Widow's Pique (20 page)

Deep and low, the question came through a mouth full of

gravel, and suddenly sweat was overwhelmed by a strong smell of leather.

'Dom vetta spiel, du bastardo?'

With a crunch, the grip round her neck loosened as her assailant let out an unearthly yell. As he stumbled past her, she saw his arm hanging at an unnatural angle, with what looked like bone sticking out of his shirt.

'Dom steel vetta spiel?'

A punch thudded into his open jaw, spinning him sideways on to the ground, where he landed with a thud on his broken arm. A boot connected to his screaming ribs. The boot was the size of a tree trunk. An oak tree, to be precise.

'I think we'd best get ye home, eh?' Pavan growled, throwing his shirt round Claudia's shoulders.

The war knot had gone, the ponytail was back, and his grey eyes were unreadable as a huge thumb wiped the hair out of her eyes. But there was nothing he could do to stem the sudden flood of tears as he hefted her into his arms.

'Wait,' she blubbed. 'Wait, we need to go into the hills first. I can't leave Drusilla up there alone.'

'Hmm.' The rumble came from deep in the general's throat. 'Ye run round in work clothes, ye risk your life for a pig, ye damn near was raped and now ye want to go looking for cats.'

He nodded thoughtfully as he tucked the shirt tight round her neck.

'I'd say the man who marries ye is gonna have his work cut out, that's for sure.'

Way down in the Ionian Sea, mighty Neptune struck his trident in the seabed and conjured up a tempest. The seas rose obediently, sending great waves to lash the cliffs of the Peloponnese and swamp the coasts as far north as the Gulf of Corinth, but Neptune's rage was short. Having rapped the knuckles of the Greeks for not making sufficient propitiation - who knows, perhaps the bull wasn't black enough? - he banished the winds back to their caves and gave orders for the heaving seas to subside.

Typical of equinox storms, it was over in a matter of hours and could have been far worse. A preposterously clear, calm dawn revealed that only two ships had been dashed against the black rocks in the night, though both had foundered with the loss of all hands on board, and by the time Apollo's golden chariot had begun its slow climb above the horizon, his anger was already being appeased with prayers and offerings in the form of sacrifice, libations and garlands. The ethos of fear and revere was strong in Neptune's book.

Such surges, though, always have repercussions. On the tiny island of Kithira, where Helen of Troy had consummated her adulterous relationship with Paris and sparked off the mother of all wars, a weak roof collapsed, killing the priest who sanctified oaths. Taken as a sign of Neptune's displeasure with a character which, although it appeared on the surface to be completely impeccable, was obviously far from the case. You can fool humanity, the islanders reasoned, but you can't fool the gods. Recent affidavits were instantly rendered null and void, and wailing women prayed for the dead man's wicked soul.

Higher up the coast, another reputation was being tarnished by the storm. A blacksmith in his thirty-seventh year had collapsed from simple heart failure as he fought to batten down the shutters on his forge, but because he was young, strong and supremely fit, none of the villagers could accept death from natural causes. It was obvious to them that he'd been punished by the Furies, those frightful dog-headed creatures with hair like snakes and bat-like wings instead of arms, who hound the consciences of the guilty with relentless passion. His widow ought to count herself lucky she'd found out in time!

The undercurrent left by Neptune's tantrum surged inexorably northwards. It travelled slowly, tempered by the various streams and currents that it met along the way, but it travelled onwards just the same. Eventually it would hit the little peninsula at the very top of the Adriatic, and only a handful of fishermen would grasp the significance of the exceptionally large catch they would be hauling in.

Finally, the swell would impact on the narrow channel separating Rovin from the mainland. Distance, time and nature would have dissipated virtually every ounce of power, but the channel would act as a funnel to the dying surge, swirling up the eddies that comprised the dark and oily realm of the firebreathing monster, Vinja.

Vinja didn't know it yet, but when that swell hit Rovin, he would be forced to give up several of his grisly secrets, and the corpses of a boat builder and a little priest would be among them.

But, for now, the swell was still gurgling its leisurely way up the Dalmatian coast.

Nosferatu wouldn't have to re-think any plans just yet.

After the exuberance of Zeltane, the mood on Rovin couldn't have been starker. Children still chanted their Latin alphabet under awnings stretched between the streets and parroted their counting, like children everywhere across the Roman Empire, but children are nothing if not little sponges. Rovin children had picked up on the depression that hung over the island, and their recitation was weak. Fishwives, usually so garrulous and bawdy, now filleted the catch in silence, and the expressions of the traders in the plaza where the Zeltane Fire had burned were grim. None of the islanders had been involved in last night's fracas, but they were Histri, and the perpetrators' shame hung around their necks like grinding stones.

Caught off guard by the presence of soldiers at Salome's farm, the attackers had been quickly rounded up, a task made easier by the vigilance of a man with a swirling moustache and hair that fell to his shoulders in a manner reminiscent of Apollo, who'd noticed fires burning on the mainland and knew Salome well enough to realize that these weren't down to any May Day celebrations. It was also thanks to Mazares that much of her livestock, most of the buildings and quite a lot of the crops had been saved, while the prisoners had only their own bloodlust to blame for being caught. If they'd settled for torching the farm and then fleeing, they'd have probably got clean away. Instead, thirteen now awaited His Majesty's justice, five of whom faced execution for rape, including Claudia's attackers.

Attempted rape normally carried the lesser penalty of scorching, whereby a cart was filled with willow sticks over which the gagged prisoner was bound, then the sticks set to smoulder as the oxen plodded slowly round the perpetrator's village, the prisoner's pain and humiliation plain for all to see. But one of Salome's little Amazons had met this pair before - only the Commander of the King's Bodyguard wasn't around to prevent
her
ordeal. The cart carrying this pair of charmers would be filled with sticks that burned properly, and the Amazon had permission to light the fire herself.

