Jail Bait by Marilyn Todd

Author:Marilyn Todd [Todd, Marilyn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Historical Mystery
ISBN: 9781611877045
Amazon: B00JPKFEWU
Publisher: Untreed Reads Publishing
Published: 2014-04-13T23:00:00+00:00

XXII

For a new town rising from a grassy plain beside a lake, Spesium was taking no prisoners, Marcus noticed. Even in this searing heat and with crippling hangovers all round, craftsmen went doggedly about their business, the silversmiths and cobblers, the carpenters and fullers. But then that’s country life, he supposed, sauntering down the main street past the temple. Cows still needed to be milked, that milk needed to be sold, and the same applied to eggs and fruit and meat. Nevertheless, Dorcan’s stall was not among those set up in the Forum, neither could Orbilio find the bearded charlatan in any of the taverns or the lodging houses. The big man obviously had more sense than the locals and was taking a long lie-in.

Behind the Temple of Spes, tantalizing aromas from the baker’s oven overlaid the smell of dust and dryness, tempting Marcus to part at a corner shop with a brass sesterce in exchange for a pudding of cinnamon and nutmeg deep fried in olive oil and smothered in honey.

He had noticed in the gateway to Atlantis, a poster advertising a foot race in the grounds this afternoon. No doubt Dorcan would be drawn by the hoards willing to hand over silver in exchange for a genuine shell of swan’s egg from which Helen of Troy had been hatched. Clearly the giant’s information wasn’t urgent, or he’d have sent a message suggesting an alternative meeting point. Orbilio would simply have to wait.

With his fingers and chin sticky from the pudding, he was making his way towards the pawnbroker’s to wash up when who should come his way? None other than the Spaniard, with his long, dark hair and fancy clothes. Something speared at his gut when he thought about this self-styled stud sucking up to Claudia. Mother of Tarquin, what did she see in him? Yet the professional in Orbilio could not help but admire the professional in Tarraco. Slow, orchestrated movements, designed to show off every well-worked muscle. That well-practised half-glance, expressions veiled by the fall of long hair. On impulse, he stepped in front of the Spaniard and blocked his way.

‘Are you down for the foot race?’

‘Me?’ The Spaniard gave an insolent shrug. ‘I never compete.’

Like the half-glance, the half-smile, even his words were spartan. Doled out sparingly, designed to add to the enigma and mystique. Orbilio bunched his fist, but resisted the urge to rearrange the long, straight nose in front of him.

‘Then the race is mine,’ he said cheerfully. ‘To the winner—’ he shot a wicked grin over his shoulder, to where Atlantis perched on the promontory ‘—the spoils.’

Tarraco’s eyes narrowed and colour suffused his cheeks. ‘You?’ he sneered, but the tendons in his neck stood out like bowlines on a merchant ship. ‘No chance.’ Dark eyes flashed a glance at the rock before travelling with contemptuous slowness over the drips of cinnamon and honey on Orbilio’s patrician tunic, his sticky hands and mouth. ‘I beat you by a furlong.’

‘You’re on,’ replied Marcus, rubbing his hands together in glee.

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