Jail Bait

XXII

For a new town rising from a grassy plain beside a lake, Spesium was taking no prisoners, Marcus noticed. Even in this searing heat and with crippling hangovers all round, craftsmen went doggedly about their business, the silversmiths and cobblers, the carpenters and fullers. But then that’s country life, he supposed, sauntering down the main street past the temple. Cows still needed to be milked, that milk needed to be sold, and the same applied to eggs and fruit and meat. Nevertheless, Dorcan’s stall was not among those set up in the Forum, neither could Orbilio find the bearded charlatan in any of the taverns or the lodging houses. The big man obviously had more sense than the locals and was taking a long lie-in.

Behind the Temple of Spes, tantalizing aromas from the baker’s oven overlaid the smell of dust and dryness, tempting Marcus to part at a corner shop with a brass sesterce in exchange for a pudding of cinnamon and nutmeg deep fried in olive oil and smothered in honey.

He had noticed in the gateway to Atlantis, a poster advertising a foot race in the grounds this afternoon. No doubt Dorcan would be drawn by the hoards willing to hand over silver in exchange for a genuine shell of swan’s egg from which Helen of Troy had been hatched. Clearly the giant’s information wasn’t urgent, or he’d have sent a message suggesting an alternative meeting point. Orbilio would simply have to wait.

With his fingers and chin sticky from the pudding, he was making his way towards the pawnbroker’s to wash up when who should come his way? None other than the Spaniard, with his long, dark hair and fancy clothes. Something speared at his gut when he thought about this self-styled stud sucking up to Claudia. Mother of Tarquin, what did she see in him? Yet the professional in Orbilio could not help but admire the professional in Tarraco. Slow, orchestrated movements, designed to show off every well-worked muscle. That well-practised half-glance, expressions veiled by the fall of long hair. On impulse, he stepped in front of the Spaniard and blocked his way.

‘Are you down for the foot race?’

‘Me?’ The Spaniard gave an insolent shrug. ‘I never compete.’

Like the half-glance, the half-smile, even his words were spartan. Doled out sparingly, designed to add to the enigma and mystique. Orbilio bunched his fist, but resisted the urge to rearrange the long, straight nose in front of him.

‘Then the race is mine,’ he said cheerfully. ‘To the winner-’ he shot a wicked grin over his shoulder, to where Atlantis perched on the promontory ‘-the spoils.’

Tarraco’s eyes narrowed and colour suffused his cheeks. ‘You?’ he sneered, but the tendons in his neck stood out like bowlines on a merchant ship. ‘No chance.’ Dark eyes flashed a glance at the rock before travelling with contemptuous slowness over the drips of cinnamon and honey on Orbilio’s patrician tunic, his sticky hands and mouth. ‘I beat you by a furlong.’

‘You’re on,’ replied Marcus, rubbing his hands together in glee. ‘Until this afternoon, then-and be sure to give Lais my love.’

Furrows formed between the Spaniard’s eyebrows. ‘You know Lais?’

‘Never met her in my life,’ Marcus said. ‘Just wanted to give her my love, seeing as how any old bod round here can,’ and leaving Tarraco smouldering in anger, he ambled down Quince Lane and turned left past the grainstore, where the presence of a ginger tomcat washing on the top step of the entrance could not have sent a louder signal to the rats.

Arrogant bastard, he thought. Marries one middle-aged woman, Virginia, who conveniently drowns in the lake and what does he do? Not content with one fortune, he courts Tuder’s wife. Such was the isolation of that wretched island, Orbilio had not been able to establish whether Tuder had died before Tarraco came on the scene or afterwards, but it was a curious coincidence that both Tuder and Virginia were dead-and that Lais had subsequently disappeared.

And if there was one thing guaranteed to make an investigator’s hackles rise, it was the word coincidence. And when it came to coincidence, as with vampires and werewolves, he was an emphatic nonbeliever.

