Dream Boat

by Marilyn Todd

  'Come.' In his pleated white kilt, held in place by a broad knotted sash, the boy beckoned for Claudia to follow. 'We make our devotions back here.'

  Her eyes took in the sparse furnishings, the unpainted white plaster, the simple rush stools. Flavia had opted for this? Two tables and three plain wooden chests lined one wall, with a rough stove in the corner over which a variety of meat hooks and ladles hung higgledy-piggledy above cauldrons and skillets. Jars and pots stood askew on a shelf, their dribbled contents left to harden and stick in thick runnels, much to the delight of the flies. Her eyes swivelled to the five mattresses which lined the right-hand wall, two not slept in, and

  a washbasin full of water you could not see your reflection in, which stood guard at the end.

  'Hail to thee, Ra, in thy rising,' intoned a voice from the room which had so far been obscured by choking incense smoke.

  'Mine eyes adore thee,' answered the moon-faced youth, placing the palms of his hands together in reverence. A second acolyte, a girl, adopted an identical position, her eyes closed tight in piety, while the third member of the trio - the speaker - appeared to be sprinkling water on something with his fingertips. All Claudia could see clearly through the gloom was that his head, eyebrows and chest were shaven.

  'Gladden,' said the priest, 'our hearts with the Vessel of Dreams, the Barque of One Million Years. Blessed be the Boat of the Morning.'

  Boat? Halfway up the Viminal Hill, this man's talking boats? But incredibly, as her eyes adjusted to the darkened room and swirling smoke, Claudia realised that - yes, on the top floor of this six-storey apartment block and some half a mile from the river, there was indeed a boat filling up the whole of the back room!

  And not just any old boat!

  She coughed, perhaps from the fumes, perhaps from the vision which crystallised before her. Its high prow covered in gold and its ribs inset with amethysts and pearls and lapis lazuli, the vessel glowed luminescent in the darkened back room, and the curls of smoke from braziers which dotted the floor were like eddies of water, blue and swirling, carrying the boat on their tide.

  'O Living Lord, rest thy rays upon thy servants.'

  If Midas himself had owned a yacht, it wouldn't have been half as spectacular as this, and now she understood what had attracted Flavia. And it was not a life of rustic simplicity! Overhead, the star-spangled ceiling glittered with silver and gold, and the blue of the walls was so dark as to be almost black, highlighting reliefs of gilt and copper and bronze.

  'The events depicted on these walls,' the bald priest explained,

  'show Ra's journey through the dark Realm of the Night. Over here -' a manicured hand swept to the left - 'his battle with the Great Serpent who waits nightly to devour him, and over here -' the hand swept to the right - 'his journey through the Twelve Great Gates of the Underworld. I am Zer. Will you break fast with us?'

  Claudia recalled the dirty jugs and bowl of filthy water. 'Love to.'

  The female acolyte tossed handfuls of rose petals into the barque's prow, extinguished one by one the bowls of smoke and, reversing reverentially, closed the door of the back room behind her.

  Zer pulled up a rush stool and indicated for her to be seated. 'You wish to join the Brothers of Horus, that you may enter the Fields of the Blessed through the path of resurrection?'

  Whoever called life a learning curve was right. Claudia had just forgotten how steep it was in places. 'I do indeed.'

  'You swear to abide by the laws and the customs of Egypt?'

  'Yes.'

  'To worship Ra, through his son on earth, Osiris, our own Pharaoh, Mentu?'

  Talk about a man with a split personality! 'Naturally.'

  'And you are prepared to renounce your life, your family, your friends, the Roman pantheon?'

  'I am.'

  Humility, she'd decided, was the key. Awed as she had been by the riches hidden away in the back room, she'd quickly noticed that the two acolytes, glowing with righteousness as they were, said nothing. The pair were content to watch the priest, mirror his actions and gaze adoringly at him, reminding her of dogs trained to perform tricks. Except there was a sinister feel to their adulation. That they would be prepared to go to any lengths to protect their lord. Any lengths at all.

