Dream Boat (38 page)

Flea, who would never cuddle Doodlebug again . . .

Claudia broke a branch off the fig tree and held it close to the fire until it caught alight. Then she held it to the silver cloak. Could Seth gobble up his own soul, when his heart clanked like a stone upon the balance? What the hell. She tossed the burning branch on to his chest. They'd made the whole religion up, picking bits of this and bits of that and tacking them together. Just like that Festival of Lamps down there.

She glanced through the trees. Lamps? She blinked, and blinked again. Those weren't lamps. Juno, Jupiter and Mars - the whole damned commune was on fire!

She skidded back down the narrow, twisty path. Screaming carried louder than the thunderclaps. As she approached the temple compound, Claudia heard a voice booming out across the commune.

'Hear me, for I am Jupiter. You have betrayed my trust, and the chariots of Mars shall charge among you and the fires of Vulcan raze this place to the ground.'

Thunder rumbled overhead, lightning bolts shot through the heavens and - incredibly - horsemen came riding through the open gates. Six of them! Is this happening? Is Jupiter really talking to us? But wait. There was something about the voice. Something cultivated. Something familiar . . .

'Your idols shall tumble.'

More screams broke out when the two alabaster sphinxes toppled sideways. In the flickering light of flames, Claudia could see the ropes. But where was the voice coming from? So loud, so deep, so . . .

'So very like a tortoise!'

'Flattery,' said Orbilio, wiping the smuts from his nose, 'will get you everywhere. Excuse me, while I crawl back into my shell.'

Claudia wriggled in alongside him, and felt the warmth from his body pressing against hers like a current in a turbulent sea.

'I won't ask,' he said, and his voice echoed in the hollow chamber, 'how you acquired a blue face, but even the Serving Women didn't set the bloody hills alight.'

'There weren't any wild fig trees locally, I had to take up mountaineering.'

'It had to be a fig?' He was studying the raw wheals on her arms.

'You know me. Stickler for authenticity.' He smelled good, she thought. Smoke and sandalwood make a heady combination, even in a dead man's clothes. 'Some investigators, I see, will go to any lengths to get their profiles raised. You took that blaze-of-glory phrase literally, I gather.'

'When a Security Policeman's under house arrest for suspicion of murder, he has to take some pretty drastic action.'

'You don't consider dressing up as a woman drastic?'

'Only at weekends,' he fired back, his eyes locked on the broad band of bruising round her throat. 'I don't suppose, while you've been idling your time up there in the hills, that you've so much as given a thought as to whose might be the body in the plaster, let alone put a name to her killer?'

'Of course I have,' she quipped, 'but if I tell you that, it'll make me cleverer than you, and men don't like that in women. Now is this a private party, or can anyone join in?'

'Oh, be my guest,' he said, wriggling to give her access to the tortoise's open mouth. Her palms were moist, her stomach was in knots. It really was a strange sensation, feeling safe . . . but there was one more thing to do before she left this evil valley.

'Hear me,' she called, 'for I am Juno, Queen of Heaven.' Hey, the acoustics are good! 'To repay your disobedience, I shall destroy your Boat of Dreams.'

Grinning broadly from ear to ear, Orbilio tugged on a rope and to Claudia's delight the whole damned barque exploded. Cedarwood, oily and fragrant, sputtered and spat and sent out a spray of red sparks. Amethysts and emeralds, pearls and lapis lazuli grew black, and slowly the gold plating on the boat's high prow began to drizzle down the side.

What a waste . . .

'I don't know what that High Priest keeps in that moleskin pouch of his,' Claudia said, and her voice sounded husky, 'but it's pretty damned effective.'

'So are you,' he rasped, and she realised that, at some stage, his arm had closed around her shoulder. 'So the hell are you.'

Inside the bronze tortoiseshell, the two of them seemed locked together, eyes on eyes, nose to nose, body pressed to body.

'Marcus?'

There was a beat of perhaps five. 'Claudia?'

She could hear his ragged breathing, even over the tumbling of buildings, the crackle of the flames, the roaring

thunderbolts. 'Marcus . . Will you always be here for me? 'Marcus . . .'

'Claudia?'

Will you always keep me safe? 'Marcus Cornelius, will you shift that damned pommel out my bloody way?'

And in their dark, bronze, private shell she heard him chuckle. 'That,' he said, 'is not my scimitar. Behave yourself.'

Behave?

Claudia Seferius?

You must be joking!

Marilyn Todd was born in Harrow, England, but now lives with her husband on a French hilltop, surrounded by chateaux, woodlands and vines. As well as sixteen historical thrillers, Marilyn also writes short stories, which are mostly crime-based. When she isn't killing people, Marilyn enjoys cooking. Which is pretty much the same thing.

www.marilyntodd.com

I, CLAUDIA

Claudia has successfully inveigled her way into marriage with a wealthy Roman wine merchant. But when her secret gambling debts spiral, she hits on another resourceful way to make money—offering ‘personal services’ to high ranking citizens.

Until her clients start turning up dead. The victims of a sadistic serial killer.

When Marcus Cornelius Orbilio, the handsome investigating officer, starts digging deep for clues, Claudia realizes she must track down the murderer herself. Before her husband finds out what she’s been up to.

And another man meets his grisly end.

When you marry a man for his money, you expect him to leave you a shining pile of gold pieces. Not a crummy old wine business. How was the new widow going to pay off her gambling debts now?

So when Claudia is offered payment to chaperone Sabina back to Sicily, she jumps at the chance. It should be easy money. Sabina, she’s told, has recently completed her thirty years’ service as a Vestal Virgin.

Or has she...?

Very quickly, Claudia suspects she’s escorting an imposter. Then a woman’s brutalized body is found.

On the eve of the Festivities, the last thing you’d expect Claudia to be doing is heading in the other direction. But even lovely young widows must put business before pleasure when their vineyards are threatened with arson.

But being run off the road by a gang of hooligans was not part of her gameplan. Neither was seeking shelter in the strange home of Sergius Pictor, surrounded by the menagerie of wild animals he’s training for the Games.

But Claudia is about to become the victim of an even crueller game. That night a stranger appears at her bedroom door, with a knife sticking out of his belly.

And before the first ray of morning sunshine, Claudia has been framed for his murder.

Had it not been for the pack of dogs nipping at her heels, Claudia would never have ventured into the mean backstreets of Rome. Or found an abandoned five-year-old called Jovi.

With the Empire in crisis, there couldn’t be a worse time for rich young widows or sobbing children to be out after dark. Five slave girls have fallen victim to a killer who strikes on Market Day.

All five are linked by the dragon tattoo they each wear on their arm which marks them out as the ‘Children of Arbil'. But Arbi! is no loving father. As Claudia is about to find out...

FOR THE UPCOMING DARK HORSE

When Claudia is caught doping racehorses, Leo's island villa seems the perfect refuge. Shaded by figs and pomegranates, this luxurious idyll is surrounded by plunging cliffs, sandy coves and

hillsides scented by carpets of wild herbs.

Then a pirate ship moors in the bay, and almost immediately a fire breaks out, an apprentice is murdered, and sinister messages are delivered on the point of a spear.

Too late, Claudia discovers that three hundred miles isn’t far enough to escape the law.

Or evil in its very purest form.