Perhaps it was the cramped, suffocating darkness that set my thoughts spinning into the awful void. I had taken Marcus’s muttering as an agreement to postpone his pursuit, but had I read him rightly? His men might be following us even now, clumsily showing themselves, alerting the watchers and sending them into a panic. Someone would cry out, there would be an assault on the wagon, swords would clash and clang! A blade would rip through the sailcloth, heading straight for my heart—
The fantasy seemed so real that I gave a jerk as if waking from a nightmare. But my eyes were wide open.
I took a breath to steady myself, but found my thoughts spinning even more recklessly out of control. What if I had completely misjudged Cleon? What if his soulful green eyes and uncertain manner were a crafty deception, a deliberate disguise for a hardened killer? The petulant, beautiful boy I had seen that morning might already be dead, his bravado cut short along with his throat. The wagon would return to the stable where they had murdered him, and as soon as the pirates were sure that no one had followed, they would pull me from the wagon, stuff a gag into my mouth, tie me up like a rolled carpet, and lug me off to their ship, laughing raucously and dancing the jig they had suppressed while they loaded their booty. Cilician pirates, the cruelest men ever born! I would be taken off to sea, kicking and screaming into my gag. By the light of the moon they would set my clothes afire and use me for a torch, and when they were tired of hearing me scream they would toss me overboard. I could almost smell the stench of my own burning flesh, hear the hiss of the flames expiring as the hard water burst open and then slapped shut above me, taste the stinging salt in my nostrils. What would be left after the fishes made a feast of me?
In the cramped space I managed to wipe my sweaty forehead on a bit of the red tunic. Such morbid fantasies were nonsense, I told myself. I had to trust my own judgment, and my judgment decreed that Cleon was not the sort of fellow who could murder anyone, at least not in cold blood. Not even Roscius the actor could mime such innocence. A strange sort of pirate, indeed!
Then a new fear struck me, more chilling than all the rest. Belbo had said that Quintus Fabius wanted the pirates to be slaughtered. We’re not to kill the boy in the process, of course — but was he only inferring this? He could hardly be expected to know every secret order that his master had given to Marcus. Spurius was not of his own blood; Quintus Fabius spoke of him with contempt. What if he actually wanted the boy dead? He had sent the ransom, yes, but he could hardly have refused to do that, if only to placate Valeria and to save face in public. But if in the end the boy were to be murdered by the pirates, or if it could be made to look that way...
It was even possible that Quintus Fabius himself had arranged to have his son kidnapped — a clever way to get rid of Spurius without drawing suspicion to himself. The idea was monstrous, but I had known men devious enough to concoct such a scheme. But if that was the case, why had he engaged my services? To demonstrate his conscientious concern by calling in an outsider, perhaps. To prove to Valeria and the rest of the world that he was quite serious about rescuing his kidnapped son. In which case, part of his plan for getting rid of Spurius would have to include the unfortunate death of the Finder sent to handle the tragically botched ransom...
The journey seemed to go on forever. The road became rockier and rougher. The wagon rattled and lurched. My extravagant fantasies of death and destruction suddenly paled beside the imminent danger of being crushed if one of the heavy trunks should be pitched onto me. By Hercules, the wagon bed was hot! By the time the wheels ground to a halt, my tunic was soaked as if I had taken a dip in the sea.
The sailcloth was thrown back. I was chilled by a salty breeze.
I had expected that we would return to the stable where I had seen Spurius. Instead, we were on a strip of sandy beach beneath low hills somewhere outside the city. The tiny cove terminated in boulders at both ends. A small relay boat was drawn up in the shallows. A larger vessel was anchored out in the deeper water. I sprang from the wagon, glad to breathe fresh air again.
Cleon and his three companions began to hurriedly move the trunks from the wagon into the relay boat. “Damned heavy!” grunted one of them. “We’ll never be able to move it all in one trip. It’ll take two, at least two—”
“Where’s the boy?” I demanded, grabbing Cleon’s arm.
“Here I am.”
I turned and saw Spurius approaching from a group of sheltering boulders at the end of the beach. In the heat of the day he had stripped off his tunic and was wearing only a loincloth. It was all he usually wore, if he wore even that; his lean torso and long limbs were deeply and evenly bronzed by the sun.
I looked at Cleon. His brows were drawn together as if he had pricked his finger. He stared at the boy and swallowed hard.
“It’s about time!” Spurius crossed his arms and glared at me. Petulance made him even more beautiful.
“Perhaps you’d like to put on your tunic,” I suggested, “and we’ll be on our way. If you’ll point the way to Ostia, Cleon, we’ll begin walking. Unless you intend to leave us the wagon?”
Cleon stood by dumbly. Spurius stepped between us and drew me aside. “Did anyone follow the wagon?” he whispered.
“I don’t think so.”
“Are you certain?”
“I can’t be absolutely certain.” I glanced at Cleon, who appeared not to be listening. The little relay boat was heading out to the larger ship with its first load, riding low in the water under the weight of the gold.
“Well, did Pater send along a troop of armed guards or not? Answer me!” Spurius spoke to me as if I were a slave.
“Young man,” I said sternly, “my duty at this moment is to your mother and father—”
“My father!” Spurius wrinkled his nose and spat out the word as if it were an expletive.
“My job is to see that you get home alive. Until we’re safely back in Ostia, keep your mouth shut.”
He was shocked into silence for a moment, then gave me a withering look. “Well, anyway,” he said, raising his voice, “there’s no way these fellows will release me until all the gold is loaded onto the ship. Correct, Cleon?”
“What? Oh, yes,” said Cleon. The sea breeze whipped his long black hair about his face. He blinked back tears, as if the salt stung his eyes.
Spurius gripped my arm and led me farther away. “Now listen,” he growled, “did that miserly pater of mine send along an armed force or not? Or did he send you alone?”
“I’ve already asked you to keep quiet—”
“And I’m ordering you to give me an answer. Unless you want me to make a very unsatisfactory report about you to my parents.”
Why did Spurius insist on knowing? And why now? It seemed to me that my suspicions about the kidnapping were confirmed.
If there were no armed force, then Spurius might as well stay with his so-called captors, if only to stay close to the gold, or his portion of it. Perhaps his father could be had for a second ransom. But if an armed force was waiting to act, then it would be best for him to be “rescued” by me now, to allow the fishermen — for surely these Neapolitan Greeks were anything but pirates — to make their escape immediately, along with the gold.
“Let’s suppose there is an armed force,” I said. “In that case, your friends had better get out of here at once. Let’s suppose they get clean away. How will you get your share of the gold then?”
He stared at me blankly, then flashed such a charming smile that I could almost understand why Cleon was so hopelessly smitten with the boy. “It’s not as if I don’t know where they live, down on the bay. They wouldn’t dare try to cheat me. I could always denounce them and have every one of them crucified. They’ll keep my share safe for me until I’m ready to claim it.”