Jail Bait

XX

When Marcus Cornelius staggered out of the tavern by the basilica, he’d already lost count of the number of wine shops whose fare he had sampled so far.

Dammit, he thought his plan was foolproof.

Around him, the Agonalia had reached fever pitch. Men covered in fleeces wearing rams’ horns on their heads chased bleating young maidens (and some not so young) round the streets, cheap wines flowed from the fountains, the beat of the music was sensual, loud and hypnotic. Some might even say manic. He spiked his fingers through his hair. Goddammit, he’d spent a fortune on Atlantis, none of which he could reclaim in legitimate expenses, in order to advance his bloody career prospects, and what happens? Sod all’s what happens.

So much for the Great Pyramid of a case to lay before his boss.

No case.

No excuse for deserting his post outside the Imperial Palace.

Mother of Tarquin, it seemed so straightforward, back in Rome. Because he liked to keep tabs on a certain little firebrand, he’d picked up on the fact that Claudia’s name was linked with the Tullus strongroom robbery and he hadn’t been taken in for one second with that malarkey about respectable widows not being involved in common smash-and-grabs. This was right up her street, she was as guilty as hell, and he knew it.

On the other hand, he was also aware of darker forces moving in the background. Precisely who was behind it, he couldn’t say, but whatever Claudia might stoop to, treason wouldn’t enter her equation. And since he had a problem to resolve here… The letter purporting to be from an old friend seemed ideal.

Why, though? Why wouldn’t she help him for once? Was that too bloody much to ask for, after he’d shelled out a fortune to bring her up to Atlantis? Croesus, he was sleeping in a bloody garret! Had she no heart?

He stumbled into another tavern. Of course she had a heart, he’d heard it beating once. Right under her left breast, and he’d seen that naked once as well. He thumped his fist for a refill. Janus, that woman drove him wild! She had a temper which could set off an earthquake. Jousting with her was better than sex.

Well, almost.

Marcus was aware of the stirring in his loins as he fought his way through the crush of the tavern into the screeching multitudes outside. What would it be like, making love to a woman like that? Heaven. Hell. Torment. Pain. Tumult Wasn’t there something he was supposed to do this evening?

Orbilio dismissed the niggle in his head and imagined instead what it must be like when the hunter finally won the spoils. He imagined burying his head in that wild tumble of curls, knowing it would smell of spicy, feisty, balsam perfume, and imagined the taste of her skin. Hot and slightly salty from her sweat. In his mind, he pictured himself standing behind her, nuzzling the back of her neck with his lips as his fingers loosed the ribbons which fastened her gown. In his mind, he could hear the soft swish of cotton as it caressed her skin on its way to the floor. In his mind ‘Marcus.’

In his dreams! He turned to find the well-upholstered Phoebe bearing down upon him, her arms open wide to embrace him, stretching the seams across her ample breasts to bursting point, and the part of him that stiffened wasn’t the part she would have wished.

‘Marcus, where did you sneak off to after breakfast, you naughty boy?’

‘I-’ His mind was a blank as he tried to extricate himself from this human boa constrictor. Surely there was something he ought to be doing? Something official?

‘Such fun, this rustic little festival,’ she purred, frog-marching him towards a group of drunken revellers. ‘They’re playing rams and rustlers,’ she trilled. ‘Which will you be? A ram?’ She nudged his ribs. ‘Or would you prefer to rustle me?’

Orbilio forced what he hoped was a laugh, although he had a sneaking suspicion that any neutral bystander would have mistaken it for water swirling down a drain. ‘I have a prior engagement-’

‘Nonsense,’ a female voice rang in his ear. ‘Marcus would love to wrestle, sorry rustle you.’

Where did she spring from? ‘Claudia-’ he pleaded under his breath.

He didn’t think she heard, because she beamed a radiant smile upon the lovely Phoebe. ‘He finds it so tiresome being a ram all the time.’

With that, he found himself pushed headlong into the crowd, who yelled ‘Hooray!’ and clapped him so hard on the back, his knees buckled and Marcus was not surprised that, by the time he’d staggered free, Claudia Seferius had become invisible once more.

