Widow's Pique (31 page)

'I'm so sorry, my boy.'

Drilo's shoulders slumped.

'The mule doctor is adamant that your wife will - well, that Rosmerta will not last the day.'

Nosferatu was feeling a whole lot better, now, thank you.

Orbilio wasn't the only person whose blood turned to ice in their veins. The flurry of panic that swept round the house told Claudia that something was seriously wrong, and that it wasn't purely the gruesome haul in the fishermen's nets. This apparently was not an uncommon occurrence, something to do with storms down in Greece creating currents that could, in extreme conditions, carry ships off their course, but which either way flushed out any remains lodged in Vinja's den. It was how families knew whom to honour with red ribbons in the shrine to the fire-breathing monster. As always, the sea gives up its dead.

And, in a way, it was a relief to discover Raspor's corpse among the grisly finds. Not because Claudia's story would be vindicated. She'd never had doubts on that score, and whether anyone else believed her or not was irrelevant. No, she was glad, because at last the little priest got what he deserved. She might not have been able to save his life, but she could take comfort in knowing he'd receive a fitting burial in accordance with his beliefs and that his bones would rest with his ancestors, protected by gargoyles in empty black robes and safe in the knowledge that his sacrifice had not been in vain.

But right now, Raspor was low on the list of priorities. The dead were dead, it was time to protect the living and, as her footsteps reverberated along the marble corridor, there was only one thought in her brain.

Pavan.

I'll give you
gruzi vol,
you callous, unfeeling bastard. And

as for that bullshit about how serving Histria was to serve the King, did he really think she'd swallow that? Who laid his massive paw on the doctor's trusting shoulder and led him away? Who insisted Rosmerta be left alone - for her own good, too! And who, my friend, had been so angry that the King's proposal had been refused? Small wonder. It scuppered Nosferatu's plans for whatever little accident he'd been planning for the King and his bride, the one that he had so insidiously persuaded Mazares to invite his good friend Marcus over here to act as an official witness for.

I'll
gruzi
bloody
vol
you with my own bare hands, you devious bloody bastard. No wonder you were so concerned the other night when those rapists clawed at me. Can't afford to have the bait damaged, can you?

Mazares was still in his office when she burst through the doorway, and it looked as though he'd spent the whole night there, since the cushions on the chair were flattened and his clothes were creased and in disarray.

'Claudia!'

He jumped up and reached for where he'd kicked his boots.

'An unexpected honour, I must say.'

There was no time for preambles. 'You've heard about Rosmerta?'

'I have.' His dark curls nodded miserably. 'Poor Kazan, can you imagine what the poor sod's feeling?'

'Are you referring to Vani expecting his child or him not having to pretend that he isn't ashamed of his wife any more?'

Mazares paused from lacing his boot and stared at her thoughtfully.

'I think I'll get that sour-cherry tree axed,' he said slowly. 'The blossoms are beautiful, but the fruit can be awfully acid.'

'If you think this is sharp, I suggest you saddle up now, because you're in for a rough ride, Mazares. There are things that need airing and they won't wait.'

He stooped to finish his lacing. 'So, Kazan's the child's

father and grandfather at the same time? His sons resemble him so closely that no one's likely to suspect, and anyway he turned his attentions to the other boot - 'who's going to care? Half the children in Gora are miniature versions of my brother.'

'Sod Kazan! It's your other brother I'm interested in. Brac'

Mazares straightened up, tucked his shirt into his pants and clipped on his gold torque.

'Do you sleep in a normal bed, like everybody else,' he asked, 'or do you hang upside down in a cave overnight?'

'Mazares, I'm serious. Surely even you can see it now? Rosmerta's death isn't an accident—'

'Well, I'll agree with you there. My sister-in-law is very much alive. Admittedly, she's in what the Greeks call a
koma,
but, unlike certain people in this room, I would at least hesitate before burying her.'

Claudia heard a gnashing sound and thought it might be her teeth. At this rate, she'd be down to the gums, but she had to accept his point, and, goddammit, he looked even worse in broad daylight. The grey pallor to his face had turned waxy from lack of sleep, the lines round his eyes looked like chasms. Exactly what a grieving man would look like, she supposed, when faced with the prospect of no heir for another year at least, while being confronted by the very woman who'd consigned him to that fate.

She shivered, as much out of contrition as guilt. She'd failed Raspor by not taking his claims seriously. She would not fail Mazares by inducing him to do the same.

Drawing a deep breath, she set to ticking off the deaths on her fingers and made no mention of Pavan's betrayal. The King was a good man, who trusted those around him, but, given a choice, he would trust his general above a shrew -especially a Roman shrew. No. Let him find out for himself that, when it came to rodents, there was a rat in his household that was infinitely more dangerous, for while Mazares might be noble, he was anything but stupid. The facts could speak for themselves.

Like strapping young Brac, dead of a fever three days before his twentieth birthday, and Dol, whose weakness of lungs came on surprisingly late in life, yet had him in his grave aged just fifty-two.

However, when it came to relating the drowning of a twelve-year-old child, the clinical reporter found herself unable to look the father in the face when she recounted the circumstances of his daughter's so-called accident, much less when she rehashed the circumstances of his son's death, and may Juno forgive her, she was almost glad to move on to how his wife's 'suicide' was most likely assisted.

'If you know so much about my family,' Mazares said thickly, 'you will also know that Delmi was prone to bouts of depression. She'd tried to kill herself once before, but Rosmerta, for all her faults, stepped in and saved my wife's life. She never forgave herself for not preventing it the second time.'

'Maybe that's why Rosmerta was mur— given that overdose,' Claudia suggested.

