Jail Bait (31 page)

‘Grounded,’ Claudia snapped. Completely and utterly grounded.

Tarraco, goddammit, was going to get away with it.

XXXI

The electric storm trapped by the Etruscan hills which surrounded Lake Plasimene had little impact down in Rome other than to compress the clouds low on to the rooftops and tickle the tiles of the Imperial Palace. As more lamps were lit to counteract the blackening sky, the wife of the Emperor picked up a silver hand mirror and patted her hair in place. Greying only at the temples, she was still a handsome woman and she knew it. Straight of back, sharp of eye…and sharper still of mind. For a quarter of a century she had been married to Augustus and for a quarter of a century she had striven to bear him a child. She ran her tongue over her teeth. Neither of them was at fault—both had been parents in previous marriages, he with Julia, she with two sons, Tiberius and Drusus—therefore, by definition, this barren marriage must be the will of the gods. Livia breathed on the mirror, then cleared the mist with the heel of her hand. Surely, then, it followed that the gods were pushing Julia and Tiberius together?

Downstairs, the clop-clop-clop of legionaries’ boots on stairs and mosaic and marble was finally beginning to fade and in the flickering half-light, Livia allowed herself a hint of a smile. With the two most influential houses in the Empire joined in matrimony, Rome would soar to even greater heights, rise to grander challenges, take on the Dacian kings for control of the goldmines, annexe Arabia, Germany, why, then even the Orient would be ripe for the taking…

True, Julia was heavy with the dead Regent’s fourth child, but their firstborn, Gaius, was only eight, for gods’ sake, and the instant she’d received news of Agrippa’s death, Livia swung her considerable intellect into action, selling her son’s virtues to the pregnant widow in such a way that the silly cow was virtually begging Tiberius to divorce that bookish wife of his and marry her instead. Knowing her son would do anything to secure the future of the Empire, Livia had brusquely dismissed his protestations of love for his wife. Tiberius would come around eventually.

So then. That was settled. All it needed now was a quick stamp of approval from the Senate and the question of Regent (and heir) was assured.

Smoothing the rug which covered the trapdoor over the secret staircase in her spinning room, her imperial majesty’s wrath turned to the fool who imagined that, with that one scrap of paper, he could wield power over a man as mighty as Augustus. Did Tullus’ weasel-faced nephew seriously imagine that she, wife of said Emperor, would stand by and watch twenty years of peace and stability washed into the Tiber simply for that little shit’s personal profit?

Imbecile. Livia spat in disgust at his memory.

His mistake, of course, came in his claim to a blood link. Snobby little turd thought it gave him protection. As
if.
Still, all things considered, it was as well the nephew’s approach had come through her. The Emperor was a clever, often devious opponent, but his wife was downright ruthless. And unlike her husband, she had not softened with time. Like a cat at a mousehole, she watched and she waited and she waited and she watched, and it hadn’t taken long before she’d discovered where the nephew had stashed his precious piece of paper. From then on, it was simple. Twist the architect’s arm into co-operating with the plan. Steal the incriminating letter. Find a patsy to raid the depository at the same time Sabbio Tullus collected his silver. Then sit back and let Spaco the dwarf work his charms…

Neat, or what?

Livia opened a casket and delved beneath the ropes of pearls and necklaces dripping with emeralds and agates. She had hoped, naturally, the day would never dawn when this paper surfaced, or that by the time it did, it would be powerless to cause damage.

Which is not to say she hadn’t been prepared.

From the early days of her marriage, she had been aware of its existence—there were no secrets between herself and Augustus in those days—but as long as Marcus Vispanius Agrippa remained married to the emperor’s daughter, there was no problem. Until Agrippa died both unexpectedly and prematurely, throwing the Empire into confusion. With Augustus away in Greece at the time, there was no official inquest and a whole range of question marks flew up. Most of those the Emperor had calmed down, but the biggest question remained—who was eligible to take over?

To Livia, the answer was simple, and having ensured the circumstances were ripe for a union of the Emperor’s child with his well-respected stepson, and with the immortals smiling upon them, what could stand in their way?

