Jail Bait (25 page)

Tullus turned right past the Senate House and sighed. That’s another thing. Rumour had it, Augustus was about to propose his stepson, Tiberius, as his heir. Well, the lad had proved himself on campaign, heaven knows he’d be a popular enough choice. Intelligent, courageous, happily married to a wife swelling with child, the people would be right behind him…were it not for the problem that Tiberius was unconnected to Augustus by blood! As a result, much debating would be required in the Senate House, which, goddammit, was in unofficial recess until the end of the month.

Tullus resolved to make a sacrifice to Apollo, because the gods must be against him. If only the Senate had been sitting, there’d have been no problem over that bloody scrap of paper…

Away from the hawklike eyes of his peers, Tullus slipped off his toga and instantly felt half a ton lighter and five years younger. Mopping the sweat from his forehead, he turned right again, through the crush of armour makers and glassblowers, pitchsellers and potters. He rolled the toga into a ball and bundled it under his arm. Funny thing about that stolen document. Because of his widespread business connections, Tullus had agents in virtually every commercial centre for two hundred miles and yet no word had come back regarding the whereabouts of Claudia Seferius. Very odd, that, very odd indeed. Especially considering she was such a hot-headed creature. A filly born from Impulse out of Recklessness, Tullus would never have imagined her hanging on to such a thing. Surely she’d be asking a four-figure sum for its safe return by now? Tullus stuffed the woollen ball under the other arm as he turned left and away from the main thoroughfare. Jupiter alone knew how deeply he’d delved into that girl’s affairs, and whilst much of her private life remained a mystery, it hadn’t been too difficult for a rich man with contacts to see how the land lay with the business she was trying so desperately to run. With a full appraisal of her financial status, Tullus could understand the theft—hell, given the girl’s audacity, he might even have had a few words of advice to offer her about how to handle the merchants she was up against. But as to that scroll… Something of a conundrum, what?

He chewed his lower lip in thought. There’s no way, reading it, she could have failed to comprehend its sensational impact, unless—
of course!
Tullus slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. Silly arse! She’d been
paid
to steal the bloody thing, it was obvious. He saw it now. Someone had paid Claudia Seferius to break in and steal his nephew’s letter. Taking Tullus’ money had been no more than a diversion tactic.
No wonder
she couldn’t be found. Whoever was masterminding the theft was hiding her as well—ha!

His step lightened considerably, despite the steep incline.

Wasn’t that a weight off his mind! Surprising, really, his nephew hadn’t seen it all along. Well, well, well. What a pleasant prospect, putting one over on that cold little reptile, telling him that, furthermore, family or not, he’d have no further involvement in the matter, it was up to the boy from now on to find out who had known the incriminating document was in his possession. Let the little sod work backwards from there.

Wonderful. Tullus was off the hook, the problem was back where it belonged. His loins stirred. How long had it been since he’d pleasured his wife? Well, there was no reason now why he couldn’t set off for Frascati first thing in the morning.

Down a quiet backstreet lined with six-storey tenement blocks, Tullus felt a chill run down his spine. Ridiculous. This is a respectable neighbourhood. But all the same he turned around to check. It was the height of the buildings, of course, casting the narrow street into shadow and blocking out the clamour of the workmen and builders back down the hill. Everything was normal. A group of small children, one rolling a hoop, two playing piggyback, scampered down the street. An old man with badly bowed legs led a donkey towards a stable, and a foreigner, a fat Edessan from Mesopotamia judging by the turban, peered at windows and doorways as he sought a particular address. Tullus was ashamed of his imaginings. All because someone mentioned that the man who designed his strongroom had been found dead in some back alley with his throat cut! Hell, with the army stretched to breaking point as it sorted out clogged roads, choked drains and arranged mass burials out of town, crime—especially robbery—was rife at the moment. Tullus was not unduly worried. He had his dagger at the ready. No thieving scumbag would take his purse off him.