‘One quick game, then,’ he muttered. He wished now he hadn’t got pissed so quickly, he knew he ought to be doing something else.

If only he could remember.

*

In the end, Marcus competed in three more bouts before the prearranged meeting with Dorcan flashed back, and then he couldn’t find Tuder’s bloody mausoleum.

Shit.

Away from the light of torches, bonfires and upper-storey windows, the cemetery lay engulfed in blackness and twice he stubbed his toe on the jutting steps of the tombs in his effort to locate the banker’s memorial.

‘Dorcan?’ he called softly. ‘Are you there?’

Numbed by the city wall, the revelling had been reduced to a vague and distant hum, but it was more noise than the graveyard’s occupants were used to. Perhaps he hadn’t called loud enough?

‘Dorcan? It’s me. Orbilio.’

Nothing.

He looked up at the sky, hazy from the sultry heat even at night, and felt a trickle of perspiration run down his neck. Time passed. Once a rat scuttled through the long grass, making a sound like water trickling through a sluice gate, and twice an owl hooted from far down the road, but other than that, Marcus remained alone with just the taste of stale wine for company.

After dark, the old fraud had said. Well, this was certainly after dark.

Settling down with his back against the travertine stone, warm from the rays of the sun, Orbilio sighed and crossed his legs at the ankles, letting his rapidly sobering mind juggle his impressions of this town and its neighbour, Atlantis. Into the air went the roles played by such luminaries as Pylades the Greek; that vinegar-faced Etruscan physician; Tarraco, who had so smoothly usurped the place of the man Marcus now rested against, both on his island and in his bed.

There were other factors, too, to toss in the air and juggle with. Lais, for example. A key player, yet Lais had disappeared without a trace. A man called Pul, a monster of a man in all respects. Not to mention the military, whose representation was so minor as to appear almost imaginary.

So many odd-shaped pieces, Orbilio was reminded of that old Egyptian puzzle consisting of several three-dimensional blocks of wood which, whilst appearing mismatched, when stacked correctly locked together to form a perfect pyramid.

That’s what he had here. Separate clues that did not seem as though they’d ever fit together to form a whole, and yet he was sure they did. Somehow or other, he was bloody certain that they did. His problem lay in making sense of the jumble and this is where Dorcan fitted in. The big man always knew how many beans made five. His livelihood depended on it.

So, alas, did Orbilio’s. He cracked his knuckles in impatience. His boss’s reply would probably be on its way, though how much leave of absence he would grant him was another matter. And time, Orbilio felt sure, was running out.

‘Dorcan?’

He whistled, but no answering whistle returned, and although once or twice he thought he saw a figure flitting between the tombs, the burly giant it was not.

Folding his hands behind his head, Orbilio closed his eyes and felt that same warm glow roll over him as he considered a whole host of reasons why, despite all the obstacles in his way, he was still glad he’d hooked himself to Claudia Seferius’ wagon once again. He was definitely making headway in that direction! Another three hundred years and she might, yet, open her heart to him as already she had opened her mind…

The scream woke him, and although he didn’t think he’d been asleep, the haze had cleared and a thousand stars twinkled up above him, he could clearly make out the Great Bear, the Lyre and the Dragon. But the scream was not human and when the vixen called a second time, he shook his head and instantly regretted it. The wine had begun to take effect, the old bean was pounding like a pestle in a mortar. Groaning, he rubbed the stiffness back into his cramped muscles before shambling to his feet. His left leg had not so much gone to sleep as fallen into a possibly quite fatal coma, and he feared his head might shortly follow suit.

Through the open doors of the triple-arch gateway, fires burned low. No lamps burned in the windows, no torches lit up street corners. Every living soul but he was in bed and that, he concluded ruefully, included the charlatan.

Stepping over a drunkard in the Forum as he made his way back to his roach-ridden rented garret, Orbilio heard the snicker of a horse and exchanged a tight-lipped greeting with the fat man who was heaving himself into the saddle.

The fat man smelled of cardamom.