Apart from one small piece of paper, yellowed and softened with age?

An order, issued over thirty years before, penned by Augustus himself
?

How it had come into that weasel’s possession, Livia would never know and moreover she did not remotely care. Suffice that it was back where it belonged (not that Augustus was aware of it, of course) and with the mouth of every witness sealed, that little scrap of handwriting could inflict no further damage.

Livia’s hand faltered over the flame. For one brief second, she felt the weight of the parchment’s responsibility and her mind drifted back through the years.

Julius Caesar lay dead, slain by men he called his friends. In his will he appointed his adopted nephew, Augustus, as his heir, who quickly won the people over with his charm and generosity, paying out of his own funds the legacies the Divine Julius had bequeathed the city but which Mark Anthony, hard-nosed as ever, refused to release from the treasury. Most of all, however, the young Augustus won them over with the sheer power of his personality and his dynamic leadership, bringing them unimagined peace after three generations of civil war.

Deep inside, Livia felt a warm glow envelop her. Twenty years on and thirty-two years after the death of Julius Caesar, the people still adored him, the Senate backed him to the hilt, Augustus was a hero to one and all.

But Augustus was a man. And one day the man would
die.

Born of patrician rather than imperial blood, Livia was the first to admit that her own son, however magnificently he had proved himself in the field, would not be the Senate’s first choice. And supposing a small piece of paper was handed in at the next session?

The original order, penned by the nineteen-year-old Augustus, issuing the death warrant of Caesar’s natural-born son.

It was murder, pure and simple, but civil war had been raging, tearing the country apart, and whilst no one at the time doubted the event occurred, fewer still had cared. Most simply accepted that Augustus had acted in the Empire’s interests, as much as his own.

However, times had changed. And at such a critical juncture in Rome’s future, that damning piece of evidence would be sufficient to discredit Augustus and for questions to be asked.

Questions such as…
who is Caesar’s closest living relative?

Suddenly, instead of facing an academic debate in the Senate House, the field would be wide open, contenders trampled underfoot as they jockeyed for position, and this was the purpose towards which Tullus’ nephew had been working. He had his own candidate to propose. A weak man, a puppet to be manipulated, but a threat nonetheless.

Augustus would be safe—but only during the length of his lifetime.
How long before the assassins’ knives flashed in the dark?

The nephew’s downfall, she reflected, came from his need to brag about the power that he held. The need to taunt her with the evidence, to make her fearful for the future. Imbecile.

With a slow spreading smile, Livia lowered the yellow paper to the flame and watched an ancient secret turn to smoke.

XXXII

The sky had turned to obsidian as Claudia sat with her knees drawn up to her chin, staring out across the lake to Tuder’s island.

Defeat stared defiantly back.

She was sitting with her back to the wall at the mouth of the tunnel, and high above, the babble of post-dinner conversation filtered down from the little domed loggia, broken by the occasional lewd chuckle or high-pitched fluting laughter. She could picture them. Halfway to rolling drunk and with slaves on hand to top up their goblets, senators making the most of this unofficial recess with casual affairs which would be frowned upon (nay, condemned) in normal times.

But these were far from normal times. In Rome, Plague marched in triumph through a city hammered to its knees with the death of the Regent, and with its Emperor driven ragged over these twin crises. Who exercised restraint over absent senators and magistrates, legates and commissioners? Goosepimples raised themselves up on Claudia’s skin at this foretaste of what the Empire would be like without Augustus at the helm. Decadent, debased. Devalued. A thousand Tarracos would spring up across the provinces, flourishing in the void created by general locking horns with general, of senators vying for ascendancy. In their struggle for personal glory, the common man would be forgotten—except by pimps, racketeers and loansharks.

With the spectre of anarchy chilling her veins, Claudia glanced up the tunnel, towards the cistern which Mosul filled from the lake then doctored with chalk to palm off as holy water. It was from one of the apertures in this rock that Claudia had seen Cal’s body, red and twisted, lying on the shingle and it was here, at this very spot, that his blood still stained the stone. Even in the darkness, she could see it. Feel it. Hear it calling out to her…

Shit.

