Dream Boat (3 page)

'The hell I will! Now you move that cart or I'll bloody move it for you!'

Traffic began to jam in both directions, and when the sweaty wagoner took it upon himself to lead the carter's mule down the nearest side street, sending a score of terracotta tiles crashing into splinters as they slid off the open back end, punches needed no encouragement. Gradually more and more drivers became embroiled in the brawl, pitching in with either verbal or physical abuse, until the rumpus had attracted half the population of the city, or so it seemed. Swarms of beggars

gushed from the twisting narrow alleys. Pie sellers, cutpurses, whores, wine vendors - out they came, ever hopeful of cashing in on the occasion, and suddenly everybody was shouting over everybody else in an effort to be heard. No wonder they called Rome the city which never sleeps!

'Mrrr!'

'No one's locking you in,' Claudia told Drusilla, 'but I can't hear myself think with that racket.' Heatwave or not, she slammed the shutters and instantly the tumult dimmed to a throb. In her bedroom, a single lamp burned with aromatic lavender oil.

Where are you, Flavia ?

'Frrr.' Drusilla uncoiled herself from Claudia's pillow and scratched at her ear.

'Yes, poppet, I know she's a horrid little beast and we'll all be glad to see the back of her.' Claudia considered her supper tray and selected a fat, pink prawn for the cat. 'But that doesn't make kidnapping right.'

Have they hurt you? Mistreated you? Are you frightened, crying and alone?

She picked up a still-warm roll, inhaling the smell of garlic, thyme and rosemary and found the aromas made her stomach heave.

Have they treated you civilly?

Pictures formed and dissolved in Claudia's mind and she squeezed her eyes shut. The possibility of Flavia being snuffed out like an old tallow candle sent a vicious pain through her head. She's too young, she thought. Too naive. She'll be terrified.

When Flavia's mother died giving life to the girl, she left behind a daughter who Gaius didn't want and three sons who he did, with the result that Gaius used his famous bullyboy tactics to dump Flavia with his youngest sister, taking care to oil the path, however, with sufficient funds to silence any squawks of protest. No one could ever say for sure whether Flavia was miserable by constitution or whether being unwanted had rubbed off on her somehow, but by all accounts, she'd

adopted an unlovable nature with uncharacteristic alacrity -scowling when she should have chortled, sulking when it came to playing games - so that when Claudia entered the scene, a scant five years back, the pattern was set like cement.

Flavia was miserable. This made Marcellus miserable. Which in turn made Julia even more miserable than she already had been.

Oh, Flavia, couldn't you have just
tried?
Met them, if not in the middle, then at least one third of the way? Recently, Claudia thought she'd actually seen a chink in the girl's armour. Admittedly, the visit had not been a social one -Flavia had come to whinge about her allowance being severed - but, like most teenage girls, she had become obsessed with her appearance of late and in one candid moment blurted out, 'I
hate
the way I look!'

'Did I tell her to stop looking? Drusilla, I did not.' Neither did Claudia tell the girl that the only person who could help her appearance was herself. 'With commendable patience, I pointed out that spots clear naturally, excess weight can be shed and that a good seamstress could work miracles on those rounded shoulders.'

However, before she'd even broached the miracles of cosmetics, Flavia had snorted, 'You just don't understand!' and flounced out, slamming the door in her wake.

'Mrrow.'

'Some of her behaviour is understandable, I grant you.' Claudia stripped the flesh off a quail for the cat. 'Gaius never made a secret of his irritation with his daughter.' Which would leave deep scars on even the hardest little nut! 'But you'd have thought Julia and Marcellus, being childless, might have been more receptive to the love of a toddler.'

Instead, Flavia had been given free rein to hone the only skill she possessed, namely being as perverse as she was able, and dear lord, was that girl able! Julia had grown more sour and more frigid with every year that passed, the family's only salvation lay in marrying Flavia off. Only here she had proved her claim to title of The Most Contrary Little

Madam in the Universe. She had categorically refused all suitors!

