Jail Bait (19 page)

Suddenly Claudia began to feel very, very cold.

‘The architect,’ she replied, in a voice so croaky she hoped he’d attribute it to the after-effect of her scream. You stupid, stupid cow. You were set up from the outset. ‘He…owed me a favour.’

‘I thought as much.’ Marcus stood up and began to pace around the cubicle, stroking his jaw in thought. ‘Are you aware,’ he said finally, ‘that the day after Tullus reported the break-in, the architect’s body was found in a back alley? His throat had been cut, his purse and rings were missing, but frankly I don’t buy the robbery theory.’ Claudia concentrated on the lamplight making gold out of the silver plumes of steam, because she was unable to cover her ears.

‘I suspect the architect was an unwitting pawn, the same as you were, although I doubt we’ll ever know the reason for
his
involvement. Blackmail, probably. How did he seem when he imparted the secret of Tullus’ strongroom?’

‘Edgy,’ she admitted, remembering a few weeks back when the architect had been walking towards her, wrapped round a girl younger than his granddaughter. Please don’t tell my wife, he begged. Let’s meet and see if I can’t repay the
favour…
Suddenly, everything fell into place! His nervousness had nothing to do with his wife finding out, hell, the whole wretched business was a stage set start to finish, the girl no doubt a common streetwalker. And to think Claudia had actually congratulated herself on wheedling out of him the information about that loose brick at the back of the depository. ‘Why me?’ she asked.

‘Nothing personal,’ Marcus said, sucking in his cheeks. ‘Anyone short of cash and willing to take a risk would have fitted the bill. You see,’ he sat down again and crossed his legs, ‘a robbery had to take place and it was imperative Tullus caught the thief in the act.’

‘Codswallop,’ Claudia scoffed. ‘I chose the day, the date, the time—’

‘Did you?’ A smile played around the corner of his mouth. ‘I’m willing to bet that, when you think back over the conversation with the architect, he let slip something along the lines of such-and-such a day is always quiet, especially around dawn—ah.’ He nodded smugly. ‘I see this is starting to ring a bell with Mistress Seferius.’

‘All right, Cleverclogs, so the idea was planted, but I still don’t understand. Someone with a beef against Sabbio Tullus set me up to deplete his fortune—’

‘Wrong. Tullus is a wealthy man, you’d have to make a hundred trips to empty even half his coffers. No, no, they were after something far more precious than gold or silver, and it didn’t belong to Tullus. It was his nephew’s property they were after.’

Who happened to be related, however distantly, to the Emperor’s wife. Brilliant, Claudia! Absolutely brilliant. Now it’s treason good and proper.

‘Then why involve a third party?’ she asked. ‘Surely it would make more sense to sneak in and sneak out, then cement the stone back in place?’

‘Because,’ Orbilio said, cracking his knuckles in satisfaction, ‘it was vital Tullus caught the thief red-handed and drew attention to the robbery. The nephew, you see, had to be made aware of the break-in so that when he checked his casket, he found an empty space inside.’

‘Instead of what, exactly?’ she asked, and received only a vague gurgling from the back of his throat in reply. ‘All right, why not send him a letter, informing him of the theft?’

‘Because the theft had to be publicized. It was important that as many people as possible knew that Tullus’ strongroom had been turned over.’

Claudia’s brain was starting to hurt. ‘I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me the reason,’ she said wearily, although she already knew what his response would be. Several minutes ticked past, when neither of them spoke, then Claudia said, ‘I was supposed to get caught, wasn’t I?’

‘By the time you’d been arrested, brought to trial, etc, etc, etc, the real scent would have gone cold—’

‘Whose scent?’

‘But whether you were caught or not, I suspect they’d already taken what they wanted, probably earlier, during the night—’

‘Orbilio, you miserable sod, will you please tell me who?’

‘Claudia, if I knew that, I wouldn’t be here and neither would you—’ He broke off suddenly, as his implication became clear.

‘And just why wouldn’t I be here, Marcus?’ Claudia asked sweetly. Not only would she skin him alive and fly his hide as a kite, she’d make a rope of his chitterlings and drag him round the Empire on the end of it.

