzzled every last drop, their tongues even hanging out for more. How weird can you get, believing the sun's propelled by a bloody boat? For gods' sake, the sun's
the sun! Apollo might look after it, but he doesn't drive the damn thing.
More and more lamps were lit, until thousands of tiny flames flickered in the blackness, many stationery but others moving, tiny torches carried in the hands of individuals. A honey glow surrounded white-robed acolytes as they swung flaming censers outside the temple doors, others rolled a blazing hoop between the alabaster sphinxes, and still more carried shallow dishes of flames which dangled on triple-chained stems. You'd think that so many lights would make it bright, but in this twinkling maze Claudia couldn't see a sausage, much less recognise anybody, and frustration frayed her temper. Around now, Min would be keeping his appointment for their amorous liaison behind the House of Life. She smiled a wicked smile, and wondered how erotic itchy loin cloths were to him.
'Nasty place to have a rash, old chap. Why don't you take a dip in the heated indoor pool, followed by a long lie down?'
This was midnight, where the hell was everyone? Claudia had checked out the yard behind the storehouse. No Marcus. She'd hung around the stables. No Flea. She'd waited for Junius in the temple compound, and been handed a small lighted stick by a sanctimonious priestess. The torch was handy, because it was easy to become disorientated in this labyrinth of lamps, but surely five sensible adults could contrive to meet up at an appointed place?
Five. The number made her flesh crawl. Five men, one a certain killer, while who knows what hideous deeds the others might have perpetrated. They all had the capability. She shivered as she recalled Neco's fury when she'd burst in on his bout of self-flagellation. With his front-toothed whistle, he had reminded her of a striking cobra as he had reared up on his knees and hissed for her to get the fuck out of his room.
His venom clung. Long after she'd left the wing, long after the sun had set, oh how Neco's venomous whistle had stayed with her.
Despite the throbbing heat, the rasp of the cicadas, the flicker
of the flames, Claudia felt a chill run through to her bones.
And felt the breath of evil on the breeze.
Four men responsible for the daily running of the commune listened to the High Priest's chants and did not hear the words. Each man's thoughts were turned inwards, and their thoughts were turned on hell.
One saw it as a vision - literally the hell on earth spies and traitors must endure before they walk the Path of Righteous to the Fields of the Blessed in the Afterworld. The Ordeal of the Lakes. In his mind, he heard again and again the terrible screams of a youth, trussed like some sacrificial beast, roasted slowly over an open fire. That, the overseer thought, was bad, but the animal screeches when the poor kid was thrown into the boiling cauldron had haunted his dreams ever since. They made him fractious. Jumpy. Each day thereafter, he had relived the boy's execution, knowing in his heart of hearts that it had been wrong. Wicked, even, but although he held a powerful office in the commune, no one could overturn Mentu's decision once it was decreed. Therefore, each day had become a living hell, as he feared for fate of the next unfortunate . . .
For the second overseer, hell was something far more personal. He had fled his previous life because of the scandal which had been about to erupt, expecting to put it all behind him in the peaceful running of this commune. Hoping that, by immersing himself in daily commerce here, he might forget: pretend that he was normal; convince himself that he was just like any other man. Oh, how quickly he'd found out! How soon he'd realised he could not leave this dreadful thing behind! Each day he was tormented, each waking hour - yes, each and every minute plagued him. Forced him to resist his natural urge. From the corner of his eye, he watched a young man's muscles ripple in the lamplight. And by all that was holy, lusted after him. The overseer's fists clenched with his pain. To his eternal mortification, he knew he had not left his hell behind. It sat with him, on his back. Always. And cursed him . . .
The third overseer's hell was equally carnal. It involved
him and an older woman, making love. Perverted love, at that. That's why he'd left her and come here. To get away from her, from the things she'd made him do. He didn't mind so much that she liked him to tie her up and whip her, but other times she made him do things. . . things he couldn't talk about, couldn't bear to even think about. Degrading things. And the tragedy of it all was that the woman was his mother . . .
Hell for the fourth overseer was no less agonising, but it was at least wide-ranging. Lately he had come to believe what he had suspected for some time. Not so much that the reincarnation was a sham - Mentu had told him from the start that his health would not stand proving his immortality with such regularity, that on some occasions he'd have to pull a stunt and he'd need help. That was not the problem; the fourth overseer could live with that. But recently it had come to his knowledge that the contributions to the Solar Fund were not going to the upkeep of Ra's holy barque and temple. In fact, he was not convinced there even was a Ra. Lately he had come to believe this whole commune was a con. A means of making money from a lot of trusting innocents and, if this was true, what on earth was he do to? There was no one to confide in. It was hell.
The fifth overseer's thoughts were as far from the abyss as human thoughts might be. The night was hot, his blood was up.
He was having fun . . .
Chapter Thirty-three
The heat and the dark and the mass of twinkling lamps was as disorientating as anything Mentu could have organised for his band of Pyramidiots. Cicadas buzzed like blunted woodsaws in the grass. The low, oppressive clouds hung like heavy, winter cloaks over the hills which enclosed this fertile, pear-shaped valley. In the distance, thunder rumbled and the summer storm, never far away, pawed the ground like an angry bull preparing to charge.
The analogy was apt, thought Claudia. This whole place reminded her of the lair of the Minotaur, and not just on account of the thunder. So many tiny lamps - thousands upon thousands dotted round - coupled with the moving torches and the swirling wheels and censers turned the commune into an unfamiliar maze and, just like the Minotaur's labyrinth on Crete, she was going round in circles. But somewhere in this flickering web was an aristocrat dressed like a guard and a bodyguard dressed like an aristocrat, surely one of the two would stand out, even in the dark?
The bull roared louder, and the earth trembled with his bellow.
Dammit, for the third time, possibly the fourth, Claudia found herself back at the ceremonial pool, where the High Priest
blessed the holy water and the women, including Mercy, chanted out their prayers as they sat in vigil through the night. One of the temple parakeets screeched inside its cage and shook its feathers, then the aviary fell still. Only the cicadas and the chanting competed with the thunder.
Claudia fumbled her way out through the wicker gate which
enclosed the temple forecourt and wedged her torch into a terracotta ear. Damned thing was neither use nor ornament, she couldn't see with it and she couldn't see without it, so she might as well have both hands free in case— She pulled up short. In case of what, Claudia? She shivered, because she didn't know and that was the horror of it.
The not knowing . . .
The nameless dread she felt inside but couldn't - wouldn't - allow her mind to dwell on for too long.
What's that? She squinted into the gloom. That figure, in the silver cloak which billowed out behind, was one she didn't recognise. Not a member of the Holy Council - she was familiar with the cow, the jackal, the ugly crocodile, and Mentu's mask was gold. This figure wore a mask of silver and a shimmering silver-plated wig, whose dreadlocks tinkled like a thousand sistrum bells. Curious, Claudia followed the figure with her eyes, surprised that it did not turn into the temple forecourt but swept on past, unaware of her presence in the shadows. This figure was not disoriented by the labyrinthine lamps. It marched with purpose across the grass towards the bushes.
Claudia felt a beat of unease pound inside her heart. Unless she missed her guess, that figure also clutched a bundle of white rags in his left hand. They looked like bandages.
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 pos
sible, 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.
Chapter Thirty-four
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.