Before turning the corner, he still felt it prudent to glance back down the hill. No cut-throats lurking in doorways. No shaven-headed gangs. No sneak thieves darting from balcony to balcony with bulging sacks. Much to the delight of the mimicking children, the Edessan’s turban wobbled from side to side as he sought directions from an uncomprehending Celt in pantaloons. From the top storey of the adjacent building, a young woman’s voice rang out in pure soprano. A yellow mongrel cocked its leg against a doorway, and lunchtime cooking smells of pork and sausages and fresh-baked bread filtered through the torrid heat. Tullus smiled as the Celt shrugged off down the street leaving the exasperated Edessan to adjust his blue hat, and up on the roof, two cats howled at stand-off.

Even the plague, thought Tullus, trudging up the winding alleyway, cannot dim the spirit of humankind. When the contagion first hit the city we couldn’t eat, we couldn’t sleep, we lay in our beds at night, wondering who’d be next, would it be me? We watched our neighbours die, we lost a friend, perhaps a relative, yet we ourselves were spared. And as time passed, we learned to cope with this cloud of uncertainty until one day, before we know it, we find ourselves singing again! Humming marching tunes instead of dirges, and when we gaze upwards at the unforgiving sky we no longer pray ‘spare me, mighty Jupiter, spare me from the plague’. We find ourselves listening to songbirds—the finches, nightingales and warblers—and realize it is not death itself we fear, but an erosion of our spirit. Man is born to survive, and fear of fear is more crushing than any—

‘Excuse me?’

Instinctively Tullus’ hand flew to his dagger, but when he turned it was to look into the baffled face of the flabby Edessan.

‘I am looking for a coppersmith who goes by name of Mita. He is kinsman of me, and I am wondering whether you are knowing where he lives?’

‘Of course.’ Tullus had had many dealings with the wily Mesopotamian. ‘You’ll find his premises in the next street, just—’ he turned and pointed ‘—down there.’

The punch to his chest knocked the breath from his lungs. He wanted to yell, ‘stop, thief,’ but he couldn’t catch his breath, and in any case the Edessan was still standing in front of him, his face frowning with deep concern.

‘Help…me,’ he rasped. ‘Help…’

Mighty Mars, his heart was giving out! His arms were wood. He couldn’t lift them. Then he looked down.

And saw the knife embedded to the hilt.

‘What…’

The turban was gone. The smile was gone. The stranger pushed still harder on his dagger, grunting with the exertion. Tullus was confused. This was a joke, right? A practical joke. It had to be, because there was no pain—

Janus, Croesus, yes there was!

As the blade came out, it hit him like a thunderbolt, screaming through his bowels, shooting white-hot sparks of agony into every bone and muscle. His head caught fire, there was a drumming in his ears, as though several wagons passed across a wooden bridge at once, and for a moment he thought someone whispered ‘No witnesses,’ but that made no sense. No sense at all.

As he dropped to his knees, his bronze purse clattered to the cobbles, spilling copper, bronze and silver everywhere. No hand picked them up.

‘Why…?’ he gasped, but when he looked round, Tullus was alone in the alley with only a faint smell of cardamoms and a blue turban, which rolled like a drunk in the gutter.

Doubling up, Tullus clawed at his chest.

His breath wouldn’t come, and as he keeled over on to the cobbles, he saw the sky go dark. Rain, he thought. Rain at long last. And he knew it was true, because liquid trickled over the hands clasped to his chest.

As the sky closed in, black as night, Tullus remembered his secretary was waiting for him at home. With quill and ink at the ready, to write a letter to send to his wife.

What the hell was it he wanted to say? He had to tell her… Tell her what? Oh yes.

That he’d not be in
Frascati by Tuesday after all.

XXVI

‘What’s in the sack?’

The soldier leaned across and was about to swoop the package from Claudia’s hands when Cyrus intervened.

‘That’s all right, lad,’ he jerked his head in dismissal, ‘you can leave this to me.’ He waited until the legionary had closed the door behind him, then said, ‘This is highly irregular, I’ll have you know.’

‘And don’t think I don’t appreciate the fact,’ Claudia replied, removing a large, stoppered jug from her bag. ‘Absinthe,’ she whispered. ‘Purloined from Pylades’ supply.’

The tribune chuckled. ‘I’m not sure whether that’s another crime or not,’ he laughed, removing the cork and sniffing, ‘to add to your tally, but I’m partial to a drop of absinthe.’

Oh, I know your little weakness, Claudia said silently. Pylades told me all about it when we visited the barracks earlier.