‘Oh.’ At least he had the grace to blush. ‘Well—I thought that if I took the heat off you in Rome by booking this break in Atlantis, you er—’

No, Marcus Cornelius.
You
erred. ‘Yes?’ she prompted.

‘You might help me on a case,’ he finished feebly. ‘You see, I’m only on a short leave of absence—’ he began, but Claudia cut him short.

‘Typical. When the going gets tough, the toffs get going. Well, do I have news for you. Because if you imagined that, in taking the heat off by whisking me away to Atlantis, you’d have me reeling in gratitude, you
were way off course, Marcus Cornelius. To then have the gall to expect said gratitude to manifest itself in the form of my doing your dirty work for you is nothing less than an insult.’ Why did it rankle, she wondered, that he hadn’t just helped her out for its own sake? ‘There are many things,’ she hissed, ‘I stand accused of, but being a copper’s nark isn’t one of them. Now get out, before I have you thrown out.’

XX

When Marcus Cornelius staggered out of the tavern by the basilica, he’d already lost count of the number of wine shops whose fare he had sampled so far.

Dammit, he thought his plan was foolproof.

Around him, the Agonalia had reached fever pitch. Men covered in fleeces wearing rams’ horns on their heads chased bleating young maidens (and some not so young) round the streets, cheap wines flowed from the fountains, the beat of the music was sensual, loud and hypnotic. Some might even say manic. He spiked his fingers through his hair. Goddammit, he’d spent a fortune on Atlantis, none of which he could reclaim in legitimate expenses, in order to advance his bloody career prospects, and what happens? Sod all’s what happens.

So much for the Great Pyramid of a case to lay before his boss.

No case.

No excuse for deserting his post outside the Imperial Palace.

Mother of Tarquin, it seemed so straightforward, back in Rome. Because he liked to keep tabs on a certain little firebrand, he’d picked up on the fact that Claudia’s name was linked with the Tullus strongroom robbery and he hadn’t been taken in for one second with that malarkey about respectable widows not being involved in common smash-and-grabs. This was right up her street, she was as guilty as hell, and he knew it.

On the other hand, he was also aware of darker forces moving in the background. Precisely who was behind it, he couldn’t say, but whatever Claudia might stoop to, treason wouldn’t enter her equation. And since he had a problem to resolve
here…
The letter purporting to be from an old friend seemed ideal.

Why, though? Why wouldn’t she help him for once? Was that too bloody much to ask for, after he’d shelled out a fortune to bring her up to Atlantis? Croesus, he was sleeping in a bloody garret! Had she no heart?

He stumbled into another tavern. Of course she had a heart, he’d heard it beating once. Right under her left breast, and he’d seen that naked once as well. He thumped his fist for a refill. Janus, that woman drove him wild! She had a temper which could set off an earthquake. Jousting with her was better than sex.

Well, almost.

Marcus was aware of the stirring in his loins as he fought his way through the crush of the tavern into the screeching multitudes outside.
What would it be like, making love to a woman like that?
Heaven. Hell. Torment. Pain. Tumult—

Wasn’t there something he was supposed to do this evening?

Orbilio dismissed the niggle in his head and imagined instead what it must be like when the hunter finally won the spoils. He imagined burying his head in that wild tumble of curls, knowing it would smell of spicy, feisty, balsam perfume, and imagined
the taste of her skin. Hot and slightly salty from her sweat. In his mind, he pictured himself standing behind her, nuzzling the back of her neck with his lips as his fingers loosed the ribbons which fastened her gown. In his mind, he could hear the soft swish of cotton as it caressed her skin on its way to the floor. In his mind—

‘Marcus.’

In his dreams!
He turned to find the well-upholstered Phoebe bearing down upon him, her arms open wide to embrace him, stretching the seams across her ample breasts to bursting point, and the part of him that stiffened wasn’t the part she would have wished.

‘Marcus, where did you sneak off to after breakfast, you naughty boy?’

‘I—’ His mind was a blank as he tried to extricate himself from this human boa constrictor. Surely there was something he ought to be doing? Something official?