'Ever since you arrived, I seem to greet you with the words "How are you feeling?"'

Mazares's expression was grave. Exactly what you'd expect after another predator had tried to muscle in on his tethered goat.

'But how
are
you feeling this morning?'

He'd run her to ground on Rovin's pine-clad tip, where she was looking out across the blue lagoons to the surrounding archipelago, while a white-tailed sea eagle skimmed the water with its talons, eventually flapping off towards an islet, a silver fish writhing in its yellow claws.

The bait shot Mazares her most radiant smile.

'Didn't they warn you that I collect bruises like some men collect art and little boys collect caterpillars?' She didn't miss a beat as she added, 'Have you reconsidered your decision concerning my armed escort?'

Last night, he'd been anxiety personified when Pavan carried her back. But it hadn't stopped him from punishing the escort for dereliction of duty.

His gaze didn't waver. 'No.'

'You don't feel that flogging's too harsh?'

'No.'

'Even though it wasn't their fault?'

She'd tried telling him that it was she who'd insisted they remain at the gate, fearing they'd cast a shadow over Salome's feast. That the men weren't to know she'd fallen into a pigsty and changed her frock. That, when the trouble started, they

couldn't possibly have predicted how she'd panic and head for the hills. But Mazares had folded his arms over his broad, stubborn chest, just like he was doing now.

'Their job was to guard you, My Lady. They failed.'

'Only on my instructions.'

'They take their instructions from me.'

'I overruled them.'

'That only makes the men doubly responsible. Once for disobeying orders, and once again for failing to protect you.'

'You won't change your mind?'

'No.'

'Then you leave me no choice. I will petition the King.'

A flash at last behind those impassive catkins.

'On what grounds, exactly?'

'Surely the King's bride is allowed the
odd
indulgence, Mazares?'

The familiar lazy sparkle returned, and he bowed.

'Consider their slate clean, my lady. As of this moment, your escort is free to return to their duties.'

Gotcha, you bastard, and for a split second she considered exploiting the situation by suggesting they set off for Gora at once, but Mazares was wise to her now. He hadn't swallowed that tale about soldiers casting a spectre over the feast and he'd been particularly sceptical when it came to the idea of Claudia panicking. So she simply thanked him for his change of heart.

'My pleasure, and you must let me know if the King's bride has any other . . . odd indulgences.'

Smarmy sod.

'No, no, you've spoiled me enough. I wouldn't want to push my luck, now would I?'

'Wouldn't you?' The twinkle was dangerous now. 'Nevertheless, I think it prudent to post a bodyguard at your door.'

The noose was tightening . . .

'What? And compromise my reputation?'

'I meant outside your bedroom, My Lady, not in,' he said,

affecting a mock swoon. 'And besides. If there's any compromising to be done on that score, I feel it my duty to personally volunteer for the task.'

'I can assure you, Mazares, you would certainly have my first refusal.'

He tipped his head back and laughed, and as the puppet-master retreated through the pines, his laughter echoing above the hammering and sawing from the adjacent boatbuilding yards, she watched the aureole of glossy curls bouncing with every confident step, caught the occasional glint when the sun reflected off the gold torque round his neck, watched the spring in his taut and youthful buttocks. She'd long given up trying to decide whether his galley was crewed by policemen or by pirates, whether the King had genuinely summoned her to Histria or whether it was part of the conspiracy, or even whether Pavan and Mazares were on the same side. Worse, she no longer cared how many people had died on this paradise peninsula, be it from natural causes or otherwise, or what secrets Salome might be hiding. Frankly, who gave a damn that she gave refuge to a score of young, single women, including the King's widowed daughter-in-law, or that Lora's presence on the farm undermined tribal law?

Self-preservation was her only worry now.

She thought of Pula, just one day's sail from Rovin.

So near and yet so far . . .

Kicking off her sandals, she sought out a large, flat, white rock and dangled her feet in the turquoise water. The water was warm, shimmering softly under the Histrian sun as it lapped her ankles, gurgling as it shrank away from the rocks, slapping gently as it hit them again. Terns dived for fish like silent white stones, and the air was scented with the freshness of the oceans and the dense, tangy resins of the pines. She closed her eyes and prayed for a miracle.

'I was under the impression that brides were supposed to be blushing, not washing,' a deep baritone said from behind.

She spun round, and found herself face to face with a pair

of soft yellow Histrian boots that cast a tall, broad shadow over the shoreline. The shadow emitted a faint hint of sandalwood unguent, which penetrated even the pitch and sawdust of the boatyards.

'And I was under the impression that the Moon God only came out at night,' she replied sweetly.

'That's the beauty of being a divinity,' he drawled, and his pants were every bit as tight as Mazares's. 'We bend the rules to suit. But then that's something you know all about, isn't it? My Lady.'

She tilted her head, half-expecting to see the silver mask. What she saw in its place was far worse.

'Orbilio?'

'Marcus Cornelius, international moon of mystery, at your service, ma'am,' he said, clicking his heels together.

'You bastard.'

'Didn't you level that same accusation against me at the banquet? We were both wearing pants, I seem to recall, although yours tended to contain some rather more interesting curves. Unfortunately, you spoiled the fun by concealing them under a cloak of green feathers.'

Six feet and six centuries of aristocratic breeding settled themselves on the warm rock beside her.

'Aren't you curious to know when I arrived?' he asked, pulling off his boots and easing his toes into the water. 'This is nice, although, silly me, I was expecting the temperature to be somewhat warmer.'