Free Dream Boat by Marilyn Todd Page A

trophy to be wheeled out at important functions, look-at-me-I'm-not-just-rich-I'm-lucky. She, in turn, had married him for money. They'd each struck a deal, no more than that, and throughout the four years of the marriage, both had stuck fast to their bargain. (All right, if you're going to be pernickety, maybe Claudia had stretched the rules from time to time, but who the hell counts gambling, adultery and debt?) The point was, it had worked. Then one day he was gone. Snap. As fast as that. Alive one minute, laid out upon his bier the next.
    But Junius was no ageing lardball and the moment quickly passed. Time - and its urgency - slammed her back to the present and she'd dispatched him to the Camensis, after which she'd changed into these smelly rags and rubbed some resin on to the pigskin patch before positioning it over her eye. When yells from the bath room indicated the battle against grime had resulted in a home win, she'd grabbed the newly scrubbed parasite and made her way to the Camensis. Later than she would have wished, but with four big burly fellows keeping watch, that shouldn't have been a problem.
    The smell of rodents began to tickle in her nostrils. Claudia had already suspected that Flea was a pawn in a very deadly game, and now it looked as though Junius had been lured away, as well. But the young Gaul was no fool. He'd be on his guard.
    Dammit, the run-around is an integral part of every kidnapper's pattern, a reminder of just who's in charge here. More often than not, this was every bit as important as the money.  Was it more important? Supposing they'd brought Flavia along to Camensis as bait? Would Junius have rushed over? Tried to free her? Claudia's imagination ran riot.
    Two more hours passed as the old woman and her reluctant granddaughter moved round the park, making garlands here, snoozing there, gathering armfuls of fern for their bedding that night. Any fresh developments and someone would have fetched a message. Which they didn't. What the hell was going on?
    'Oi! Clear off!'
    'Yeah! Sling yer hooks, yer plague-ridden bags!'
    Claudia's beggarwoman act had finally reached saturation point and, when the crowd began hurling rocks at her, she reasoned that this was indeed an appropriate time for hooks to be slung.
    In fact, no one ever recalled seeing an old woman sprint so fast.

Chapter Eight
    The Cradle of Ra rocked with the gentle rhythm of the breeze. Poplar trees shivered with pleasure as the hot, sticky wind played about their branches while the broader, flatter leaves of limes flapped like thin green hands, as though shooing the zephyr on its way across the valley. Far below the Mount of Osiris, goats clustered under the shade of a squat umbrella pine as workers in soft, wide-brimmed hats swished at the hay with long twin-handled scythes and piled it into mounds. Sleds fetched in carrots, peas and cabbages from outlying fields, also cherries, plums and pears. The sunlight caught a busy pitchfork here, a pruning knife there, the flash of an anklet or ring. Goosegrass was mercilessly winkled out with hoes, beehives inspected, an ox was being trained to the yoke.
    Sitting on the heart-shaped rock high above the valley, the man, stark naked despite the searing sun, watched over it all. Distant bleats floated up from time to time, the occasional laugh, a honk of protest from the ox, a verse or two of communal singing from the men who swung the scythes. Bees droned around the thistles and the thyme, a lonely whitethroat trilled out its liquid melody and a flock of tiny iridescent purple butterflies explored the tops of oak and ash.
    This, thought the man, is my territory and its beauty is everlasting.
    He lay back upon the scorching rock, folding his hands underneath his head, and gritted his teeth against the burning on his skin. Endurance and the everlasting, the two went hand in hand. Without the former, the latter could not be attained
    and, if