'No, let's be fair, poppet. More often than not, she repelled them.' Which wasn't the same thing at all!

For a brief, glorious moment, standing in the stillness of her shuttered bedroom, Claudia pictured the final denouement in the kidnappers' plan. That exquisite moment when the gang collected the ransom. They would gather round and slowly lift the lid of the money box.
Shock!
In place of a pile of shiny gold coins, they'd see only air. And at the bottom, a note which read 'Keep the bitch. We've had enough.'

Ah, well. A girl can dream . . .

Since the altercation in the street had now been resolved, dispersing with it the hucksters, whores and pickpockets, Claudia flung open the shutters again and stepped out on to her balcony. Shit. In the half hour since she'd retreated, a breeze had sprung up from the coast, thick and gummy, the sort which carries with it flies and biting insects, malaria and plague. Terrific! Any more surprises?

Below, black-clad undertakers moving, for delicacy's sake, under cover of darkness carried away a corpse on a stretcher. In the flickering light of the torch-bearers, she recognised the baker's mother, who must have been ninety if she was a day, and from her balcony Claudia saluted a final farewell. That's the way to go, she thought. Strong of body, clear of mind and knocking on a hundred. Not fifteen, trussed up like a chicken to be bought and sold as cheaply as a sack of sorrel leaves.

Long after the undertakers had wound their way down the hill, Claudia stared after them, and when the herald called out the hour, she could not be sure whether it was two or three that he called. Maybe both.

What greedy, twisted mind was so callous that it would put a young girl through torment? Why target Flavia? Heaven knows, Marcellus wasn't wealthy! Why not pick on the daughter of a rich merchant or (better still) an aristocrat?

The word aristocrat made something prick inside and -quite unbidden - a tall, familiar figure towered over Claudia's

subconscious. Clad in trademark long patrician tunic and high boots, he speared his fingers through the thick, dark waves of hair which fell carelessly across his forehead and, with a twinkle in his eye, proceeded to reply to her question by reminding Claudia that the higher one's financial status rose, the more protected one becomes. Which, by his reckoning, left her as vulnerable as a new-born fawn.

'Sod off,' she told the laughing vision, but goddammit, the vision wouldn't budge. Tartly she reminded it that it was Marcellus who had been targeted, not her, she was only helping out here as a favour. She thought she heard the vision laugh and say, 'Like hell you are,' before it faded.

Damn you, Orbilio. Damn you to hell. She scrubbed her eyes with her knuckles. Wherever I go you're dogging my footsteps, intruding into my thoughts. She sighed. Any other man, of course, and she'd suspect he fancied her. Not Supersnoop. He was too damned businesslike for that! That aristocratic ferret knew trouble was attracted to Claudia like fleas were to a mongrel - he simply saw her as his personal stepping stone to the Senate. Fine. She didn't give a hoot for broad, bronzed shoulders and strong white even teeth. Who cared that he smelt of sandalwood, with just a faint hint of the rosemary over which his clothes were aired? And it didn't matter to her the way dark hairs curled over the back of his wrist, or whether a little pulse throbbed at the base of his throat.

Nevertheless, something tingled deep inside her. Indigestion, probably. She'd had nothing to eat since lunchtime.

All right, she thought, kicking her mind back on track. We've established that the gang targeted Marcellus because he's an easy hit and gives the impression (who doesn't) of being moderately well off. Does it therefore follow that he knows the kidnappers? Could this be personal? A grudge? It would explain the run-around, the wait, the deliberate drawing out of tension.

How much will the kidnappers ask for? How much is Flavia worth?

A faint greyness began to show in the sky over the

Esquiline Hill and, far in the distance, the first trumpet sounded, reminding delivery men that the gates would close shortly. Claudia rubbed at gritty eyes.

'Call in the army and the girl dies.' The note was explicit. She could not afford to risk it.

She would have to - her nails made gouges in the woodwork of the rail - she would have to go it alone and trust to heaven her skills were adequate. Or else the next bier being carried by the undertakers would be Flavia's . . .

