Dream Boat (18 page)

Orbilio's humour faded. He for one had never believed Mentu harmless, even though the enterprise had been the subject of official investigation. In the end, the Treasury line was that as long as Mentu paid his taxes and endowed a college or two, what was the problem? Mentu, whether he liked to call himself Pharaoh, Osiris, Ra or Slinky Sue was not committing any crime. No fraud, no forgery, no theft, no plots

against the State. Oh, sure, one or two families complained about their (mostly) daughters running away, that they were allowed no physical contact and that the few short notes received didn't come across like the children they'd raised, but so what? These 'runaways' were, in legal terms, adult, and while theoretically their absconding might be against the law, inasmuch as children remain the property of their fathers until marriage (and, for women, their husbands thereafter), everyone felt that those who chose commune life were either unstable, unloved, unwanted, immature or simply inadequate.

Or, to put it another way, no one really wanted these people back.

And to some extent, Marcus sympathised with that view. If human beings are stupid enough to give up everything to follow some quasi-religious nut, then that's their choice. What worried him was that, of all the people who'd joined, none - not a single one - had ever returned! Twice he'd pressed for a closer investigation into the activities of the cult - indeed he'd even volunteered to go undercover himself - but the official line held firm.
Don't rock the boat. 
Which had culminated in yet another clash with his superior.

'Even if Mentu is operating a swindle,' his boss had said, 'this is not a job for the Security Police, whose role, as you obviously need reminding, is to oversee the security of Rome by rooting out forgers, conspirators and the like. So get your arse out of my office and start bloody rooting!'

When the barber moved to rinse Orbillio's face with clean water, he pushed him away. Everything in Claudia's letter underlined his suspicions about the self-styled Pharaoh Mentu. Members had been targeted with cold-blooded precision, picked because no one would press too hard for their return while at the same time ensuring that not so much money changed hands that it warranted making a fuss. Sisters/brothers/friends might show concern, but what the hell? They have no clout in law.

The Brothers of Horus, as Claudia's letter told him only

too clearly, were in the business of mind control. They brainwashed the 'faithful' with new names and new rituals as a means of keeping them focussed on Ra and off their money, although until now the cult had been nothing more than a vague and nagging worry niggling away at the back of Orbilio's mind and, like the buzz of a wasp trapped in a room, annoying, though hardly a major cause for concern.

Until now.

The words echoed round his empty bed chamber.

Until now.

Never had Marcus felt more paralysed than by this damned house arrest. Soldiers at every entrance. Vigilantes posted outside.

Until now.
Until Claudia joined up with the cult . . .

Marcus dabbed at the nicks on his chin with a spider's web soaked in vinegar. He didn't imagine for one second that the headstrong widow would be swayed by the Brothers' mind games (in fact, he almost pitied them), but surely over the past year or two,
one
of the faithful would have wanted to leave?

Immediately, the wasp became a whole swarm.

Exactly what did happen when you tried to leave the cult? Why had no one ever come home? Suddenly, looking into the mirror, Marcus realised it was not Claudia's sanity he feared for.

Marcus feared for her life.

Several things happened that Friday afternoon.

First, the clouds descended lower and lower, trapping the heat, funnelling the breeze and making the rancid air fouler yet.

The weather was showing signs of breaking at last.

In a wooden amphitheatre on the Field of Mars, the pallid Prefect failed to notice the perspiration which slowly weighted his elegant tunic. Transfixed, he watched his troupe of male actors rehearse a centuries-old drama and, to his utter astonishment, such was their professionalism that none of the audience noticed the wonky scenery and dodgy props, or even that the Serving Women lit their signal to the Romans from a crab apple tree not a fig.

Indeed, computing on a wax tablet during the intermission the cost of his production, the Prefect found the enterprise pleasantly profitable on all counts.

The same could not be said of the girl who had misled her foster parents into believing she was taking a starring role in the show. As rumbles of thunder rolled in the distance, Flavia leaned over the stoneblock latrine and was comprehensively sick. Why? she wailed. Why did they make her do that? Help out in the kitchens, they said, and she thought maybe peeling root vegetables, shucking peas, it sounded romantic, and besides, she rather liked the look of the boy who fetched hot loaves from the bakery.