  At the priest's nod, the boy passed her a beaker of black, foaming beer and the girl handed round platters of flat bread and cheese. Despite his name and exotic taste in barbering,

  Claudia suspected that Zer was not actually of Egyptian extraction. She glanced again at the soft, well-manicured hands, so much at odds with their simplistic surroundings. Zer was patently not averse to a bit of pampering from time to time! So then. Not Egyptian, not an ascetic and not a fanatic like these other two. Claudia sensed a sharpness about this shaven-headed priest. A probing quality. Assuming this building was the funnel for sending new recruits off to the commune, then Zer was the man doing the pouring.

  'We are proud of the society we have built,' he said, tearing off a chunk of the bread, 'and the barque which honours Ra.'

  Barque? I'll say you're barking!

  'It is never too late to purge the heart of its sins, to fill it with goodness and truth.' He gulped at his beer, wiping the froth away with the back of his hand. 'I assure you, you will not regret joining.'

  Damn right. The sooner I clap hands on Flavia and bring her home, the quicker Junius will be free of his death sentence. Already this was Friday. Executions were scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. Time was fast running out.

  While Zer explained about the council of the Ten True Gods, their role in the Judgement of both the Living and the Dead and how, through them, the heart would find purity to weigh light at the Balance, Claudia studied the transfixed acolytes from the corner of her eye. The boy's Caesar haircut marked him out as the scion of a well-to-do family, as did the girl's cosseted complexion and, as though a beacon had been lit, Claudia saw Zer's reason for targeting that particular corner of the Forum to sing Ra's praises. Coincidence? That this spot just happens to be where the young blooms of patrician families hung out to exchange news and gossip over an open-air goblet of wine? I don't think so!

  'How quickly might I be able to join you?' she whispered.

  'Sister.' Zer took both her hands in his and gazed deep into her eyes. 'It is obvious you have problems.' His voice was low and mesmeric. 'But once you devote yourself to Ra, these problems will be as dust upon the wind.'

  'It's my stepfather. Since my divorce -' she kept her lashes well lowered - 'he's been pressuring me to sign a contract to marry his own son, that he might get his hands on my inheritance.'

  'Ah.' Something flashed in the priest's eyes, and he began to take a closer interest in the quality of her gown, the rings which decorated her fingers, the emeralds which hung from her pendant. 'I see.' He smiled, and she thought, I'll bet you do!

  He shuffled his stool closer and topped up her beer.

  'Under Egyptian law,' he smiled oilily, 'men and women share equal rights and since we have abolished slavery in our commune, there are no constraints on who one might marry, a craftsman, a dentist, a poet, if that's who takes your fancy. Alternatively, should you wish, my child, there's no pressure to re-marry at all. Indeed, most of the ladies who join us do not take a husband, while others -' he paused, assessing again the jewels and the gemstones. 'Others might be chosen by Mentu to become his wife.'

  'He has more than one?'

  'The Pharaoh can take a hundred wives, if he so desires. It is the supreme honour, my dear, afforded to very few, to become a true bride of Ra.'

  Claudia's heart began to pound. Assuming her suppositions were on target, any minute now and he'd broach the subject of money.

  'There is, of course, the little matter of the Solar Fund.'

  Good boy! 'The Solar Fund?' she asked guilelessly.

  'The community is self-contained,' Zer explained. 'It is the temple which requires upkeep and naturally the greater one's contribution, the more favourably Ra smiles
upon his servant.'

  Naturally, indeed!

  'This is entirely a voluntary contribution, you understand.' The smile became more unctuous still. 'New members are under no obligation to make a donation, although if they do, it is wise to remember that the sacred metal of Ra is gold.'

  Another brick fell into place: the reason why the ransom had to be paid in gold.

  'Oh, dear.' Claudia placed her hands together, the way the acolytes had done earlier. 'I have precious little by way of liquid assets - my stepfather, you know . . . Spent it all.' Careful, now. Don't overdo it. 'On the other hand, I have an olive grove in Campania and vineyards which stretch across three hills in Frascati. Would they be acceptable, do you think?'

  The priest all but licked his lips. 'More than,' he said, adding with a reassuring pat on her hand, 'Ra's gratitude will be warmly rewarding, I assure you.'

