'… slave charged with wearing the toga in public…'
What? For a moment the Armenian could not believe his own ears. I killed my master, he wanted to shout. I stabbed him. A cruel and terrible man, he deserved it, I'm glad, I would cheerfully do it again.
Then his endless patience kicked in, and he accepted that the nature of his crime didn't really matter. The Armenian had known, the instant he'd been shackled in that empty slot, that the previous occupant had only recently departed. With prisoners pouring in at such a rate, a gap doesn't hang about for long!
He recalled the strange, faraway look in the Clerk's eyes. His words. 'It's a sad day,' he had said, 'when decency is repaid with inhumanity.'
At the time, the Armenian thought he was addressing him. Later, though, he had not been so sure and now, with the stench of blood gagging at the back of his throat, he understood the Clerk of the Dungeons had been talking to himself.
So then. The Clerk had released the slave who had been caught in the act of wearing the toga and had set the Armenian in his place. Not an oversight, then, the Clerk not writing down his name.
Idly, as a wolf mad with fury was prodded with red-hot irons in its cage, he wondered what name he was scheduled to die under. And whether it mattered much that in the Afterlife he would arrive with a set of false papers.
Fire was brandished at the wolf to enrage and terrify it further. The Armenian could see the poor beast had been starved. Its ribs showed through its dull and unkempt pelt, and there were scars on its back from ancient battle wounds. Naked, the Armenian made no attempt at modesty by turning his back on the crowd. The scars on his own back were not for public consumption.
Finally — mercifully — the wolf was released from its cage. Maddened by the smoke, disorientated by the baying mob, it ran around in uncoordinated circles, until amber eyes flashed fire at the only living soul within its reach. It stopped and snarled out its hatred of mankind.
The Armenian threw down the bar he'd been given for defence, and heard the crowd boo. They wanted a fight. They didn't want to see a man's throat ripped out cleanly. The stamp-stamp-stamp of feet began to reverberate around the pit.
Stuff them, he thought. This is my day. I have earned the right to do what I want.
The wolf began to bound across the sand, picking up speed. He could smell its rancid breath. Felt flecks of its saliva hot on his face. It sprang. He could see its fangs, long and yellow. In its amber eyes shone death.
One. Two. Now! The Armenian slashed his arms against the beast's flying forelimbs. Snap. The wolf's eyes bulged. A racking sound came from the back of its maw. It jerked. Then fell on top of him. Stone dead.
Mesmerised, the crowd roared and this time the stamping was ecstatic. To wild whistles, the umpire — dressed, as always, as Mercury, messenger of the gods — stepped into the arena. He prodded the wolf's nose with a hot iron and when the beast didn't move, pronounced life officially extinct. He turned to the audience and asked, should the victor live? Or shall he face a second encounter with the beasts?
The spectators screamed so loud the Armenian couldn't hear. Didn't try. But this strange pounding in his heart was a sensation for which he would die happy.
Eventually he identified it as pride.
Through misty eyes, he gazed into the crowd. To a universal raising of the thumbs.
'Junius, the Gaul,' the umpire intoned sombrely. 'You are free to return home, on the strict understanding that you never again impersonate a Roman citizen. Do you agree?'
'I do.'
'Can you confirm your mistress resides at the following address?'
With tears drizzling down his cheeks and splashing in the sand, the Armenian was forced to admit that he didn't have a clue.
They sent him to Claudia's anyway.
For the young girl who'd been working in the laundry, the prospect of a wolf cleanly ripping out her throat was heaven.
She would give anything for that.
To be spared what Berenice had suffered. What she, herself, would have to endure.
Straight away she'd recognised Berenice under the striking cobra's mask, even though the corpse was naked. There was no telling what had killed her. Not the bonds, they'd only ripped open the flesh as they dug in. Perhaps he'd slit her throat? Quick and clean. That way, she wouldn't see it coming.
The girl's heart sank. Berenice's wounds had not been cleaned. Surely the blood from a cut throat would not have been mopped up and the others left to dry? There were no tell-tale arcs of red across the painted walls or on the bandaged remains of the others seated round the table. The laundress shuddered under her gag.
Three chairs remained empty.
Four masks lay on the table.
One for her.
Beyond tears, beyond pain, beyond hope, the girl wondered what terrible sins she had committed to warrant so barbarous a death.
Outside the cave, footsteps crunched up the path. So far, she had not even seen the face of the man behind this sickening tableau — he'd worn the mask of the falcon, which he'd obviously taken from the corpse sitting opposite. She knew that, if she saw his face, she would recognise her killer. She wondered how much trust she'd placed in him in the past.
The footsteps stopped. A strong hand pulled back the scrambling fig. Light flooded in. Her heart was pounding, she felt sick. Sweet Ra, she didn't want to die.
At that point, the processes of decay began to take their inexorable toll on Berenice. And when the cobra mask lolled forward of its own accord, the girl from the laundry fainted dead away.
Chapter Twenty-six
Orbilio's head weighed a ton. While he was napping, someone had taken out his brain and replaced it with a lump of granite. His eyeballs were on fire, his mouth had been filled with sand, there was a white-hot burning in the region round his liver. When a whiff of stale wine tickled his nostrils, he willed the nausea to pass. He did not want to think about what he had done. His memory gave him little choice. He leaned forward and was sick.
Demons began beating the granite block with cymbals.
He wanted to groan, but his tongue had trebled in size and in the process had cemented itself to the roof of his mouth.
Green spots danced before his open eyes. Red ones when he closed them.
Resting his groggy frame against the wall, he reached inside his tunic and extracted the crumpled letter, waiting patiently until the handwriting settled into focus.
Dear Sir,
Further to your recent request, please be advised that we are right out of Gaulish hunting dogs at the present time. However, Armenian hounds are every bit as reliable and, in view of the urgency of your requirement, we shall ensure our best champion attends the forthcoming hunt.
Your obedient servant, etc., etc., etc.
Against his better judgement, Marcus smiled. No question this letter, which had been delivered late last night, came from quill of the Clerk of the Dungeons who had somehow swapped the prisoners around, putting an Armenian criminal in Junius' place and setting the Gaul free. Orbilio was relieved. Not only because Claudia's bodyguard was out of danger, but because he'd always believed the Clerk to be an honourable fellow. Unlike that rat of a Dungeon Master, whose son — ho, ho, ho — would already be mourning his misfortune in a cell. The difference in his case, is that at least he'd get a trial.
So then. Orbilio dragged his hands down over his face. Junius was off the hook, that was one problem solved, though two still remained:
One. Whose was the body in the plaster?
Two. How to get Claudia free of Mentu's steadfast grip?
Claudia. His pulse quickened as he pictured those high, fine, chiselled features. Her long, curvaceous legs, her luscious breasts. Mother of Tarquin, how he yearned to nibble his way down that swan neck of hers, feel her tense with pleasure as he slipped the soft cotton from her shoulders, hear the gentle swish as it landed at her feet. At the thought of her naked, silky skin his loins began to stir and, in spite of the demons clashing cymbals in his head and the burning pain behind his bloodshot eyeballs, Orbilio began to laugh.