David Wishart - The Lydian Baker

'Relax, Roman,' he chuckled. 'I only want to make sure your hands are still tied before I go. Not that it matters. The door's three inches thick and it has a bolt. You're as safe here as back home in the Mamertine.'

Uh-huh. It looked like the stairs after all, then. A pity Perilla would never know. And it wasn't something I was particularly looking forward to myself.

He picked up the lamp and left me to it. The door slammed and I heard the sound of a heavy bolt slip into place. So. That was that, then.

I gave him ten minutes or thereabouts to get clear. Then I turned over and started to crawl towards the stairs.

I made it eventually and got my back to the first step. Then I stopped. Gods, I couldn't do this. If I was headed for the death mask then fine, but crowbar or not I couldn't die without a fight. Maybe I'd get lucky and take Prince Charming or Melanthus with me.

Only to fight I needed my hands free.

Okay. I lifted myself up the riser of the step and felt the top edge. It was worn smooth in the middle, but further over my fingers found a ragged line of chipped stone. Yeah, that might do the job. If I had the time before PC came back. If I didn't, then…

The hell with speculation. I set the rope between my wrists across the line and began to move it back and forward. I'd hardly started when from above came the sound of the bolt being pulled. Shit! Prince Charming couldn't have brought Melanthus already, surely?

Unless, of course, I was back in the Scallop and the guy had been there all along…

I hunched down under the shadow of the step. Maybe if they didn't see me straight off I could trip whoever came down first. It wouldn't do much good, but I'd at least have the satisfaction of hurting one of the bastards. I might even provoke Prince Charming into killing me outright, which the way things were going would be a plus.

The door opened. I couldn't see what was going on now but I did notice the light in the cellar hadn't changed much, and that didn't make sense. They'd have had a lamp, sure they would. Probably a couple of torches. If this was to be an interview they'd want light.

Someone started down the steps. I tensed.

'Valerius Corvinus?'

A man's voice, pitched low. Not PC's, and not Melanthus's. In fact, no voice I recognised at all.

'Corvinus? You down there?'

A pause, while he waited for an answer. Ah, hell. Things couldn't get much worse anyway. I raised my head.

'Who wants him?' I said cautiously.

The guy let out a breath. I could see his silhouette against the doorway, and nothing else in the blackness but the whites of his eyes.

The large whites of his eyes.

Search as you will, there ain't nothing blacker than an Ethiopian down a midnight cellar.

'You mind telling me who you are, pal?' I struggled to my feet. 'And what the hell you're doing here?'

He didn't answer. Instead he came quickly down the steps, spun me round, tied a gag between my teeth, put a bag over my head and hoisted me over his shoulder like a sack of turnips. Gods. Maybe it was something I'd said. And obviously I'd been wrong about things not getting worse. At least before the bastard arrived I could speak, see and breathe…

Being upside down with my ribs crushed wasn't doing marvels for my headache, either.

I'd had enough. Being kidnapped twice in one night is once too many. I kicked out hard as I could manage and felt him stagger. Only for a moment. Then he righted himself.

'Okay, Roman,' he growled. 'We can do it two ways. This is one, and you'll like the second even less. Still, it's your decision. You want to co-operate or carry on making things difficult?'

Put like that, I didn't have much choice. I grunted into my gag and went limp. We started up the stairs.

Ears were all I'd got left, and I was listening hard when we got to the top and through the door. The Ethiopian's nailed sandals clicked on stone or tile for a good twenty strides, then he stopped and reached forward. There was the sound of a door opening and I felt cold air around me. A few steps later he swung me round and set me down on a flat wooden surface at chest level. The surface gave, and I heard the jingle of harness. So. We were going on someplace by mule-cart. I felt cloth pulled over, covering me completely. Yeah, well, at least wherever it was I'd do the trip in comfort. And anything would be better than the cellar with only Prince Charming to look forward to.

The cart started up with a jerk, banging my already aching ribs against the floorboards, and the pain almost made me bite through the gag. Okay, so I'd been wrong about the comfort; but at least I was alive. If you can call being bounced across Athens in a mule-cart with your head in a mouldy flour sack living. And bruised ribs or not now was the chance for some constructive thinking before Big Black Hercules up front hauled the rug off again and we were in for yet another round of fun and excitement. Besides, I didn't have anything better to do at present.

The cellar could've been part of the Scallop, sure: the hallway had had a pricey marble floor, I remembered, and the door hadn't creaked when Hercules had opened it. Well-oiled hinges; that fitted the Scallop too. It was a shame about the bag. A whiff of sandalwood would've proved things beyond doubt, but all I could smell was weevily flour. On the other hand, we hadn't stopped on the way, and if Hercules had had no business being in the Scallop — which was a reasonable assumption — he'd've wanted to check the coast was clear before tiptoeing across an open hallway with a body slung over his shoulder. Even brothel customers with their minds on frank carnality tend to notice things like that, and if Antaeus had been around he wouldn't have made more than a yard.

Shelve the problem of location for now, then. A more important question was what the hell was going on here? The guy must've tailed me and waited his chance, that was obvious, but this was no last-minute rescue. The cart and the bag argued forward planning. I was being taken somewhere else, which meant someone besides Melanthus and his tame gorilla wanted Corvinus for a sunbeam and Hercules was working for him. So who was Hercules's boss? Who else besides my Academician pal would be interested enough in the Baker to want to talk to me?

I was still puzzling that out when the cart stopped. I felt the cloth being yanked away.

'You still awake, Roman?' For a pointless question that absolutely took the nuts, but I nodded anyway. 'That's good. Just lie quiet and you won't get hurt.'

Yeah. The trip so far had been a real bed of roses, hadn't it? I would've groaned but before I could summon up the energy he hauled me out and hefted me over his shoulder again. This was getting monotonous. Now I knew how a side of beef felt on its way to the butcher's.

When he finally dumped me it was on stone, and he didn't do it gently. I heard the sound of a knocker.

Things went very quiet. Somewhere very close a door opened. Then the bag was suddenly jerked away and I was blinking at a face staring down at me in the light from the street-side cresset.

Bathyllus had never looked so beautiful.

'But Marcus, where on earth were you?' Perilla dabbed with a damp cloth at the egg-sized bruise on the back of my head.

I winced. 'Jupiter, lady, be careful! That hurts!'

'Then it serves you right. We've had a terrible night. Bathyllus was frantic.'

'Would you believe listening to a recitation of Pindar's "Pythian Odes" at the local glee club?'

The cloth came down again. Hard. I winced a bit more.

'Lady, please..!'

'Don't you "lady" me, Corvinus!' Perilla snapped. 'And stop joking! I've been worried sick!'

Worried sick or not, peeved or not, there was no way I was going to tell her I'd been belted from behind coming out of a brothel. Some things Perilla just wouldn't understand, and tonight I didn't need the hassle.