  Believe me, Zer, I am assured! Men and women might have equal rights in the land of Mentu and the commune might be self-sufficient, but a girl doesn't need to be a Socrates to work out that those who contributed handsomely to the Solar Fund were not the ones who worked the fields and toiled all night kneading dough in the bake house!

  Claudia's thoughts flickered towards her wilful stepdaughter. Without her precious gold pieces, Flavia's contribution was the jewellery she had been wearing. Quite a haul under ordinary circumstances, a street thief's for example, but you had to remember Mentu was not about spiritual comfort. There were no slaves in his commune, because no slave could enter without the consent of their master - and, dear me, the Brothers of Horus were not targeting the poor! Mentu was on a simple get-rich-quick scam and with her paltry contribution, Flavia would be way down the line when it came to dishing out Ra's sunny favours.

  Hey ho, Claudia thought happily. A few days scrubbing floors and mopping out latrines will make her view her ideals rather differently. In fact, had Junius not been facing the fangs of a ravenous tiger, she'd have left Flavia to rot for a month!

  'This.' She stood up and hugged the priest. 'Is the happiest day of my life. You don't know how much this means to me, being free of my tyrannical stepfather.'

  'It means a lot to us, too.' Zer beamed back, and she knew he

  was already calculating the value of her mythical olive groves and Frascati vines.

  'I shall have the contracts drawn up immediately,' she said breathlessly, 'they'll be with you tomorrow, Sunday at the latest.'

  She moved across to the window. In the street below, six hired henchmen filled up shopfronts and doorways and tossed dice on the pavement, one always keeping a tight grip on an gamine creature with green eyes whose puppy happily chewed the end of its leash.

  'How soon can we leave?' Claudia asked, with a commendable catch in her voice. 'I'm desperate to get away, to begin a new life, and I don't want my stepfather to find me.'

  'Can you be ready to travel within the hour?' the priest suggested, because he didn't want the stepfather finding her, either!

  When the latest recruit's handkerchief fluttered out of the window to be carried away on the malarial breeze, the priest was not aware of any redistribution of pedestrian activity below. He simply sketched a blessing in the air and assured her - in his gravest manner - that her lost kerchief was an augur. A symbol that her old life was discarded. On and on, his solemn tones droned in an effort to convince her that the Pharaoh Mentu was the only true bridge between heaven and earth and that now their sister had chosen the path of peace and harmony, immortality in the Fields of the Blessed was assured.

  Silly sod.

  Chapter Seventeen

  For the second day running, the sticky breeze throbbed and pulsed like some invisible vampire, sucking energy from whoever it touched, and the breeze was unforgiving. It made sweat run in torrents down the necks of the fully armoured legionaries guarding Marcus. It trickled down their legs, their arms, their foreheads, their bronze plating, causing it to boil beneath their vests and sizzle against their cheekpieces and greaves. The scarves around their throats to prevent the armour chafing were dark with perspiration, their skins darker still from the heroic effort of standing guard in this crushing killer heat. The triumphal breeze blew gently in their faces, breathing lethargy, marsh sickness and mocking human fallibility.

  Despite the eight unhappy men stationed round his house and the platoon of slaves cleaning up the house, Marcus was alone. Isolated in an emotional, rather than a physical sense.

  There was no Claudia breaking her nails as she pulled at the plaster to remove the bones of the murder victim, whose ribs, even when they'd pulled the body out, still bore the instrument of the crime. No Claudia, weeping silently at the tiny skeleton lodged within the larger frame. No Claudia, white with cement dust and wearing a tiara of brick chippings in her hair.

  No Claudia, being bodily evicted from his house, yet still managing to re-shackle Flea, down a libation for the family gods, curse Orbilio's boss to Hades and scoop up a squirming Doodlebug all at once!

  Orbilio looked out upon the building site that was his garden and missed them all.

  He missed Doodlebug, gnawing on the chair legs, ploughing up the dust and - may the gods forgive the little sod! -running off with the skeleton's kneecap. He even missed that outrageous street thief, Flea, with her wide green eyes and tawny hair and language which would make any self-respecting sailor blush. And he missed Claudia.