Further down the street, warehouses gave way to high-rise tenements, where babies bawled through open windows, fathers argued with growing sons and wives scolded errant husbands. Irrespective of the fact that he had not come to Atlantis to investigate a dead banker (or his widow), Orbilio decided he would not consider his visit wasted if, when he left, a certain Spanish gigolo lay rotting in a jail awaiting trial…

Surprisingly, the pawnbroker’s shopfront was shuttered and he was forced to make a tortuous detour round the back of the tenement, through the building and out the back, to where the sun rarely penetrated and across a yard criss-crossed with limp wet washing, and not for the first time he thanked Jupiter for his privileged upbringing. For the piped water which flushed his drains. For there being no question of his mother fetching water from a standpipe down the street and emptying night soil on the middens! Remus, from the yard it was difficult to tell one apartment from another-which was the pawnbroker’s? Which tiny window in the roof marked out his own rented garret? On one of the narrow stone steps, a stout squab of a woman sobbed into the hem of her tunic, revealing calves too meaty to warrant further interest and it was therefore with a ripple of revulsion that Orbilio recognized the pawnbroker’s wife.

‘Oh, sir, it’s you.’ She made an effort to pull herself together in the presence of nobility.

‘Here.’ Orbilio held out a handkerchief, which would have cost more than her coarse woollen tunic and cheap leather sandals put together. ‘Is-is there some way I can help?’ Her face was swollen and blotchy, her eyes puffy and red, and any fool could see this was not a question of some minor mishap or a squabble with her husband.

‘No, sir,’ she sniffed. ‘No, sir, there ain’t.’ She scrubbed her eyes with the velvety cotton.

He peered at this allegory of despair. ‘Maybe you’d just like to talk?’

‘We-ell.’ The woman bit her lower lip. ‘I don’t suppose you’d have heard about that trouble down the smokery…’

‘I gather the couple had an argument resulting in a spot of damage-’

‘Is that the word that’s been put out? A row? Well, what about the baby, eh? How did they pass that one off?’ She blew her nose like a conch shell. ‘That lad’s shed was reduced to firewood, his stock ruined, and you can take it from me, sir, that weren’t no row. A gang of thugs ripped that place apart. And the tragedy that resulted, that poor bairn’s death, that was nothing short of bloody murder and if you ask me, they should be crucified, those villains, right there on the lakeside for what they put that young couple through and we’ll be next, I know we will, if we don’t cough up the extra every month.’

A tingle shot through Orbilio’s veins. The tingle he always experienced whenever his pick hit a rich stream of gold ore. Kicking aside a cabbage stalk, he squeezed beside the beefcake on the step.

‘I think,’ he said slowly, ‘you’d better tell me the whole story start to finish.’

*

Across the other side of Spesium, a fat bluebottle buzzed around the rooftops. She’d been attracted by an appetizing smell, and this wasn’t just offcuts of offal thrown into the gutter or the remnants of an unwanted pie. Curious, the bluebottle headed for the window on the fourth floor of the apartment block.

The shutters were latched together, but by crawling through the gap by the hinge, the fly could squeeze into the room which so attracted her. She was disappointed to find she wasn’t the first. Hundreds of her relatives were already feasting and she was forced to buzz around the room to orientate herself to this unexpected situation.

Through her multi-lenses, she could see an open stove in the corner, clean and neat, the skillets and the ladles hanging tidily on the wall. An open trunk revealed cheap and faded but distinctly feminine attire, of a type worn by girls who plied their trade in brothels. Nothing there for a fly on a mission! She circled the footstool then the table, which had been wiped too thoroughly to be of any interest. Ah, that’s better. All those scented pots and potions in a trunk inside the door, and a strange collection of curios to boot, but the jumble of jars and phials only served to confuse the more appetizing aromas in the air. Including something which smelled like cardamom…

Now that’s more like it! A bed. And beside the bed, in a small flat terracotta dish, a handful of coins. Payment for services rendered. And on the bed, a woman, lying naked. But the gash across her throat was obliterated by gorging flies making it impossible for the bluebottle to settle down and lay her eggs in it. She’d be nudged aside in no time.

