Above her head, the man repeated the tune and Claudia had the strangest feeling that he was whistling while he worked. Worked at what? There was only one way to find out. Go and take a peep!
But before she had taken one step across the heart-shaped stone, the puff of light was extinguished. There was a rustle of greenery, then the silver figure emerged into view. Quickly, Claudia crouched behind a bush. The figure passed so close, the hem of his billowing cloak brushed her cheek, and it smelled only of myrrh and cloves, the commune unguent. Claudia waited until he was out of sight, then, humming, 'Lost! Lost! Lost! My love is lost to me', softly under her breath, climbed higher up the path.
'Janus!' Overcome by the hideous stench, she pinched her nostrils between her thumb and forefinger. What the hell's this bugger up to?
The cave was behind what looked like a wild fig, but as Claudia tried to scramble through the branches, the whole bush sprang away, to reveal the entrance. The stench was loathsome. The ancients used to paint their cavern walls with scenes of riotous celebrations, but that smell isn't paint… more like rotting meat!
Squinting eyes made out the table. Sweet Janus, what evil practice are they up to? The Holy Council wearing tight, white costumes were seated round it, wearing their masks and… and what? Making some kind of magic, obviously, and using god-knows-what filthy brew. Claudia was now gagging on the smell, but strange. Her retching did not alert the seated group. Slowly Claudia realised the figures were not moving. Stuffed dolls? Or… or…
She could not help the strangled scream which escaped her.
Trembling violently, Claudia counted the figures round the table. Eight. Holy Jupiter, until now, they had believed only seven girls were missing.
She buried her hands in her face. Tell me it's not true. Sweet Janus, tell me this is some sort of doll council. That some madman hasn't abducted eight young girls and killed them. 'What else do you think would cause this vile stench?' a little voice sneered. 'You said yourself, it smelled like rotten meat.' Claudia refused to hear the truth and stuffed her fingers in her ears. No, she screamed silently back, these are stuffed replicas. These are not mummified remains! 'Really?' the voice inside her asked. 'Then why was he bringing bandages up here?'
Claudia's teeth were chattering. Eight girls, not seven. Who — she closed her eyes — who was number eight?
She reeled away, flattening herself against the hard rock face, because already she knew the answer to her question. Oh, Flavia! All the things she'd planned to say to her — about the worry she'd heaped upon her anxious step-parents, how selfish she'd been to betray Junius just for a few gold coins to throw in Mentu's money box and what did she think she was playing at, the selfish cow? I'm so sorry, Flavia, I didn't mean them. I didn't really mean them.
Tears rolled in rivers down her cheeks.
Fifteen years old and she'd ended up the eighth victim of the most perverted killer ever to have walked this earth. Poor
Flavia, she hadn't lived! Never sailed the oceans, never felt the soft touch of a man. Or had she? And Claudia knew the answer to that question, too.
Scrubbing her tears away with the back of her hand, Claudia forced herself to look at the table once again. There's something wrong with the tableau. Eight white bodies, but… but one of them wasn't white from bandages. One of them was white from naked flesh, glistening in the dark.
Racing across the stone floor, her heart hammering, it occurred to her that it was possible, just possible, that Flavia wasn't dead yet. Using both hands, she hauled off the jackal mask.
And screamed.
The face did not, after all, belong to little Flavia. The face was thin, the complexion flawless, the cropped hair tawny brown.
His eighth victim was Flea.
Pain speared through her. White hot, searing, it ripped and clawed and savaged at her breast.
Oh, Flea, Flea. What have I done?
Claudia cupped her hands around the urchin's cheeks. They were warm, but they were not warm with life. Those luminous green eyes bulged forward, her tongue protruded from her lips. And the ligature around her neck told its own horrific story.
She felt her head spin. Flea, Flea, what terrible price did I make you pay? What was I thinking of, bringing you here? Orbilio's description echoed inside her head: 'Wild child.' Skinny — scrawny — foul-mouthed — funny. She thought of the feral beast, wielding a knife down the cul-de-sac because she'd been trapped. Trapped. Flea was born to be free. To be wild…
Suddenly, in the midst of her horror and her grief, Claudia caught a whiff. Scent. Myrrh and cloves.
She made to turn, but something flashed before her eyes and closed around her neck.
'Wha-'
The word was cut off sharp. The ligature tightened. She tore at the cord. Heard heavy breathing. She heard a wailing in her ears, and a drumming.
Someone said, 'I have you now, my pretty one. You belong to Seth.' But Claudia was not listening.
Her legs thrashed out. She at clawed the air, there was a monumental roaring in her ears. With a twist, she arched herself backwards, kicking, writhing. The noose continued to tighten. She heard a rasping sound. A rattle. And knew it came from her own throat. A fire burst behind her eyes.
Then everything turned black.
Chapter Thirty-four
Marcus found it hurt when he tried to sit up. It hurt his ribs, it hurt his head, it hurt his numbed arm from where he'd been lying on it. But most of all, it hurt that he had failed Claudia.
And now it was dark. He must have been unconscious for hours. He rubbed tenderly at his poor cracked ribs, and as he did so, became aware of movement on the grain. A shadow, darker than the rest, fell over him. He reached for his weapon, but the scimitar had gone.
'I took it,' the voice said. 'In case anyone came in.'
Orbilio blinked. 'Flavia?"
'You came to rescue me, didn't you?' Her eyes were bright from emotion. 'I recognised you immediately, even though you were in disguise. I knew you'd come to save me.'
The emotion, he realised, was neither relief nor satisfaction and he remembered that, although he'd only figured once in Flavia's short life, she'd had something of a crush on him. Obviously, the passage of several months had made little difference to her feelings! He groaned, and this time it was not from pain.
'I would have brought you water,' she said, crouching down beside him and wiping a damp curl from his forehead, 'only I didn't want to leave you. Spies, you see, have to face death by Ordeal of the Lakes. That means they first roast you on a spit over the Lake of Hellfire, then they boil you alive.'
Orbilio felt he ought to be grateful. Instead he snatched the scimitar from her hands. 'Give me that,' he said brusquely. Dammit, the girl wasn't even holding it properly.
'Here, let me.' Eagerly, Flavia helped him to his feet. He towered over her.
'Are you responsible for this?' he asked, rubbing the goose egg which had risen up behind his ear.
'Me?' The idea horrified her. 'Flea did that.'
She would, he thought. Act first, think later, that was that little street thief's motto! 'I suppose she saw me in uniform, and thought I was part of the act.'
'Did you know she was a girl?' Flavia looked puzzled. 'I had no idea, until she pulled me out of the coal hole.'
Even though it hurt his ribs, Orbilio grinned. What a pair, those two! And what a difference ten years makes. Suddenly he felt old enough to be their father. Weary enough, too…
'The pair of you deserve a damned good spanking,' he said, although he had a feeling his voice lacked the authority he meant it to carry. 'You for running off, her for knocking me out cold.'