‘No, Dorcan,’ she patted his arm, ‘I appreciate your concern, but it’s not an abortionist I’m after.’
His face dropped back into its amiable position. ‘That’s a bloody relief,’ he said. ‘You won’t believe what them backstreet quacks gets up to. Now that, ma’am-’ he turned to address an elderly matron-“is a string from the lyre of Orpheus himself, the only one in existence and a snip at three gold pieces.’
‘Ooh, I don’t know-’
‘Strum on this, you’ll charm the feathers off a bird and have creditors eating out of your hand.’ He gave a wicked wink. ‘Works a treat on daughters-in-law, too. Why, thank you, ma’am, and may the gods smile upon you.’ Stashing the gold, he brought another lyre string out from under the counter and beamed at Claudia. ‘What man are you after, my lovely?’
Claudia described the Spaniard and Dorcan said, yes, he knew the bloke, though not to speak to, mind. Tarraco his name was. Not what you’d call social, keeps himself very much to himself, steering clear of the drinking dens and that, and he never takes parts in the local athletics, the discus, foot races and the like, although whether he’ll attend the new theatre when it’s finished Dorcan couldn’t say. But Tarraco was a rum bird, in his opinion. A real dark horse.
‘What does he do out on Tuder’s island, do you know?’
‘Do?’ The big, black bushy eyebrows shot straight up. ‘Tarraco don’t do nothing, lovely. Tarraco owns the bloody place.’
‘But… What about Tuder? I thought-’
‘Tuder?’ Dorcan threw his head back and roared again. ‘If you’d kept them pretty eyes of yours open, you’d have seen the banker’s tomb right beside where they was burning Cal.’
This time it was Claudia’s turn to be surprised. ‘You knew Cal?’
Dorcan shrugged his massive shoulders and began straightening the jars and pots. ‘Not really, no.’
Since he refused to meet her eye, Claudia fired off a different arrow. ‘Who’s that chap?’ she asked, indicating the kilted Oriental standing on the temple steps, fingering his walrus moustache.
Dorcan puffed out his cheeks and rolled his eyes. ‘Now-that is a man you should avoid,’ he said soberly. ‘His name is Pul, and he’s not so much an Oriental as a half-caste. His father was a Bessian tribesman, his mother came from far beyond the Caucasus, that’s all anyone really knows of Pul. Except-’ he spoke from one side of his mouth ‘-he’s the law around here.’
‘Don’t give me that,’ Claudia scoffed. ‘What about the military?’
‘You see any hammered breastplates here? Any feathered helmets?’
‘There’s a barracks, I passed it on the way in yesterday.’
‘Sssh.’ The charlatan held up a cautionary finger as a goldsmith approached the booth, his apron sparkling with precious dust. ‘Colic, sir? I have the very remedy.’ He passed across a brew of myrtleberries crushed in white wine. ‘Drink this with every meal and in two days you’ll be fine.’
Around them, the Forum buzzed like any other town on market day, with the squeal of fretful children, the protesting bleat of goats, the aromas of pepper, cumin and nutmeg in the air. Surveyors with their rods and lines pushed through the crowd, wagoners and carters spilled out of taverns, clapping one another on the back. How could it be possible, in a society run by an army which prized itself on discipline, that a civilian such as Pul could control a lively commercial centre?
A distant echo rumbled inside Claudia’s head. Cal, laughing in the alder thicket. Remember the golden rule, he said. Whoever possesses the gold, rules.
‘You haven’t explained why Walruschops makes the law and not Pylades,’ she said.
‘Did I give you that impression? No, no, no.’ Again, Dorcan seemed intent on rearranging his relics. ‘I just meant Pul’s not a man to be crossed.’ His eyes alighted on the temple steps where Pul had been-but was no longer standing. ‘That was all.’
The hell it was. But Claudia sensed she’d got all she could out of the big man this morning and, purchasing an alabaster pot containing a cream which he swore was the selfsame recipe used by Cleopatra to maintain her own flawless complexion, she set off back to Atlantis.
Down on the lakeshore, a group of fowlers wearing wide-brimmed hats against the sun strode towards the town across the grass, the sacks on their backs bulging with the morning’s endeavours, their dogs splashing in the shallows, but siesta time held Atlantis in its thrall. The ramp was all but deserted when, from the bath house, Ruth emerged, her skin red and glowing from either fluster or the sweatroom, with a pile of towels in her arms. She was halfway up the red marble steps when Mosul came barrelling down, his face like thunder, knocking her to the ground. This time his head was no longer covered in ritual, and Claudia could see he was bald, apart from a horseshoe of grizzled grey hair. She watched as one by one Ruth picked up the towels, shook and refolded them, but her eyes, Claudia noticed, never left the priest’s back. The expression in them was of undiluted hatred.
Pausing to pluck a sprig of lavender, Claudia considered the curious events unfolding around her. Lavinia. Could she walk or not? Why were Lalo’s knuckles fighting raw? How come Dorcan had suddenly popped up in Spesium? Individually these things were minor, meant nothing. But collectively…? Engulfed by the coolness and tranquillity of the Great Hall, Claudia questioned whether she was overreacting. So what if Pul threw his weight around this brand-new town? Damn, it was like a haunted villa. Once you hear there’s ghosts around, you start to jump at shadows. And without doubt, she’d been spooked by Tullus and the fact that he’d brought the army breathing down her neck!
Hell, you met Cal, she thought, sweeping down the corridor towards her bedchamber. In the end he probably seduced one wife too many and a bitter husband took his revenge. It is not, Claudia told herself, your problem.
Oh, but it is, a little voice answered. I made a promise.
You were tired and emotional and stressed to the eyeballs, she barked back, now forget it.
A dip in the plunge pool followed by a long massage with spicy oil of basil will soon put matters in perspective. So whilst her spirits might not actually have been brushing the ceiling, they were far from earthbound as she flung wide the door. They did not remain airborne for long. Claudia Seferius was about to discover there were yet more surprises in store in Atlantis.
Sprawled on his back across the wide double couch lay a man, arms outstretched in sleep. He was in desperate need of a shave and looked as though he’d ridden to Hades and back to judge from the lines etched deep in his cheeks, but other than that, she decided, for a Security Policeman he looked fit and healthy enough.
She remained in the doorway until her heartbeat was back on an even keel, watching the rise and fall of his chest as she took in the long, patrician tunic and trademark high boots, the dark shadows underneath his eyes and the darker curls of his hair on the counterpane. Despite a layer of brown dust which clung to his clothes, Claudia picked up a strong hint of sandalwood, and possibly rosemary too.
Stroking her chin, she considered her next move, but really, when it came down to it, the answer was staring her right in the face.
Atlantis was on a lake, for gods’ sake.
XI
Marcus Cornelius gasped as the tidal wave swept over him. One minute he’d been sitting on the edge of the couch with the dust from the road still sour in his mouth. The next he was caught in a flash flood. What happened? His thoughts tumbled like the water which engulfed him. Barbia’s whip-cracking demands…the hundred-mile ride…him collapsing with exhaustion… Through the whirlpool, he heard a female voice warning him he had until the count of ten to get out of her room or she’d have him bodily evicted.
‘Claudia,’ he spluttered, ‘you don’t understand-’
‘Nine.’
‘Hell, woman, at least give me a chance to explain.’