Dream Boat (27 page)

Claudia swallowed.

In the eighteen hours since her arrival, she'd been unable to find Flavia anywhere, and, by heaven, how she'd searched. Another of Min's conquests? A picture swam before her. Of a chubby fifteen-year-old, sobbing into the sheets as she struggled helplessly beneath the Grand Vizier.

Sweet Janus.

Suppose the total was now
seven
missing girls?

For what seemed like eternity, Min's faded blue eyes stared at Claudia from beneath his wiry, grey brows. She stared back. He couldn't hear (how could he?) the thrashing of her heart. Only Claudia could feel the dampness of her palms. 'Little black fellow, is he?'

Huh? Then she remembered Doodlebug.

'You'll find him in the stables.' The Grand Vizier made a noise in the back of his throat. 'Other dogs, y'know. Companionship.'

Claudia turned to leave. Any excuse. The urge to sabotage Mentu's operation had dulled. She just wanted to
go.
Get out of here. Before she was sucked in any deeper.

'Bit of a problem, though,' he harrumphed.

Visions of Doodlebug kicked to death by a mule flashed through her mind. Attacked by the other dogs. Torn apart, bleeding and helpless.

'That girl you brought along—'

'Flea?'
The hysterical images were replaced by much more realistic pictures of Doodlebug snuggling into his new makeshift family, gallumphing along behind the pack, tumbling, tangling up his stubby legs and rolling in the cowpats.

'Is that what she calls herself?' Min's kissy pout was back. 'Not surprised, frankly. Filthy mouth. Anyway. Been caught stealing. Serious offence. Trial tomorrow.'

Oh, Flea, you silly bitch. Thieving's bad enough, but
getting caught?
'The girl's a street thief, Min, stealing's what she does best.'

'Force of habit, you mean?'

'Exactly.' Claudia loaded honey into her voice. 'There's no need for any trial. Confiscate the booty and tell her not to do it again, she'll understand.'

The Grand Vizier snorted.

Shit. 'I had hoped' (another spoonful of honey) 'that by bringing her here, she'd find Ra—'

'She found him all right,' Min retorted. 'Helped herself to half of his bloody offerings! Not allowed, y'know - commoners inside the temple. Restricted area, accessible only to the Pharaoh and his Holy Council. To trespass inside the holy of holies is serious. To steal from it - gad, that's treason.'

Flea, you stupid child, why couldn't keep your sticky hands to yourself for just ten minutes? Surely that wasn't too much to ask?

'I'll have a quiet word with her lawyer,' Claudia said. The silence of the corridor was beginning to grate. Strange, how the eyes of every statue seemed to bore right through you. 'See if we can't thrash this thing out.'

'Don't have lawyers.' Min patted the solid paunch under which his white kilt swung to his calves. 'Defendants plead their own case before the Pharaoh or the Grand Vizier. Witnesses called, judgement pronounced.'

Claudia saw a chink in Flea's plight. 'And who will be presiding over Flea's trial?' Please say it's you. However much I despise you, I'm sure there's a mutual currency to deal in.

'For offences against Ra, the Pharaoh always sits in judgement.' Min produced that throaty noise again. 'But remember, we're all equal in the eyes of Ra. Men and women. No distinction here. Each of us is expected to acquit ourselves well, that's our god-given duty and we shall not falter. Hear what I'm saying, do you?'

'I think I may have missed the point'

He leaned close, and she could smell parsley on his breath. 'The point,' he said acidly, 'is that equality tolerates no prima donnas.'

Ouch.

'And no histrionics, either,' he snarled, his blue eyes blazing hatred. 'Provoke any further disruption and I'll personally see that you regret it.'

So he'd known all along that she'd seen his tearful victim flee his room.

'On the other hand,' he added, with a lightning switch of personality which sent his eyes raking over the curve of her breasts, 'stay on the right side of me, little lady, and you'll be surprised what I can do for you.'

'This little lady is prepared to live without surprises.'

'Your prerogative.' A strange smile twisted half his face. 'Just bear in mind, Flea's won't be the first death sentence we've pronounced.'

An icy blast blew straight in from the Arctic. It sucked her breath away. 'You—' Claudia cleared her throat and tried again. 'You don't execute someone for stealing a few trinkets off a boat,' she said, and her voice carried only the faintest hint of a quiver.

'We do here,' Min replied cheerfully. 'Unless, of course, I put in a word for her tomorrow.'

'And what would it take for you to plead her cause, I wonder.'

'Oh, I think you know the answer.' His faded eyes cast the merest flash towards his bedroom door before they stripped the linen from her body. 'Woman of the world like you.'

'Go to hell.'

'Highly unlikely,' sneered the Grand Vizier. 'I don't force any woman into anything she doesn't want to do.'

'Find yourself a dictionary and look up "tyranny" then.'

The insult rolled off him like raindrops off an oily rag. 'Just ask yourself, m'dear, how much is that scrawny kid's life worth to you? Bugger all to me, I'll tell you that!'

Min's mocking laughter echoed in the empty corridor long after he'd closed his bedroom door.

In the arena in Rome, the executions were well under way. Fourteen hardened murderers and rapists had cried and begged

and pleaded for the mercy of the people, only to have their mangled corpses hooked away, fresh sand thrown over their coagulated blood.

