Dream Boat (13 page)

The pungent smell of chives and basil wafted from the herb garden. Suppose, though, her son had fallen ill, because its mother was unhappy? That had to be a possibility.

How she wished she had someone to talk to! Family, friends, someone to confide in, help her get a perspective. Dear me, they were friendly enough, the folk here, but they weren't the type one could indulge in with weighty, in-depth discussions, or have a laugh or a gossip. They were serious, pious and dedicated and, unlike Berenice, not stifled by the constant repetition. The endless succession of prayers, the repetitive rituals, the fact that one never thought for oneself, was even allotted the clothes on one's back - one set for work, the other for rest, and each set identical to his neighbour's, right down to the conformist jewellery and unguents. Weeks ago, Berenice had stopped using that sickly concoction of myrrh and cloves, it had started to make her feel queasy. What was wrong with using lemon balm on her skin? Or having fish for a change for her dinner!

'Sssh, darling, ssh. I'll make you better, Mummy promise.'

As the long night wore on, she tried to recall what might be happening back home, but because she'd abandoned the Roman calendar willingly in favour of the Pharaoh's ten-day weeks, his ten-month years, Berenice had lost track of 'proper' time. According to the High Priest, this was the Month of the Crocodile. Did that mean it was July already? Berenice could not remember, everything was the same every single day.

Why should this concept grate? she wondered. Why on her and her alone? The others were happy enough, why wasn't she? Tears welled in her eyes. Crumbs, this was what she'd wanted, wasn't it? Longed for? Her whole life orchestrated

for her, removing the responsibility of thinking for herself? It had been worth every silver denarius she'd donated for a routine which had been soft and soothing on her mind, but today - why did she long for home all of a sudden?

'Come on, darling, take a drink.'

But the child refused her breast. It must be the baby. She sighed. This is so beautiful, this valley, so calm and peaceful. When he's better, I'll be better. She kissed his downy head. Or
was
he sick because of her? Picking up on her anxiety?

Spinning thoughts jumbled her mind as Berenice closed the door on her darkened bedroom. She laid the snuffling infant in his cradle, undid the straps of her gown and let it fall to the floor. Heavens, had she ever known such heat! She moved to the basin on the table to rinse her face and body, when she pulled up short. A goblet had appeared! Berenice sniffed. Wine!

'Will you look at that!' she whispered softly to the baby. She hadn't tasted wine since she had arrived here last autumn, pregnant with the child who was not her husband's. 'A gift from the gods!'

Only the Ten True Gods were allowed wine to drink, the faithful were given beer. Berenice gulped it down, savouring the richness as it trickled down her throat. Strange, not drinking it for so long, she'd forgotten what it tasted like. Far sweeter than she remembered.

'Oh!' The room began to spin. 'Silly Mummy.' She giggled. 'Drank too fast and feels all woozy.'

She slumped down on the bed, black waves sweeping over her. When she tried to move, she couldn't. The door to her bedroom opened, and misty eyes saw Hathor in the doorway, her coppery cloak sweeping the floor, the soft cow eyes turned on Berenice. She ought to be afraid, she thought, seeing visions in the early hours, but she wasn't. Hathor had come to help. Hathor had given her the wine.

'Hathor looks after mothers with their calves,' the vision said, and Berenice thought it odd, such a deep voice for a goddess. 'Hathor has seven of her own.'

I know, Berenice wanted to say. The Calves of Hathor weave the web of life. But her throat was paralysed, and she could say nothing as the goddess began to stroke her heavy, naked breasts.

'As I thought, Berenice, the problem is your milk.' With each caress, the cow's breathing became heavier, turning into fast, rasping snorts. 'Give this,' Hathor said eventually, 'to your baby.' A small phial appeared from the folds of the loose metallic gown and was placed softly on the table. 'When he falls asleep, take him to the gates of the temple and leave him in his cradle.'

Berenice wanted to cry in gratitude, but no tears, no words would come.

'Providing you do as I say, Berenice, your son shall live.'

The girl closed her eyes as the healing hands of Hathor squeezed the poison from her breasts.

