Stone Cold

Six

Whilst Marcus Cornelius Orbilio might not necessarily have been flattered at being compared to a barnacle, it was by one of life's quirks that he just so happened to be lying beneath a boat's keel at the time. Not the most comfortable of positions, but then surveillance work rarely is, and, with his well-nourished physique and an aristocratic mien that could not easily be disguised, he was never going to blend in undercover. Besides, what did he know about caulking, riveting or any of the other processes involved in building boats? So he lay beneath the tarpaulin on the floor of the boat shed, chin in hands, watching timbers being sawn and joints being planed, with the whirr of the hand drills loud in his ears and the dust tickling the insides of his nostrils as he mused on the pageant he should be attending.

Today was the day of the Trojan Games, in which two troops comprising the cream of patrician youth paraded through the streets of Rome astride the cream of Arabian horseflesh. Fully armed and in uniform, these young men would perform complex drill movements designed not so much to entertain the crowds as impress them, and Orbilio remembered the flutter of nerves in the pit of his own stomach when he had taken the reins for his first parade. He'd just turned eighteen and was poised to take up his post in the Imperial Mint as his first step on the road to the Senate. Today it was his nephew's turn, and Marcus pictured his sisters and brothers-in-law, cousins and aunts cheering the lad on from the steps of the Capitol, totally uncomprehending of why his uncle deemed lying on his belly up to his armpits in sawdust more important than supporting his family.

But just as it was vital that the complicated drills and mock combats of the Trojan Games instilled in the people of Rome that whilst commissions might be bought leadership was nevertheless in capable hands, it was equally important that someone clamped down on the bastards who peddled young flesh to perverts who in turn insisted that tiny children actually enjoyed sex.

Orbilio consulted his mental notes as the overseer made his daily inspection. The trafficking was done from this yard, that much he knew, but unless he caught the boatbuilder in the act of passing a child to a punter, the case wouldn't stand up in court. He needed proof, and proof, as he knew from experience, came only after a great deal of stiffness and aching. Boredom went with the territory in this job, but then how does one define boredom? What about the celebratory dinner, in which some stuffy general invariably drones on about a campaign in Galatia that everyone else has forgotten, moving mushrooms round the plate as his troops, while, on the other couch, empty-headed matrons bang on about whether it's fashionable to wear three-quarter-length sleeves this season and their husbands discuss the latest cure-all for baldness? No one moots the issue of seven-year-olds being snatched for some depraved bastard's pleasure, and, assuming politeness did force the question, they wouldn't give a stuff anyway.

Marcus shuffled under the keel. Goddammit, they bloody well should! A child is abducted, subjected to terror, but because it's a guttersnipe this doesn't count, so they call for their goblets to be filled, for another hazel hen cooked in honey, and for the musicians to play something a little more lively. For a family who had devoted generations to practising the law, not enforcing it, it would always be beyond them why he'd chosen to follow a path in the Security Police, which was lowly paid and lowly thought of, when he could be making a name for himself like his father.

His father, his father, always his father. What was so great about that?

True, the old man was a brilliant orator, but it never kept him awake at nights that his clients were guilty. Yet Marcus's father was hailed as a hero. This, the man who had hurtled towards an early grave on a chariot driven by lechery, gluttony and booze! No, thank you. Orbilio had tried it his father's way. He'd completed his statutory two years in the Imperial

Commission at the Mint, followed by a further two years as a tribune, serving everywhere from Pannonia to the moon. After that, it was time to follow his conscience, and if working for the Security Police cost him the respect of his family, so be it. He had long since forsaken theirs.

Fighting cramp in his leg, he heard footsteps. Light, fast, they were the steps of the boatbuilder's daughter, a saucy young strumpet who enjoyed taking 'short cuts' through the shed, knowing the flash of shapely leg through the fringes of her short Gaulish skirt would make the workers' heads turn, as would the bounce of her nubile young breasts. Marcus took advantage of the distraction to massage his shrieking calf muscle and, as the boatbuilder's daughter passed on, feigning ignorance of the catcalls and wolf whistles, he had to admit that he couldn't find fault with her figure, either.

And suddenly Orbilio was reminded of another young woman with dark, flashing eyes and rebellious curls. Who had the same light, confident step.

Of course, that was how Claudia used to scrape a living, once upon a time, dancing in the backstreet taverns of a naval port in the north. She had never forgiven him for finding out, though, much less herself for leaving a chink in the past for someone to crawl through, though for the life of him he couldn't understand why this troubled her. We are what we make ourselves, not what we're born with — a truth he was all too familiar with — and it baffled him, too, why she didn't come right out with it and admit that she was desperate to make a success of her late husband's business for personal pride, rather than money. Despite what she made out, she could have sold up long ago. At a price below market value, admittedly, but Gaius Seferius died a very rich man; there was more than enough to go round, and even now she could liquidate his assets any time she wanted.

As the workers returned to their sawing and hammering, he couldn't help wondering what the devil she was doing in Gaul. He supposed that, in this fast-moving age of science and technology, with concrete revolutionizing building techniques and when ships could sail from Rome to Cadiz in a week, it was perfectly feasible that she'd taken herself off to a town founded less than a generation ago to check out the soil with a view to growing grapes for wine production, as she'd told people.

But somehow he doubted it!

As always when he thought about Claudia, Orbilio's loins began to stir. He imagined himself unhooking the gold girdle that encircled her waist. He saw himself lifting her peach-scented gown over her impossibly long legs… slender hips… voluptuous breasts… tossing it down as the sheet on which he would lay her. Her lips would part and her pupils would dilate as he slowly untied her breastband. He imagined her shuddering as he slipped down the tiny thong that covered her sex, and he wondered whether she would undress him or wait while he slipped off his own clothes?

Mother of Tarquin, would there ever come a time when he didn't long for this woman? Half whirlwind, half wildfire, she was abrasive, manipulative, unprincipled and wilful — and the more he saw of her, the more he wanted her, but the more he wanted her, the further out of reach she became.

Propping himself up on his elbows, Marcus returned to his surveillance work and put Claudia Seferius out of his mind.