The Armenian waited with a patience he had grown used to over the past seven years. Whatever beast the executioners had lined up for him could not be half as bad as the horrors inflicted by his master - the abuse, the beatings, the rapes, the humiliation. He was glad the bastard was dead, unable to inflict any further torture. Whatever he faced now, would be swift.

His turn came. The charge was read out.

'. . . slave charged with wearing the toga in public . . .'

What? For a moment the Armenian could not believe his own ears. I killed my master, he wanted to shout. I stabbed him. A cruel and terrible man, he deserved it, I'm glad, I would cheerfully do it again.

Then his endless patience kicked in, and he accepted that the nature of his crime didn't really matter. The Armenian had known, the instant he'd been shackled in that empty slot, that the previous occupant had only recently departed. With prisoners pouring in at such a rate, a gap doesn't hang about for long!

He recalled the strange, faraway look in the Clerk's eyes. His words. 'It's a sad day,' he had said, 'when decency is repaid with inhumanity.'

At the time, the Armenian thought he was addressing him. Later, though, he had not been so sure and now, with the stench of blood gagging at the back of his throat, he understood the Clerk of the Dungeons had been talking to himself.

So then. The Clerk had released the slave who had been caught in the act of wearing the toga and had set the Armenian in his place. Not an oversight, then, the Clerk not writing down his name.

Idly, as a wolf mad with fury was prodded with red-hot irons in its cage, he wondered what name he was scheduled to die under. And whether it mattered much that in the Afterlife he would arrive with a set of false papers.

Fire was brandished at the wolf to enrage and terrify it further. The Armenian could see the poor beast had been starved. Its ribs showed through its dull and unkempt pelt, and there were scars on its back from ancient battle wounds. Naked, the Armenian made no attempt at modesty by turning his back on the crowd. The scars on his own back were not for public consumption.

Finally - mercifully - the wolf was released from its cage. Maddened by the smoke, disorientated by the baying mob, it ran around in uncoordinated circles, until amber eyes flashed fire at the only living soul within its reach. It stopped and snarled out its hatred of mankind.

The Armenian threw down the bar he'd been given for defence, and heard the crowd boo. They wanted a fight. They didn't want to see a man's throat ripped out cleanly. The stamp-stamp-stamp of feet began to reverberate around the pit.

Stuff them, he thought. This is my day. I have earned the right to do what I want.

The wolf began to bound across the sand, picking up speed. He could smell its rancid breath. Felt flecks of its saliva hot on his face. It sprang. He could see its fangs, long and yellow. In its amber eyes shone death.

One. Two.
Now!
The Armenian slashed his arms against the beast's flying forelimbs. Snap. The wolf's eyes bulged. A racking sound came from the back of its maw. It jerked. Then fell on top of him. Stone dead.

Mesmerised, the crowd roared and this time the stamping was ecstatic. To wild whistles, the umpire - dressed, as always, as Mercury, messenger of the gods - stepped into the arena. He prodded the wolf's nose with a hot iron and when the beast didn't move, pronounced life officially extinct. He turned to the audience and asked, should the victor live? Or shall he face a second encounter with the beasts?

The spectators screamed so loud the Armenian couldn't hear. Didn't try. But this strange pounding in his heart was a sensation for which he would die happy.

Eventually he identified it as pride.

Through misty eyes, he gazed into the crowd. To a universal raising of the thumbs.

'Junius, the Gaul,' the umpire intoned sombrely. 'You are free to return home, on the strict understanding that you never again impersonate a Roman citizen. Do you agree?'

'I do.'

'Can you confirm your mistress resides at the following address?'

With tears drizzling down his cheeks and splashing in the sand, the Armenian was forced to admit that he didn't have a clue.

They sent him to Claudia's anyway.

For the young girl who'd been working in the laundry, the prospect of a wolf cleanly ripping out her throat was heaven.

She would give anything for that.

To be spared what Berenice had suffered. What she, herself, would have to endure.

Straight away she'd recognised Berenice under the striking cobra's mask, even though the corpse was naked. There was no telling what had killed her. Not the bonds, they'd only ripped open the flesh as they dug in. Perhaps he'd slit her throat? Quick and clean. That way, she wouldn't see it coming.

The girl's heart sank. Berenice's wounds had not been cleaned. Surely the blood from a cut throat would not have been mopped up and the others left to dry? There were no tell-tale arcs of red across the painted walls or on the bandaged remains of the others seated round the table. The laundress shuddered under her gag.

Three chairs remained empty.

Four masks lay on the table.

One for her.

Beyond tears, beyond pain, beyond hope, the girl wondered what terrible sins she had committed to warrant so barbarous a death.

Outside the cave, footsteps crunched up the path. So far, she had not even seen the face of the man behind this

sickening tableau - he'd worn the mask of the falcon, which he'd obviously taken from the corpse sitting opposite. She knew that, if she saw his face, she would recognise her killer. She wondered how much trust she'd placed in him in the past.

The footsteps stopped. A strong hand pulled back the scrambling fig. Light flooded in. Her heart was pounding, she felt sick. Sweet Ra, she didn't want to die.

At that point, the processes of decay began to take their inexorable toll on Berenice. And when the cobra mask lolled forward of its own accord, the girl from the laundry fainted dead away.

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.