'When Ra brings the Kiss of Dawn to the valley, so shall he breathe the Kiss of Recovery on your son, but only -
only 
Berenice! - if you lay this sacred amulet on the heart-shaped stone at the precise moment he turns his light upon your child. Will you do this, Berenice?'

I will, she said inside her head, gazing with adoration at the pebble which, when one came to look carefully, looked just like any other little pebble. Who would imagine it held such strong healing powers? Silently, she repeated the directions. Twisted chestnut, blah-blah-blah, heart-shaped stone. I've got it. The directions are etched in my brain. Hathor swirled away into the night and Berenice, naked and cleansed, sighed contentedly. Oh, praise be to Ra! Surely I shall worship him all the days of my life!

Claudia sat on the pile of rubble in Orbilio's half-demolished storeroom and rubbed at the pain which throbbed in her temples. Like an invisible demon, the breeze from the marshes picked up splutters of sulphur from the torch, added to them the dry dust of cement and stirred the whole lot around to make a sticky, foul, unbreathable porridge called air.

Face facts, Claudia. You're staring defeat in the whites of its eyes.

In a few, very short hours, eight days of Games to honour Apollo will kick off with a procession from the Capitol, with people lining the streets, dancing, singing, everyone wearing floral garlands. The parade will then end at the Circus Maximus under the Palatine and, to a hymn accompanied by sacred flutes, an ox, a cow and two white goats will lay down their lives to Apollo, their horns gilded and beribboned, while banners hang from every balcony and roof. Claudia had organised kingfisher blue for hers, hundreds of them, streaming from the window sills and gutterspouts, draped around the thresholds front and back, and Junius, goddammit, would not live to see one of them!

'I don't understand,' she said, as the pain in her forehead intensified. 'How can Flavia be innocent in law, when there's no question that she set up this abduction?'

Orbilio perched on the pile of bricks beside her. 'People can't kidnap themselves,' he said wryly. 'The most she could face is conspiracy to defraud, but you said yourself, there were only rocks in the box and, before you say anything you might regret, Mistress Seferius, don't forget the goldsmith's

a witness. No modifications to your testimony acceptable!' He shifted uncomfortably on the rubble. 'Therefore, since no monies have passed hands, no crime has been committed.'

Bitch! Claudia chewed her lower lip. Of course, if Flavia hadn't actually collected the ransom, there was still time for a switch . . . oh, don't be stupid! The chances of Flavia leaving two thousand gold pieces lying untouched in the Camensis was about as likely as this skeleton dancing off into the dawn!

'It's bloody unfair!' she said, spiking her hair. She knew that, at that moment, she would not have trusted herself with Flavia, fifteen years old or not. 'She walks away scot-free, while Junius gets to face a starving leopard.'

And the only man who is in a position to flex both family and official muscles to secure the young Gaul's release is under house arrest for a crime he didn't commit!

Despair shuffled that bit closer. She could smell its foetid breath.

Orbilio rubbed his jaw and began to pace the room. 'There might be a way round this,' he said slowly. 'Were Flavia, for instance, to swear to the Dungeon Master - on Jupiter's oath, naturally - that Junius was no slave but her ex-lover, the son of a Parisian horse breeder, say, who'd jilted her and that she'd sought revenge, and providing I sent a letter backing this up, it won't matter whether the Dungeon Master believes it or not. An oath is an oath, he'll be forced to act on it.'

Claudia felt the room spin. No food and no sleep on top of this cloying heat, what else could it be? Surely not a reaction, because he - Mister Honest and Upright himself -was prepared to compromise his position by lying?

'When I get my hands on that girl,' she said, 'I'm going to skin her alive and make books of her hide, then I'm going boil her flesh in vinegar and pickle her miserable bones in brine.' Claudia bounced up off the demolition heap and kicked the plaster wall.
'After
she's sworn her oath, though, so Junius can help with the pickling.' By the gaping cavity, she paused. 'There is a stumbling block to your master plan.'

Life is never a straight road, is it? More crazy paving, and worse, you have to lay it yourself!

'We have no idea where the scheming bitch is holing up.' By all that is holy, Flavia, you will pay for this.