Instead, they made her . . .

At the memory of the stinking, steaming, purple viscera spilling over the yard, Flavia vomited again, and wanted to die. It wouldn't be like this, she sobbed, if I'd had those two thousand gold pieces. Two thousand gold pieces buys you cushy jobs like potting honey, mixing perfumes, making sweet music on the strings of a lyre. Not gutting a . . .

At the very thought of the mess on the cobbles, she retched a third time, then a fourth, more noisily still. She hated it here. She wanted to go home. Nothing was at all like Zer had promised.

Zer had promised a new life, a world filled with happiness, where brother loves brother and the Pharaoh is father to all. He had said nothing about disembowelling a
pig!
Come to that, she thought gasping for air, he'd said nothing about everyone wearing identical workclothes, or attending prayers twice a day, or communal eating, or wearing these itchy reed sandals. He hadn't said she couldn't choose her new Egyptian name, either. She'd earmarked Nefertiti (for preference), Cleopatra as second choice - instead they addressed her as Magas. Ugh. She shuddered at the ugliness of the name. And why did women have to wear these horrid shift dresses, which only flattered the thin?

'Magas!' The voice was harsh and insistent. 'Magas, stop babying around. It's a pig! We need to eat, and you must pull your weight in the commune. Remember, child, we are all sisters of Ra.'

Flavia-Magas wiped her mouth with a sponge. 'I can't,' she wailed. 'I can't face that disgusting stench, I can't!'

'There's no such word,' snapped the voice. 'Now clean yourself up, flush out the latrines, and hurry back to your work. This is not the weather for guts to be lying out in the yard!'

'This ain't no weather to be outdoors in.'

The party was making excellent progress in the four-horse trap, the roads being quiet, the hills relatively gentle, when Flea blurted out her sulky protest. Claudia flashed a radiant smile at

Zer, which also encompassed his two mooning acolytes, and hissed under her breath to the thief, 'One more squeak and you'll be picking teeth from your tonsils.' Aloud, she said, 'Sweet child. So concerned for our health and well being.' She shrugged helplessly at the priest, whose shaven head ran with beads of perspiration. 'Wouldn't leave me, you know. I did try . . .'

Zer smiled his oily smile at the girl with the puppy sprawled across her skinny legs. 'We have no servants where we are going, but love and loyalty transcend all emotion. Ra will richly reward you.'

Translated, of course, as meaning Ra will richly reward olive groves in Campania and vines stretching across three hills of Frascati, and should the new recruit wish to bring her maid and a fat, un-house-trained puppy along, Zer would most certainly raise no objection, she could bring a troupe of dwarves and dancing elephants for all he cared. Zer's job was to ensure financial transitions flowed smoothly.

'Why don't you close your eyes, dear?' Claudia was anxiety personified. 'Rest a while?'

The question may have sounded solicitous to priestly ears, but the thief wasn't fooled. Substitute mouth for eyes, was the message. Bitch, she mouthed back, when Zer's head was turned, but Flea wasn't really sorry she was on this trip. It was kinda fun, tagging along with Claudia. She saw things she'd not normally get to see, people she'd never normally meet - well, not unless you could call cutting their purses a meeting! And it bloody hurt, binding up yer tits, it was nice to wear a proper breastband for a change, something which supported 'em, made them comfy, and besides, casing this place sounded cool!

She leaned her spine against the woodwork and considered the heavy, grey clouds overhead. There was this bloke, a master thief, who she could approach when she got back to Rome. He was that bloody smart, this bloke, he'd be able to fence the Emperor's personal seal!

