Marilyn Todd - Jail Bait

‘Tarraco?’ The guttural accent. The mane of hair. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘Hey.’ The Spaniard spat out the dust from his mouth. ‘You complaining?’

‘I damn near killed you, you oaf.’ She rolled off his back and stood up. ‘Had the storm petered out, you’d be dead.’ But for that one spear of light…

‘Maybe.’ He shrugged, and she could have killed him then and there for pure insolence. ‘Now I suggest we get out of here, yes?’

Good idea. Spinning on her heel, Claudia raced behind him up the passageway. He was no longer wearing the coarse workman’s tunic he’d been given in jail. He was back in hunter attire, short to the knee, one shoulder bare. This time, Tarraco was dressed to kill. At the entrance, he jerked his thumb towards the granite slab.

‘How did you shift it?’

‘How come you’re back on this island?’ she countered. For a second, she feared she could smell double-cross as strong as the scent of woodshavings and pine and the storm which whipped up the water.

A flash of white teeth shone through the black of the night. ‘I am ten miles up the road, and I think, why? Why should I leave all this money behind?’ Tarraco picked up a quiver of arrows and slung it over his back. ‘Lais is dead, I did not kill her, why should I not take what is mine?’ He shouldered a bow and picked up the spear which leaned against the jamb of the entrance. ‘So I row back out here, to the north side, where I know no soldier will keep watch, and I creep round to the villa. But what do I see? Not guards, but Cyrus. The tribune himself. He’s with Pul and they’re laughing and drinking my wine on my terrace. I wait-and then who else comes along? My dear, sweet wife, Lais! Is clear then I am set up and sure enough, they start boasting about it. Laughing at me.’ He spread his hands expressively. ‘Now I must kill them.’

‘How did you find me?’ Claudia asked.

‘I come down to fill the boats with holes, but of course I cannot take the main road, so to speak, and that is how I see your flag sticking out of the entrance. Did anyone ever tell you what pretty knees you have, by the way?’

In the darkness, Claudia flushed. It was like the very first time, with the bear…

‘I must go,’ Tarraco said. ‘Soon dawn will break, the advantage of night will be lost.’

‘For gods’ sake,’ Claudia hissed, ‘you can’t tackle them all by yourself. Half the slaves are in on the payroll, we have to fetch help.’

I can’t wait to see Supersnoop’s face when I tell him about this! He’ll be eating humble pie for a month.

‘There is no help,’ Tarraco said soberly. ‘I’m on my own here.’

‘Nonsense. Cyrus might be corrupt, but the others aren’t, and I’ll bet you a copper quadran to a denarius that Marcus Cornelius is rounding up the soldiers, the entire garrison will be landing any minute.’

‘I don’t think so.’ Claudia had to strain to catch his words in the storm.

‘You don’t know Supersnoop.’ She laughed. ‘Him, miss the kudos of this?’

‘Claudia.’ There was a sound in his throat which she could not interpret. ‘Claudia, I have bad news, I’m afraid.’

An earthquake shook Tuder’s island and her knees fell away. Everything swam. Became viscous. Obscure. ‘How bad?’ she asked.

‘The worst.’ She heard him gulp. ‘Claudia, Marcus is dead.’

‘D-don’t be s-silly.’ He can’t be. Not Loverboy.

Tarraco’s face was twisted in pain. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and strangely she believed that he meant it. ‘Come.’ A strong hand latched round her wrist and hauled Claudia to her feet. ‘Perhaps you believe, if you see for yourself.’

*

He lay there, on his back, under a willow.

Wide-spreading branches hung over him. Concealing. Protecting. Discreet.

For a moment, Claudia simply stood there, admiring the tree, its elegant lines, its silky green leaves, the way it forked out from the base. Such a pretty tree. Spoiled by the puddle of red which leached into its roots. By the sprawl of the man who lay under it.

His face was so white. White as his bleached linen tunic. Except for the breast, where the blood had soaked through. She brushed the branches aside, and saw skid marks where he’d been dragged. Tarraco? More likely Pul. Blood matted the curls in his hair and ran down his face, to mingle with the blood round his neck. The blood ran in a perfect semi-circle…

Somehow her fingers were twisting themselves in his curls and she heard someone yelling. It was a woman’s voice, berating Apollo, for whom the willow was sacred.

‘You’re supposed to be the god of healing,’ she bawled. ‘Why can’t you heal this?’

Vaguely Claudia thought the voice might be hers.

The rains had begun. She could hear the droplets drumming on the leather leaves, bouncing off the hard-baked soil. They were running down her cheeks. They were salty.

‘Orbilio, you idiot,’ she said softly. ‘What did you have to do this for?’

Anger began to well in her breast. The fool! How could he have been so reckless, so stupid, as to come here alone? Her fingers were digging into his shoulders as she shook his lifeless body. So bloody arrogant, you thought you could take on the world single-handed! Bright red drops of rain spurted into her face, her lap, her eyes. Selfish pig. Never a thought for anyone else- Wait a sec! Do dead bodies bleed…?

‘He’s alive,’ she yelled at the top of her voice. ‘Marcus is bloody alive!’

‘Not for much longer,’ a baritone said dryly, ‘if you continue to shake him like that.’

Through the tears which coursed down her face, Claudia watched his long, curling eyelashes flutter and part and saw the smile which tweaked at one side of his bloodless, pale lips.

For once in her life, she had no rejoinder.

Rain was belting down in earnest, stippling the lake and bouncing off the octagonal slabs of the path as it filled the air with the smell of freshly turned soil and the perfume of a million and one flowers. Hands on hips, Claudia stood in the cleansing torrent, her hair and her bodice plastered to her skin, and jotted down a mental note to sacrifice a bull, when she returned to Rome, to flame-haired Apollo. Who might (just might) have been listening…

Orbilio’s story was simple. Suspecting Tarraco would go to ground on his own territory, he had come out here to confront him and instead had seen, walking along the colonnade, the ghost of the woman he’d fished out of the lake. Moreover, she was conferring with the very man who’d lent his strong arm to assist! While Orbilio’s mind was absorbing this new arrangement, the woman clicked her fingers to dismiss her moustachioed henchman and the scales had fallen from Marcus’ eyes. This was Lais, not a ghost, but in the flesh, who had obviously murdered her double! Which turned the whole issue on its head and it was Lais, he realized, not Tarraco, behind the racket. Behind the rash of premature deaths in Atlantis.

Arresting her was easy, he said, although Orbilio’s voice dropped to a muted mumble at the part where he was forced to admit that he’d misjudged his prisoner’s vicious streak. A knife had sprung out of nowhere and slashed at his neck. Only his height and his instinct had saved him. The one, because in straining upwards, Lais had inflicted nothing worse than a flesh wound. The other, because in jumping backwards, he slipped on a loose lump of rock (hence the skid marks) and knocked himself out on the bole of the tree. Believing she’d succeeded in slitting his throat, Lais had left him for dead.

‘It is too close to dawn,’ Tarraco pointed out, when Orbilio suggested they row back to fetch reinforcements. ‘Come daylight, they will be on their guard. I must act now, while I have the advantage.’