Knowing Atlantis held a sackful of secrets to its bosom, and buckling under the weight of her determination to unveil Cal’s killer, Claudia had sought refuge with the one man she imagined outside this wretched tangle—only to find he had been at its very core. And even then, the situation might not have been exacerbated, had Claudia not been hooked by Lavinia’s tales of mysterious deaths, recounted in such a clever and roundabout way as to first deny there was anything odd about the stories, yet stringing enough of them together to suggest the very opposite was true. Claudia buried her head in her hands. What was that old proverb about cats and curiosity?

If only she could find a way to snare the Spaniard. Bring him to justice…

‘Ruth,’ a husky voice commanded. ‘Ruth, we have to leave.’

Claudia’s head jerked up. Down by the jetty, two outlines shot into stark relief by a vivid streak of lightning, showing bright the yellow bodice and fringed skirt of Lavinia’s young Jewish servant. Her midriff glistened in the cloying humidity of the electric storm, as the tears ran down her cheeks. Claudia rose to her feet and, fully aware of the irony about cats and curiosity, moved closer to the couple, her presence concealed by an alder trunk.

‘I can’t.’ Ruth’s head shook violently from side to side. ‘She’s sick. She needs me.’

‘But there’s nothing we can do.’ In his hand, Lalo held a large canvas sack and there was an edge of exasperation in his voice. ‘You heard what she said. Get out, get away while you can. Come on, love. In the boat.’

He tried to drag her by the arm, but the girl began to whimper like a wounded animal and fell, prostrate, to the ground, great gulping sobs racking her body. ‘She’s only got a few more days left,’ she wailed. ‘A week at the most. Who’ll be there to dose her with mandrake when the pain becomes too great for her to bear?’

‘Ruth, we’re slaves,’ Lalo hissed. ‘Which is worse? To be separated—or to get away while we can and be happy for the rest of our lives?’

Separated? Then Claudia realized why Lavinia was urging the two people she loved so dearly to abscond and risk the penalties which went with running away. She knew Fabella well enough to know she’d sell this big, broad, handsome field hand the instant Lavinia breathed her last. And there’s no way Fab would have Ruth around, with her Hebrew dress and familiar manner.

‘I’ve made enough these past weeks to buy us a fresh start.’

Claudia’s heart cartwheeled as she recalled his constant succession of raw and swollen knuckles. Was Lalo, heaven forbid, a cog in the wheel of extortion, moonlighting as one of Pul’s heavies? Horrified, she watched as he opened the top of his bag to run a river of coins through his fingers.

‘All that boxing, all those wrestling matches after hours—please, Ruth.’ His voice had thickened with grief, but Claudia’s knees nearly gave way with relief. ‘We’ve come so far,’ Lalo begged. ‘Don’t throw our last chance away.’

‘I will never leave her, and that’s final.’ The determination in Ruth’s voice carried over the rumbles of thunder. ‘Anyway,’ a note of stubbornness crept in, ‘I don’t believe Fabella would be so cruel as to separate us. You go if you like,’ she said, turning away, ‘but I’m staying here with Lavinia.’

Lalo’s massive, gleaming shoulders sagged and behind the alder tree, Claudia’s mouth set in a line. To pass themselves off as Roman citizens, the risk was execution for the pair of them. Maybe Ruth had a point? But then again, from what Claudia had seen of Fabella, that old heifer would baulk at shelling out money for a tracker. And Lavinia was not some half-baked nitwit making suggestions she didn’t really mean. If that old peasant woman said go, she meant go. She avoided as much medication as was possible because she wished to die with dignity, her faculties intact—and those, as Claudia knew only too well, were sharper than splinters. Lavinia, she felt certain, was more than capable of putting herself into trances to shut herself off from the pain, and if she was capable of that, then she was equally capable of guzzling down a painkiller when it all became too much.