The trap joggled along, its cargo of humans and bits and

pieces for the commune bumping in time with the wheels. Cauldrons, griddles, in fact lots of iron stuff, she noticed. Three rolls of linen. A sack of hemp, a barrel of pitch, a block of salt - stuff they weren't able to produce on site. Can't imagine what Flavia would want with them. If it were Flea, she'd stick with Claudia, you'd get a ride and half with her, but there was no accounting for tastes, and - funnily enough - she was looking forward to seeing Flavia again. Talk about opposites attracting! But they'd got on well, Flavia and her. An instant rapport, although what Claudia would say when she copped hold of her, Flea didn't like to think, and Flavia deserved it, too. Narking should be punished. She should not have shopped Junius to the rozzers, that was out of order, that. Especially when she, a rich man's brat, would know it entailed certain death.

Idly, Flea fondled Doodlebug's floppy ears and wondered what it would take for Claudia to let her have him for keeps.

She shifted the dead weight of the sleeping pup and glanced at the creepy priest and his pair of followers. Barmy, them two. Pity they weren't wearing jewellery, she'd have whipped it off them in no time, gormless twonks wouldn't even notice! But there'd be stuff at this commune to nick and sell on, she'd stake her life on it. Flea's thoughts settled on the thief master in Rome. Play your dice right, girl, and you could make serious dosh out of this.

As it happened, they were trading in a very different currency in Rome.

Deep inside the dungeons - converted stone quarries which ran underneath Silversmith's Rise - the heat was fiercesome, the stench appalling and the Dungeon Master held half a peach under his nose as Orbilio's steward rattled off a list of his son's misdemeanours. The Dungeon Master listened attentively, amazed by both the range of his son's proclivities and the fact that Marcus Cornelius knew so much about them.

'All he is asking,' the steward concluded, 'is that you let

the Gaul go in return for your son's transgressions being, shall we say - overlooked.'

The Dungeon Master considered the steward. A Libyan. A foreigner. A wog. And held the peach that bit closer to his florid nostrils. It was true, then, the rumour that Orbilio was under house arrest, else he'd have come down here personally. Orbilio wasn't the type to be put off by a bit of a stink! Carefully, the Dungeon Master made some holding remark while his mind worked gymnastics, then said (with a firm handshake), 'Tell Orbilio I'll do my best for the Gaul.'

He waited until the Libyan had left before strolling down the rank, stinking corridors to where shackled prisoners languished, raged, pleaded or sobbed against the implacable stone quarry walls. Strangely, Junius the Gaul had done none of these things. No protest, no struggle. In fact, the Dungeon Master believed he had not spoken one word since his arrest. In the spluttering light of a reed brand, the jailer studied the impassive face of the slave who'd been caught red-handed wearing the toga and noted that in spite of the filthy conditions, the intolerable air, the heat, the oppression, the beatings, hard blue eyes stared levelly back. The Dungeon Master tossed a ring of keys from hand to hand. Not a bloody flicker.

'Cocky bastard, ain't yer?' The type who gives the crowd good value for money when it comes to public execution.

Taking a good, long look at the Gaul made the warden's decision easier.

He sighed and wondered how it was that his son, his own flesh and blood, had become such a thoroughly bad lot. Where had they gone wrong, him and the boy's mother? More importantly, perhaps, where would it end? At this rate, someone would die, or at the least end up seriously injured. The warder wiped a hand over his face. What kept the scandal hushed up was an agent of the Security Police who wished to trade the life of a cocky young Gaul. No contest, was it? A half-smile lifted the Dungeon Master's top lip. Gaul . . . He sniffed the ripe peach. Yes, indeed. Now, were his son to leave, say, tomorrow for Gaul, or Iberia, anywhere distant,

there would be no case to answer here, would there? His own position as Dungeon Master would not be compromised and whichever way the wind might then blow for Orbilio, the investigator's wings would be clipped.

The Dungeon Master looked at the scroll listing tomorrow's executions.

And patted it.

Who was he to deny the crowd a worthy competitor?

The Clerk of the Dungeons, delivering yet another batch of paperwork to the Dungeon Master, studied the execution roster, which seemed to be growing longer by the minute. Must be the heat, he reasoned. Tempers fray, feuds boil over, and it can only get worse, now the cloud cover's low. And wasn't that thunder he'd heard in the distance?