Buzzing round the tiny room for inspiration, she realized with a start that the thing was so damned big, she’d missed it first time round. Wow. She circled round and round-so much choice! So much flesh for baby maggots to grow strong in!

Round and round she flew again, taking in the forward sprawl of the man’s body, the face twisted in pain, until finally she settled on an area just south of the great bushy beard and, only when she was satisfied her precious eggs would not be disturbed, did the bluebottle move round to feast on the rivulets of dried blood.

Of course she could not get near the wound itself for companions who’d staked an earlier claim, but that didn’t really matter. There was more than enough to go round on this giant of a man, and when she’d finished, she perched and cleaned herself quite happily on the metal flesh hook which protruded from his back.

*

‘I’ve taken your advice,’ Pylades said, ‘and added in a foot race, plus there’s a pageant organized for Thursday afternoon. After all-’ his hand slipped under Claudia’s elbow ‘-we don’t want our guests to be bored.’

Bored? Surrounded by a rash of mysterious deaths, with the military on my back, a Spaniard after my money and bankruptcy a distinct possibility?

‘I trust that’s good news?’ Pylades indicated the scroll in Claudia’s hand and, as he steered her along the path towards the museum, insisting he show her personally his collection of marble busts, either Claudia was getting fatter or the Greek was moving closer.

‘Merely a stuffy progress report from my bailiff,’ she breezed, covering the distinctive heron seal with her thumb and wondering how the Head of Rome’s Security Police might react to the news of his new appointment.

Across the glistening clear waters of the lake, grebe and dabchick dived for snails, and on the stone wall which ran along the path, a snake flicked out its tongue as it tasted the air.

‘Whatever brought you to these sweet Etruscan hills, Pylades,’ she said, keeping her gaze firmly on the bubbling cloudbank, ‘you were very lucky to find a spring on this promontory.’

The hand under her elbow became rigid. ‘Luck had nothing to do with it,’ he replied.

‘I’m sure it didn’t.’

There was a moment’s hesitation, a stumble in his step, then‘Mosul tells me you haven’t yet taken the waters,’ he said smoothly. ‘You should. Most beneficial.’

Why should you and that mole-eyed priest be discussing me? ‘I have it scheduled for this afternoon,’ she lied. ‘I meant to tell Leon.’

‘Leon?’ The Greek seemed sad. ‘Leon, I regret, is leaving us today. He has, I’m told, proved entirely unsatisfactory. Clumsy, forgetful. Mosul doesn’t feel the boy has the makings of a true vocation with our gentle Carya.’

‘As others before him have discovered.’ Claudia emphasized the last word. ‘Doesn’t that strike you as unusual?’

A flicker passed over the Laconian’s face. ‘It is not my place to comment on the priesthood,’ he said coldly, withdrawing his arm and muttering ‘I mustn’t keep you from your business’ as he disappeared at great speed through the first available entrance.

On the shore, gangs of workers were busy constructing the grandstand for the foot race and since the sawdust tickled her nose, Claudia sauntered out along the jetty. The planks were warm as she sat down and swinging her legs over the side, she unrolled Orbilio’s letter. Around her the lake glistened like broken shards of glass and garganey drakes threw back their heads in vigorous displays of courtship.

‘My dear Marcus — ’

That was odd, the Head of the Security Police addressing his staff with such familiarity. She doublechecked the seal but, no, this was no forgery and with a twitch of her brows, she started again.