It had been shortly after Tarraco had been led away in irons, his obscenities and expletives showing a wider range to his Latin vocabulary than might have been expected, when Claudia had approached Atlantis’ architect and founder as the group was breaking up.

‘I’m sorry about that incident back there,’ she said. ‘It was good of you to bail me out.’

‘Nonsense,’ the stocky Laconian beamed, ‘I was happy to put the situation right—though just between you and me, you’re not the only girl to have fallen for his smarm.’ He glanced across to where Lais was being heaved on to a stretcher.

‘I thought I understood him,’ Claudia said, with a sad shake of her head. ‘That’s why I…you know, made a fool of myself. Now the tribune has me pinned as a madwoman.’ She gave a self-conscious laugh. ‘I hardly know which is worse. Being thought a strumpet or a lunatic.’ Pylades patted Claudia’s hand. ‘No one here believes that you’re either.’ He laughed. ‘Now, let’s put the horror of the day behind us with you accompanying me to my personal quarters, where we can take a little refreshment, listen to a spot of music—’

‘Pylades—’ Claudia coiled a ringlet around her little finger and smiled a cute little-girl smile ‘—Pylades, would you put in a good word about me to the tribune? Explain that bit of nonsense just now…?’

‘My dear.’ He offered her his elbow and turned towards the flight of steps, ‘nothing would please me more—’

‘Excellent’ Claudia took the proffered arm and spun him round. ‘We shouldn’t be too far behind him.’

‘What? You mean,
now?
’

‘I knew you’d understand,’ she said, tossing back the mop of curls. ‘The sooner we get this clarified, the better. Just bear with me while I slip some ribbons in my hair, and on the way you can tell me all about your plans for extending Atlantis.’ Plus everything you know about Lais, the tribune’s peccadilloes, how far Pul’s influence extends, plus…plus…plus…!

If Cyrus had been surprised to see them turn up at the garrison, he masked it well, and with Pylades patting Claudia’s lovely hand as he glossed over the misunderstanding, the tribune even seemed to find it rather funny. In fact, he barely minded when, in a fit of clumsiness, the lovely widow accidentally overturned his desk. The shame of being here, she mumbled. Of having to explain oneself after such public humiliation—

Finally, with all sides parting company in good humour (he even went so far as to kiss her hand himself), how could Cyrus not mind bestowing one more favour?

It concerned a harebell gown, she said, fluttering her lashes as, in a hushed whisper, she confessed at being duped by Tarraco’s slick charm. The gown had actually been Lais’, she added. Imagine that! Well, now she’d like her revenge…

And an hour later, she was back.

This time without Pylades, just absinthe from his personal supply.

‘Hooo,’ Cyrus said, making a fanning motion with his podgy hand. ‘Powerful stuff.’ Carefully he replaced the stopper. ‘Now I apologize if what follows implies a lack of trust, but you must appreciate the prisoner is facing a capital offence, I cannot afford to take chances.’

‘You’re asking if you can search the sack and the answer is I should jolly well hope you would,’ Claudia began, but the tribune held up an embarrassed hand.

‘The bag, yes, but I, um, well, it’s like this.’ He didn’t need to elaborate. An amazon with a face like a boot
appeared in the doorway, and for five minutes Claudia was subjected to a punishing search before Granitepuss finally called out to Cyrus that the visitor had no keys or weapons on her person, indeed nothing that could endanger the safe custody of the prisoner. By the way, she’d searched the sack as well, but, she shouted, there was only one silver bell inside (no clapper) plus one dead rabbit.

‘Hare,’ Claudia corrected. ‘The animal is a hare, and it is revenge for a dress.’

‘I don’t care what it is, it stinks,’ Bootface said, wiping her hands down the side of her tunic. ‘The jailhouse is over there.’

The legionary assigned to escort her seemed more concerned with the probability of rain by morning than an impending murder trial, and as he chuntered on, again Claudia was struck by how quiet the garrison was for such an up-and-coming town. Typical of barracks anywhere, the buildings consisted of four blocks built around a central rectangular yard, yet they seemed eerily empty. No soldiers drilling. No barked orders. No hobnail boots clattering over the cobbles. Merely a coil of black smoke from the smithy and the thwack of meat being chopped on a block.