Dream Boat

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, but 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.

Nothing.

Then — yes, there it was again. Darting to the left.

As before, the merest hint.

She sped past the windowless store. Hooked to the left. Caught up slightly. Enough to see that the shadow was a man's. Alone. Should she follow him? What about the trio? There he goes. Her sandals skidded on the stone. He's trying to double back. Cut down here.

Racing after him, still undecided, Claudia turned the corner. And cannoned into him.

Too late she saw the sharp swing of the scimitar.