‘My dear Marcus, You seem to be labouring under a misunderstanding-clearly you did not get my little joke if you thought I meant to sack you. Next time you’re in Rome, I’ll explain that little pun, but in the meantime, sterling work, old man, sterling work. Take your time about coming back-the Emperor is in good hands, protected by the Praetorian Guard, and as for the case, I have just this day briefed Augustus on our efforts — ’

Our? Claudia would bet her house, her jewels, her vineyards that that weasel’s input was nil. She read on.

‘Now, if you could find time to see your way clear to sending me the checklist you mentioned, the “dos” and “don’ts” for Jupiter’s priest, my brother might be interested. I believe he mentioned a while back that he had some intention of applying for the post.’

There was an equally queasy closing line, which Claudia skipped, mainly because she couldn’t read it through the tears of laughter which were coursing down her cheeks. Who’d believe it? The Head of the Security Police grovelling to his better-born staff, because he wanted his boneheaded brother in the most important pastoral role in the Empire, the post of Jupiter’s Priest?

Clearly Orbilio had acquired a full list of the taboos and regulations governing this role and was using it as a lever to force a leave of absence from his boss, who would, in turn, use this inside knowledge to ensure his brother was at least shortlisted for the post. Frankly, Claudia doubted the brother had so much as considered the application, but that would not prevent an ambitious man from propelling his trusting sibling forward. Orbilio’s boss was a creep and a social climber, but credit where it’s due, he had suckers like an octopus, that man. Never once had he taken so much as one half-step backwards in the course of his career; his progress was always, always upwards, even though it was invariably at the expense of others.

Still. Claudia let the parchment spring back into a roll and tucked it inside the folds of her gown. There was nothing in that note which incriminated her, and with a bit of jiggery-pokery and Fortune smiling down, she could tamper with the heron seal and make it look like new again. It was a trick she’d picked up in Naples, from a one-armed ‘I don’t suppose you are waiting for me?’

Calmly, she studied the reflection which appeared in the water. A man’s reflection, dark and swarthy, with a glint of gold in the cloth. ‘You suppose right.’

Tarraco crouched down, one knee touching the woodwork, in what she now knew was a familiar pose. ‘You must believe,’ he whispered, drawing a circle in the dust with his finger, ‘the way I feel.’ There was a pause long enough for him to draw three more concentric rings. ‘The gown was a mistake, I see that, but Lais walked out before you arrived in Atlantis. Why do you not accept the apology?’

Far out on the water, terns dived like arrows for fish and a wagtail trilled and bobbed, sending out alternate flashes of yellow and white. Claudia fixed her gaze on the distant hills and kept her lips tight together, and she heard him sigh, a small, almost insubstantial sound.

‘You think that by saying nothing, Tarraco will go away?’ The aroma of pinecones mixed with woodshavings floated under her nostrils. ‘What is between us, Claudia, that will not go away.’

Her sole response was a single arched eyebrow.

‘Very well,’ he said, rising slowly to his feet. ‘You attend races, yes?’

Try and keep me away. ‘Maybe.’

‘Then this afternoon, everything will be decided,’ he said, ‘one way or another.’ He stared out across the water. ‘My mother had the second sight and you’ll see, Claudia,’ he said, turning on his heel, ‘my words, also, are prophetic.’

Through narrowed lids, Claudia watched him walk back down the pier. How true, Tarraco. Your words are absolutely pathetic.

Nevertheless, several minutes passed before Claudia’s legs felt confident enough to skip up the flight of stone steps to Atlantis, and she’d have preferred some reassurance that the hammering came from the carpenters working on the grandstand, rather than something inside her chest.

‘What the…?’

A tornado had swept through her bedroom in her absence, tipping over chairs and chests and mattresses. Her tunics lay scattered over the floor, her underclothes, her sandals. Her jewel box had been upended, cosmetics decanted from pots. Globs of creams and lotions and pools of spicy perfume swirled across the dolphin mosaic, along with a less recognizable smell, and feathers from pillows which had been gutted down the middle still floated in the sultry air.