Empty at last, the street reeked of horse manure and pitch, stale sweat and axle grease, the air cloudy with dust churned up by hooves. A latecomer clattered over the cobbles, racing for the exit with two dogs yapping at the cartwheels. Apprentices skulked back to their garrets, blowing kisses on the sticky air to lovers; there was just time for a quick wash and change before setting off for work. From the bakery, yeasty smells began to filter out, a harsh reminder that, despite death in the family, the wheels of commerce must still turn.

Why don't they come? Claudia wondered. Why doesn't the gang follow up on their note? Why this ghastly, interminable wait?

'Mrrrp.' Drusilla jumped down from the bed, arched her back in a sinuous stretch then poured herself through the balcony rail.

Goddammit, why don't they just get in touch!

Silent as a ghost, four paws landed on the porch roof below, padding softly over the tiles before being devoured by the shadows.

Merciful Minerva, Drusilla had given her the answer! The kidnappers were toying with the girl's family the way a cat toys with a vole. They want Julia and Marcellus to know who's running the show. They need to show them who's in charge!

Well, well, well. This put a different slant on things. 'To win the game,' she told her invisible opponents, 'one has to be pitted against a weaker rival. You're just to be pitied.' With one happy puff, Claudia extinguished the lamp and let the sticky

breeze carry the lavender vapours into the night. 'Make no mistake, suckers! Your scalps are
mine!'

Nevertheless, despite her upturn in mood, there was no denying who had the upper hand right now! They knew damn well they could pull Julia and Marcellus about like marionettes on a string and that, with a fifteen-year-old's life at stake, the pair were powerless to protest. Flavia was not the only victim here! The bastards intended that Julia and Marcellus should suffer too, until eventually they became weak and vulnerable, their spirit sucked dry by the kidnappers' vampire-like need to dominate and control.

What the gang hadn't reckoned on, however, was a third party becoming involved.

Blackmail Claudia Seferius? I don't think so.

She lay down on the bed and closed her eyes. You need to show who's in charge? Be my guest. If the need to dominate's so strong, it means Flavia's alive, otherwise you'd have nothing to bargain with.

Oh, Flavia. Where are they holding you?

Was she tied up in some dingy attic, gagged and blindfolded? Locked in a windowless shepherd's hut high in the hills? Was she too scared to cry? Or had she tried to call for help and been whipped for her pains? Was she sobbing into a dirty pillow, or convulsing with fear on a floor of tamped earth? Was she bloodied, bruised and beaten? Had the bastards raped her? She could be imprisoned in a ghetto on the Aventine, where one more scream passes without comment. Or held in a disused warehouse across the Tiber, where screams go quite unheard . . .

Dammit, Flavia could be anywhere!

And when you're fifteen, alone and terrified, that is no place to be.

As the sun climbed slowly above the Mount of Osiris, bathing the valley in its honey rays and turning the ceremonial pool to molten silver, the girl called Donata could hardly breathe for the excitement. Everyone else would already be clustered in the temple forecourt, but since today was to be the most important day of her life, preparation was paramount and she paused to check her appearance in a disc of copper polished so finely that she could see every lash of her kohl-rimmed eyes, every carved line on her glazed blue scarab amulet. Satisfied that no pleat was ever sharper, no fingernails better hennaed, she dabbed a little musky perfume behind her earlobes. Outside, the rattle of sistrums, light and melodious, filled the still warm morning air and, as she ran across the grass towards the forecourt, she inhaled the fragrance of sweet gum burning in the brazier.

'You're late,' snarled a temple assistant, but Donata didn't hear. The sun was rising ever higher over the top of the mountain, and she closed her eyes in ecstasy. I am ready, Lord. I am ready.

Her eyes were still squeezed tight in piety when the High Priest mounted the steps, his shaven head showing clearly the strong, broad ridge of his skull which arced high above his ear down to his shaven brow.

The power of his voice reached out across the congregation. 'Hail to thee, Ra, in thy rising!'