It had to be something that had been done, or said, recently that triggered Nosferatu into action. His was a careful, coldblooded campaign which Rosmerta had somehow tripped

^u
p.

'Nonsense,' Mazares said wearily, pouring two goblets of wine. 'A tile slipped, it gave her concussion and, in her confusion, Rosmerta took more than one dose of the poppy draught to ease the pain. We've all done it, but not with such tragic consequences, of course.'

Claudia sipped at the wine, but the heat had soured it, or perhaps it was nothing more than the bad taste in her mouth.

'What would you say if I told you Orbilio has verified that no tile was missing from the house roof?'

There was a glint in his eye as he watched her over the rim of his goblet.

'Has he?'

'Well. No. Not exactly.'

Dammit, it was impossible to lie to this man.

'But I'm sure if you ask him, he'll go up and confirm my theory, and anyway, what about the boat builder? His body bears out Broda's account, Raspor's body has also been washed up, which confirms what I saw, and now the young physician who rode in yesterday has suddenly disappeared off the face of the earth. How convenient, when he'd just announced his findings!'

'You're worried about the young doctor?' Mazares chuckled as he drained his glass. 'Don't. Pavan sent him back to Gora.'

Well done, Pavan. Very neat. Very tidy.

'Don't tell me. It was for the boy's own good?'

Twinkling eyes studied her from lowered brows.

'Actually, he felt there was more need for a physician in a town where the population is greatest, seeing as we have a perfectly competent mule doctor here on the island, who, I'm sure, will prescribe something suitably minty for My Lady's indigestion.'

Claudia was not finished yet.

'Surely, after hearing how your own physician met his end, you can see it?' she asked softly.

The lines round his eyes suddenly became gorges.

'What a waste,' he rasped, and there was no trace of laughter left in his voice. 'What a waste of a life, of a talent, but what you have to bear in mind, my dear Claudia, is that homosexuality is considered unnatural among the Histri. Imagine if a hot-headed tribesman mistook friendliness for a come-on, who knows how he might react? Obviously, I'm not condoning the killing, but I've long accepted that things can be said -and done - in the heat of the moment that are regretted in the cold light of day. Just,' he added with a disarming grin, 'as I have accepted the curse that lies on my family.'

'Which is precisely what I'm trying to drum into your thick skull.'

How the family totem wasn't the mule, she'd never know! Wasn't it Salome who'd called the Histri boneheaded? Stubborn wasn't the word.

'It's not a bloody jinx, it's a campaign to undermine you,

eliminate your bloodline, bring a new order to this kingdom at the expense of everything you and your father have ever worked for and, Croesus, I'm so confused, I don't know whether he's planning to incite Histria to rebel against Rome or bring the kingdom closer to the Empire, but at the moment I don't bloody care. All that matters is that you're next, Mazares. You're top of Nosferatu's hit list, and whether you believe what I've told you or not, for gods' sake, be careful, will you?'

She finally ran out of steam and it was with a weary voice that she added her postscript.

'He'll want it to look like an accident.'

Mazares's tired eyes managed one further dance as he rested both hands on her shoulders.

'Is it just you and Salome, or is it a precondition of Roman citizenship that women bust their men's balls?'

'Which brings us to another point. You do realize that Salome—'

'Claudia.'

He leaned forward and planted a kiss on the top of her head as though she was three years old.

'Claudia, will you please, please, give this poor eunuch some peace? In case you hadn't noticed, I have the mother of all hangovers this morning, and I could really use a few moments to myself to groan quietly while my skin finds its way back to my body and the tingling in my mouth stops spreading up my whole face, because very soon I will have to step outside wearing the broadest of smiles and play king to my people, while, as you so kindly pointed out, Histrian virgins change hands like cooking pots.'

It was all that hair, Claudia supposed. Proof positive that, if left uncut, the follicles invade the brain and destroy it from the inside out.

'However, if it sets your mind at rest,' he added, sucking in his drawn cheeks, 'I will endeavour not to allow myself to be crushed by falling bridegrooms or smothered by auctioneers in the meantime.'

'In those pants,' she retorted, 'you're more likely to be mauled to death by rampant matrons.'

But the words did not get past her lips for the lump in her throat and the salt water that coursed down her cheeks.

Nosferatu had to be stopped, the question was, how? How could Claudia possibly hope to stop the carnage that was tearing this kingdom apart without help?

Clouds had begun rolling in from the east, turning the clear azure sea to grey sludge and trapping the heat under their soft, downy blanket, but the mounting excitement meant that nobody on Rovin gave a hoot about any downturn in weather. The noise was deafening, with everyone shouting at once as fathers strutted impatiently, virgins clustered together like newly hatched chicks and bidders inspected the goods. Claudia could only imagine how rich the pickings would be for those light-hands gliding artfully through the throng. The auction had attracted crowds from as far afield as Liburnia, Dalmatia and Venetia, and to jolly things up musicians in fringed jerkins played the pipes, acrobats tumbled and a thickset Illyrian danced a bored-looking bear. Claudia was dressed in keeping with local tradition, because, wouldn't you just know that in a country where men wear pants instead of tunics and have no use for a barber, they'd be contrary to the end and marry in black? Her hair also hung loose down her back and, since jewellery was banned (oh, please! - such baubles must not be allowed to influence a man's choice of bride!), at least she had no fear of being robbed.

But not all contracts today were for marriage. In the shade of the fountain, salt sellers negotiated deal after deal as their assistants hacked lumps off the block. A Phoenician in ruby-red slippers hawked mirrors, an Armenian ivory carver touted

bangles and combs and a long queue stretched back for the visiting oculist, who was dispensing the same remedy for night blindness as for eyes that were discharging pus.