'I presume you've questioned the parasite?'

'Flea?' Claudia snorted derisorily. 'That girl is tighter than a clam!'

'Then,' he grinned, 'perhaps you need a bigger hammer to crack that tough nut's shell. Walk this way, madam, if you please.'

In the atrium, Flea lay fast asleep on the floor, her manacled hand hanging limp from the wrought-iron bench leg, her face looking cherubic and heart-wrenchingly young. Across her lap, Doodlebug lay sprawled, his four paws facing different directions with Flea's free hand supporting his head. Something constricted in Claudia's stomach as she watched their ribcages rise and fall in unison.

'Leave this to me,' Orbilio whispered. 'I'll join you in the garden in fifteen minutes.'

Fifteen minutes? Fifteen years and you still won't reach the truth, she thought, but the garden was peaceful and the honeysuckle was sweet . . . and the legionary almost invisible.

The quarter hour had not passed before Orbilio came bouncing out to join her. 'Faced with being put to the torture by men who have never clapped eyes on a virgin not previously made of marble, Flea has miraculously turned into a linnet,' he said. 'Why don't you go and hear the birdie sing?'

Claudia looked up at the night sky, to where stars were hidden by a blanket of fug, and wondered how the Security Police would ever hope to manage without him.

Indoors, a very different scene greeted her eyes. Doodlebug had woken up, full of beans and in the sure knowledge that he was everyone's friend and that they wanted to play with him. Flea still looked hauntingly young, but hers was no longer the peaceful, pretty face of a few minutes before. Oh, sweet Janus, what's in your past? What horrors have you lived through?

'All right, this is the truth, I swear it!' and if Flea, that

moment, had claimed she was the mother of Helen of Troy, Claudia would have believed her. This girl's emotions were pared to the bone. 'I met her a week ago, right? Flavia was sitting on the steps of the Temple of Luna and sobbing her little heart out and, I dunno why, but I just felt sorry for the poor cow.'

I can tell you why. You're nowhere near as tough as you like to make out, my girl!

'Flavia, see, was going on about how unhappy she was, how she'd seen a chance to break free from her horrible family -' Flea flicked an apologetic glance at Claudia, then grinned to see that no offence was taken. 'Anyway, the gist of it was, she couldn't leave. Not without money, any road.' Absently, she tickled Doodlebug's floppy, daft ears. 'Gold was the actual word,' Flea said. 'She needed gold, she said, for the brothers of whores.'

'For what?
Flea, if you're winding me up—'

'I ain't, honest I ain't. The brothers of whores,' she insisted, and her luminous green eyes shone with the truth. 'I swear I dunno what she meant by that, it weren't my business to ask and I didn't much care, but I told her, I'll give you a plan to raise the money you need and then, if it works, you give me ten of them gold pieces and she said, it's a deal.'

'So the plan - this kidnap - that was your idea?'

'Reckon it was,' Flea admitted in a tiny voice. 'Will I . . . will I still be put to the torture?'

Doodlebug began to tug at her skirt, growling and skidding on the polished mosaic.

'Flea.' Claudia felt rotten pressing on. 'A man's life is at stake, I need to find Flavia and I can't believe you don't know where to find her.'

'Well, I don't.' Tough and streetwise, Flea hated the tears which began to fill up her eyes. 'Flavia said she'd come to me, so I told her where I lived, and . . . well, she'd visit, I suppose you'd call it. See, we got on, Flavia and me.' Her long lashes turned downwards. 'Can't understand that, can yer? Us being friends.'

Oh, but I can. Two lonely misfits and, for one, a burgeoning sexual awakening. 'Did she know you were a girl?' Finding no satisfaction with a lump of old cloth, the puppy turned his attentions to Claudia's sandal.

'Course not!' Flea was horrified. 'But that didn't have nothing to do with it. We just clicked as pals, that's all.'

Maybe to you, but I'll bet my bottom denarius Flavia fancied you something rotten. 'This talk about the brothers of whores—'

'Uh-uh. She didn't talk about them at all. Clammed up tight, she did - mind, once she mentioned something about Westerners. I remember that. Westerners.'