Suddenly a hand lashed out to cover her mouth, jerking her head back, and from the corner of her eye she saw the glint of a blade.

‘Mmmf! Mmmmf!’ It was the closest she could get to a scream, but surely someone could hear it? Heaven knows, there were enough servants about.

‘Where is it?’ he snarled.

‘Mmmmmmf!’

‘Shut up or I’ll slit your throat like I slit that whore’s last night.’ The cold touch of the steel convinced her. ‘Now where is it?’ Slowly he released his hand and Claudia could see it was fat. ‘Where’s that fucking letter?’

‘I don’t-’ What was that smell? Pepper? Coriander?

‘Don’t mess with me, bitch.’ He pulled her head back so hard, she couldn’t swallow. ‘My client wants his property back.’

Terror snatched Claudia’s breath from her body. Other than Marcus, only Dorcan knew she was here in Atlantis-and the amiable charlatan had betrayed her. Involuntarily, Claudia shuddered. She had a very bad feeling about this…

The fat man bragged about slitting the throat of a prostitute. It was common knowledge a certain big, black, shaggy bear had a soft spot for whores ‘What… happened to Dorcan?’

‘What do you think?’ the voice in her ear sneered.

Panic fluttered like a trapped bird in Claudia’s stomach. What I think is… that without witnesses there can be no repercussions. The fat man meant business. And his business, she knew now, was murder.

She thought of the charlatan. His booming laugh, that showed off someone else’s teeth. His remedies for gout and coughs and impotence, usually the same. His collection of sphinx claws and unicorn horns. Now he was dead. That life-that larger than life-snuffed out. In an instant.

Despite ragged lungs Claudia forced her voice to be calm. ‘Very well. I’ll give you what you want.’ Trembling hands reached into the folds of her gown. She had maybe a countdown of six…

‘No funny business,’ the fat man warned. Down to five…

‘I swear.’ Down to four.

Shaking hands withdrew Orbilio’s letter. Three.

A fat hand reached out to take it. Two.

In his other hand, the knife primed for action. One…

Sweet Juno, help me. Help me now! With a flip of her wrist, Claudia tossed the scroll across the floor, ducking back just far enough to evade the flick of the blade designed to slash through her windpipe.

‘Bitch!’ His free hand connected with her cheekbone and sent her sprawling backwards on to the gutted mattress. The fat man raised the knife to strike.

‘HELP,’ she yelled at the top of her lungs. ‘ HELP! ’

Immediately there was a scuffle of response in the corridor outside and the fat man swore. Torn between snuffing out the witness or returning the document to his client, he had little choice and as the running footsteps grew closer, he lunged at the scroll, barging through the squad of servants charging down in answer to Claudia’s scream.

‘What happened?’ they asked, goggling at the mess and at her, sprawled across the floor with a bruise swelling up half her face.

‘Lover’s tiff,’ she explained, dabbing the blood from her lip. ‘You know how it is.’

In the tussle with the fat man, survival was all that mattered. Staying alive. But now he’d gone, Claudia threaded the pieces together. Dorcan, that big, bluff, happy-go-lucky giant, had sold her out. That figured. He’d sell his sister’s wedding band for a silver denarius and wouldn’t even make a secret of the fact. But Dorcan, for all his mercenary faults, would never intentionally harm anyone. Neither, by reputation, would Sabbio Tullus. Sending in the fat man smacked of double-cross.

Dorcan, then, must have sent his information to Tullus’ nephew, who in turn sent this thug, his tame assassin, to recover what he believed Claudia had stolen from his strongbox.

With her arms hugged tight to her chest, Claudia thanked her rescuers and watched them file out through the door. Alone in the silent scramble of her overturned room with the smell of cardamom rank in her nostrils, it was little consolation that the double-crosser had been double-crossed.

Sooner or later either the fat man or his master would realize they’d been fobbed off with the wrong document.

Next time, Claudia, like Dorcan, might not be so lucky.