One fist would clutch his wicked, curved blade, the other a torch to see by. His back would be bowed as he passed beneath the lintel, his movements slow. Suspicious. While his eyes searched forward, Claudia would spring. Land on his back. Her knife would slice through the top of his spine.
He’d be dead. She’d be free. Cal would be avenged, as she’d promised.
But! Her pulse raced with the tension. How long before Pul became curious? How long before he decided to check?
With a splutter, the candle in the tomb flickered and died.
XXXIX
Dizzy from exhaustion, the drug and the heat, Claudia twisted uncomfortably on her roost above the doorway. Funny how you lose track of time in the dark. Hours could have passed. Or just minutes. She wondered whether the lightning would have burned itself out yet. Had Drusilla had enough supper? Would her vineyards be scorched by the time she inspected them, leaving her bankrupt, the business in tatters?
She shifted position again, conscious of stone gouging out more of her flesh and damning to hell the tomb builders who could have made a bit more effort on the lintels. The shreds of her tunic had been welded to her wounds with blood, and dried stiff. Claudia wriggled numb toes and flexed aching arms. Come on, Pul. Surely you’ve noticed by now?
More time passed, yet not once did she regret being poised up here for attack. Sure it was unpleasant, but this happened to be the only place in this wretched subterranean prison where she would have the advantage.
Legs which were bare from the thighs down began to feel every pitting of stone. Come on, Pul. Earn your keep. Go out on patrol.
Nothing happened.
Claudia’s throat was swollen and throbbing from thirst. What the hell had Lais slipped her? Colchicum? No, she’d be retching by now, feeling cold. Probably pheasant’s eye, the Adonis plant. Mixed with the juice of the prickly lettuce. The bitch. But she wouldn’t get away with it. Sooner or later, Pul would have to check on his captive What was that? Yes, that scratching sound? There it was again. A scraping. Grating. Like stone, yee-ha, wrenching on stone…
All right, you bastard. Come and get it!
For what seemed an eternity, Claudia waited as the mighty slab was rolled aside. The whole tomb seemed to shake when it landed. She held her breath as tightly as the thin-bladed knife…
Cautious footsteps padded down the steep incline of the tunnel. A voice whispered her name, calling… To fool her. To lull her into trusting him. Dear Diana, did he think she was stupid? A rumble of thunder echoed through the underground chambers like the roar of the Minotaur. Claudia stiffened. The pain in her lungs was intense. The Oriental paused before ducking under the doorway. Claudia was poised. She’d been over this moment a hundred times in her head. The second he passed through, she’d dive on his back, knocking him flat to the ground. She’d lunge for his topknot with one hand. With the other, she’d bring down her blade ‘Claudia,’ came a sibilant hiss.
It was the first time she’d actually heard the sound of his voice. The accent was guttural. It reminded her of ‘Are you there?’
Damn right I am, buster. As Pul ducked beneath the lintel, she sprang. Down he went. Flat. She grabbed the topknot. There was more of it than she thought. Her right hand went up. Lightning flashed. The blade came down. Hard. And bounced right off the stone floor…
‘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.