‘Such fun, this rustic little festival,’ she purred, frog-marching him towards a group of drunken revellers. ‘They’re playing rams and rustlers,’ she trilled. ‘Which will you be? A ram?’ She nudged his ribs. ‘Or would you prefer to rustle me?’

Orbilio forced what he hoped was a laugh, although he had a sneaking suspicion that any neutral bystander would have mistaken it for water swirling down a drain. ‘I have a prior engagement—’

‘Nonsense,’ a female voice rang in his ear. ‘Marcus would love to wrestle, sorry rustle you.’

Where did she spring from? ‘Claudia—’ he pleaded under his breath.

He didn’t think she heard, because she beamed a radiant smile upon the lovely Phoebe. ‘He finds it so tiresome being a
ram
all the time.’

With that, he found himself pushed headlong into the crowd, who yelled ‘Hooray!’ and clapped him so hard on the back, his knees buckled and Marcus was not surprised that, by the time he’d staggered free, Claudia Seferius had become invisible once more.

‘One quick game, then,’ he muttered. He wished now he hadn’t got pissed so quickly, he knew he ought to be doing something else.

If only he could remember.

*

In the end, Marcus competed in three more bouts before the prearranged meeting with Dorcan flashed back, and then he couldn’t find Tuder’s bloody mausoleum.

Shit.

Away from the light of torches, bonfires and upper-storey windows, the cemetery lay engulfed in blackness and twice he stubbed his toe on the jutting steps of the tombs in his effort to locate the banker’s memorial.

‘Dorcan?’ he called softly. ‘Are you there?’

Numbed by the city wall, the revelling had been reduced to a vague and distant hum, but it was more noise than the graveyard’s occupants were used to. Perhaps he hadn’t called loud enough?

‘Dorcan? It’s me. Orbilio.’

Nothing.

He looked up at the sky, hazy from the sultry heat even at night, and felt a trickle of perspiration run down his neck. Time passed. Once a rat scuttled through the long grass, making a sound like water trickling through a sluice gate, and twice an owl hooted from far down the road, but other than that, Marcus remained alone with just the taste of stale wine for company.

After dark, the old fraud had said. Well, this was certainly after dark.

Settling down with his back against the travertine stone, warm from the rays of the sun, Orbilio sighed and crossed his legs at the ankles, letting his rapidly sobering mind juggle his impressions of this town and its neighbour, Atlantis. Into the air went the roles played by such luminaries as Pylades the Greek; that vinegar-faced Etruscan physician; Tarraco, who had so smoothly usurped the place of the man Marcus now rested against, both on his island and in his bed.

There were other factors, too, to toss in the air and juggle with. Lais, for example. A key player, yet Lais had disappeared without a trace. A man called Pul, a monster of a man in all respects. Not to mention the military, whose representation was so minor as to appear almost imaginary.

So many odd-shaped pieces, Orbilio was reminded of that old Egyptian puzzle consisting of several three-dimensional blocks of wood which, whilst appearing mismatched, when stacked correctly locked together to form a perfect pyramid.

That’s what he had here. Separate clues that did not seem as though they’d ever fit together to form a whole, and yet he was sure they did. Somehow or other, he was bloody certain that they did. His problem lay in making sense of the jumble and this is where Dorcan fitted in. The big man always knew how many beans made five. His livelihood depended on it.

So, alas, did Orbilio’s. He cracked his knuckles in impatience. His boss’s reply would probably be on its way, though how much leave of absence he would grant him was another matter. And time, Orbilio felt sure, was running out.

‘Dorcan?’

He whistled, but no answering whistle returned, and although once or twice he thought he saw a figure flitting between the tombs, the burly giant it was not.

Folding his hands behind his head, Orbilio closed his eyes and felt that same warm glow roll over him as he considered a whole host of reasons why, despite all the obstacles in his way, he was still glad he’d hooked himself to Claudia Seferius’ wagon once again. He was definitely making headway in that direction! Another three hundred years and she might, yet, open her heart to him as already she had opened her mind…