  Especially Claudia. Propounding theories as she spat out chunks of plaster. Sprawling backwards over the rubble when her claw hammer jammed. Accusing him of showing off because he'd ripped away more of the wall than she had. It was, he thought, as the morning sun beat mercilessly upon his back, the closest thing he'd had to a family. The warmth, the banter, the pulling together, like oarsmen on a trireme. It had felt right, somehow. Natural.

  So different from his own family, who were cold and clever and distantly proficient in everything they put their mind to. Laughter did not figure in an Orbilio family childhood. Just the brisk snap of efficiency, extending even to play, which took the form of music, poetry and painting. He'd never known a father who wrestled with him on the atrium floor, played a game of hide-and-seek, or the family banding together to play 'sardines'.

  And yet, he reflected wryly, one member of that callous crew had sufficient passion to drive a knife deep into another's ribcage.

  The heat was unbearable and, with no desire to retire to the office adjacent to the cause of his grief, Marcus crossed the courtyard to the atrium, whose honeycomb screen neutralised the sun's scorching rays. One day. Twenty-four hours since he'd first been confined to house arrest and already he was bridling like an incarcerated felon. The baths were out of bounds, and that was a bugger, too, particularly in this stinking heat, because it wasn't the same, splashing around in a tub. He needed a good soak, a massage in the steam room, a deep-cleansing scrape with the strigil. Dammit, he'd get spots on his back at this rate!

  Up and down he paced, scratching at the stubble on his jaw,

  the tangles in his hair. Who? he thought. Whose was the body bricked in the wall? Who put her there?

  His steward, Tingi, was doing his best to track down the slaves Orbilio's wife had sold the day she ran away, in the hope that they might shed light on who had been living here when the . . . let's call it, building work was carried out. Marcus slammed his fist into the palm of his hand. The bitch! He didn't mind her leaving him - good riddance. It was tearing apart the lives of forty-seven slaves which was so bloody unforgivable! How could she? Croesus, she'd known where his money boxes were kept, she could have taken any amount she pleased. Instead, the cruel bitch had waited until he was halfway to Macedonia on campaign before she set about splitting up families and friends with not a thought for their feelings. Just in order to feign some kind of independence and claim it was 'her' money she was leaving with!

  Now, as then, Orbilio felt nothing but sympathy for the Lusitanian sea captain with whom she had eloped.

  'Ah, Tingi! Any luck?
'

  The mournful Libyan, arriving home, spread his hands. 'No more than I had yesterday, sir.'

  Finding where his slaves had been taken after the auction had been a doddle - records were kept of all transactions -but even in this, his bitch of an ex-wife had been cunning. Aware of the bitter feud between Orbilio's father and one Lucius Afer, she'd contacted Afer prior to the auction, and he had promptly snaffled the slaves up then gloatingly refused point-blank to sell them back to Orbilio. Shortly afterwards, the bastard distributed the slaves around his vast and scattered estates, thereby transferring the feud to the next generation.

  Tingi mopped the sweat from his forehead. 'I'll try again later,' he said, 'but it would help if we knew just how long the body's been there.'

  'Don't I know it!' Orbilio retorted.

  Fifty years in the wall and the crime would never be solved. Contagion would cloud his family name for eternity.

  Five or six years bricked up in the plaster and Orbilio's

  chances of reinstatement to the Security Police, already perilously slim, would vanish into thin air, along with any prospect of the Senate. But, no! The crime could not be that recent, the body had to have been here before he inherited the house. He was sure he'd have noticed a wall creeping forward!

  Then again. Marcus tasted acid in the back of his throat and, flipping back a mental calendar by a full nine years, saw a callow youth of seventeen exchanging marriage rings with his fifteen-year-old bride in what was not a love match, rather the political merging of two powerful clans. The mists swirled in his memory to reveal that same young man lifting weights and working out in the gymnasium to build up his muscles, and different swirls revealed different facets of the young Marcus Cornelius. The serious frown, as he pored over maps and considered his forthcoming stint in the army. The laughing youth, out on the town with his riotous friends. The experimental lures of his marital bed.

  What the mists of time did not reveal, of course, was a boy interested in the walls of old storerooms!