Widow's Pique (33 page)

Screams. Flames. The sow crashing against the walls of her

sty in blind panic, resulting in stillborn piglets that she would have eaten the minute she'd birthed them, and rage shot through every inch of Claudia's body. How dare they? How dare they set fire to crops, destroy buildings, rape virgins, for no motive other than bigotry? Inflicting pain and destruction simply to exert some kind of control? The rapists were dead, the arsonists shunned, but their chauvinism had not been erased, and no wonder Lora fought so passionately for what she believed in. Rosmerta said Lora had loved Delmi like a mother. Claudia gave an affectionate tweak to the pig's ear and patted her spotted rump. Lora and Delmi. Two women who had been contracted into loveless alliances would have much in common, and if Lora picked up that baton when Delmi died, her zeal would have been further fuelled by Salome's obsessive commitment to equality. This would have escalated into contempt for the King's tolerance of what she considered cold, heartless practices, firing a desire to turn the situation about.

'What it is to be young,' Claudia murmured to the donkeys grazing the lush grass in the orchard. 'To have ideals you still believe are worth fighting for.'

Even if elfin-faced Lora didn't understand the finer points of anarchy! Such as how the King and Mazares are one. Bound by duty, the two are inseparable, and if Lora had loved Delmi, it was obvious that, in spite of herself, she adored Mazares as well.

'Ah, but the passion,' Claudia told the geese dabbling on the fringes of the pond. 'What passion beats in young hearts!'

Croesus.

She stopped short, watching bees buzz round the yellow iris on the margins, listening to the frogs croak in the shallows.

That was it!

Passion!

Passion was the key to this mystery.

Passion was at the heart of it all.

Her instinct had been to assume the killings were in aid of an uprising against Rome, but this was wrong. She saw now that this carefully planned elimination of anything and anyone

who stood in Nosferatu's way was because Histria wasn't Roman
enough.
Stuff independence! Nosferatu was after closer links with the Empire, not fewer, and although the arch-ghoul would probably call it 'siding wholeheartedly', it was only by sucking up to Augustus that the country's influence and supremacy could grow at the speed Nosferatu was after.

Passion.

Passion for glory, passion for control, passion for Rome and all things Roman, like law, like trade, like progress.

But most especially, passion for power . . .

Oh, yes, Nosferatu sighed, it was passion all right. Passion for glory, passion for control, passion for Rome and all things Roman.

Like law.

Like trade.

Like progress.

But especially passion for power.

Sweet Janus, it was just a hair's breadth away, too . . .

The treatment room looked exactly as Claudia had left it.

Neat piles of petals and roots stood lined up on the table, seeds of celery, mustard and dill had been set aside in mortars to be pulverized later, while infusions of dewcup, soapwort and chamomile bubbled gently in cauldrons that dangled over red, glowing charcoals. On the workbench, in between a dish of grated horseradish and a jar marked agrimony tea, sat a heap of dried myrtle berries and, on the shelves, papyrus labels proclaimed decoctions of everything from rosemary to oak bark. Cloves and nutmeg fragranced the warm, healing air, enhanced by oils of juniper, peppermint, jasmine and ginger, and the instruments that hung from the wall gleamed. 'I had a feeling you'd come,' Salome said without turning. Even the black tomcat was snoozing on the same wooden stool.

'Has the balm helped?'

She was referring to the white alabaster pot that had appeared in Claudia's bedroom yesterday evening. The pot had been tied round the middle with straw, into which a small posy of chive flowers and forget-me-nots had been artfully arranged. 'Enormously,' Claudia assured her. She hadn't touched it. 'Good, because it contains basil, cypress and marjoram, and if you rub it in twice a day, morning and night, as I instructed, the stiffness in your muscles will be gone in no time and it will help the bruises to fade.'

Deft hands continued to mould the macerated remains of horehound, aniseed and cardamom into a paste.

Salome paused in her task and looked round. The glint in her eyes was too bright, Claudia thought. As though she'd been laughing or crying, or something else she wanted to hide, and the smile on her face wasn't right.

'I didn't thank you for saving my pig the other night,' Salome said. 'It was a brave thing you did, my dear, and, great Marduk, you had a lucky escape. Pavan told me what nearly happened.'

Did he indeed?

'Are you all right?'

'After tumbling down a flight of stone steps, I barely noticed the extra bruises,' Claudia said.

'I meant mentally.' Salome returned to her paste, rolling it into a long sausage. 'Psychological bruises take longer to heal and they are much harder to cure,' she said quietly, cutting the sausage into tiny pastilles to counteract the coughs that would unquestionably result from the change from dry to wet weather. 'It's the emotional scarring I'm worried about.'

Claudia didn't doubt it, and she pictured an eight-year-old girl with raven-black hair, traumatized by what she had seen. Who better to keep an eye on the witness than the owner of the shadow whose murderous hands had throttled the life out of her uncle? Who better to pop in with healing herbs, to check that Broda didn't know more than she was letting on?

'Your emotional scarring or mine?' she asked, and something jolted inside.

This wasn't right.

Dammit, this
wasn't
right.

She pushed the tomcat off the stool and sank on to the warm wooden seat. Sure, the evidence pointed to Salome -but her gut said the evidence was wrong. It was, she thought, as the cat jumped back up and began to knead dough on her lap, a question of exactly what evidence they were talking about . . .

Salome stopped slicing the cough-mixture paste, wiped her hands on her apron and pushed her long, red hair out of her face.

'I
was
fond of him, you know. My husband, I mean.'

She drew up a stool next to Claudia and the cat immediately transferred itself to her knees.

'In fact, I thought I loved him until . . .' her voice trailed

off.

The pieces fell into place with a click so loud Claudia wondered the whole world couldn't hear it.

'Until you met Mazares.'

Pain clouded Salome's eyes. 'How did you know?'

Mazares, Mazares, it was always Mazares. Every question centred round him, and she remembered the Zeltane Feast. With more work on the farm than they could possibly cope with, Salome still made the time to watch him when he wasn't looking. She watched over him, as well. She disguised herself in blue robes to strew healing herbs as he jumped the Fire of Life and, although Salome tended Broda, it was not out of self-preservation. She did it in the same way she tended the tanner's wife and all Mazares's people, because she cared for him most of all. If his people were healthy, his heart was content. His happiness was all that she wanted.

Shit.

'Does it matter?' Claudia replied.

Suddenly she understood why Salome hadn't married again. Such were her feelings, she couldn't face sleeping with any man other than Mazares. It's why she was so reckless with the numbers of slaves she helped to escape. With no heirs to this land, she had nothing to lose. Claudia swore softly again.

'We need to destroy the evidence, Salome, and there's no time to lose.'

'What evidence?'

'Oh, for heaven's sake, you know damn well that Rome's on to you,' she snapped. 'What on earth are you hoping to achieve? The chance to smuggle another couple of slaves out before the troops close your operation down?'

'Claudia, I won't turn away a single soul who asks for refuge, and when it comes to numbers, my dear, you can't begin to imagine how many poor wretches have been brutalized by

their owners. Whipped, beaten, raped, it's horrendous, but thanks to our Freedom Trail, these people can have new papers and start a new life.'

It explains why there are so many women, Claudia thought dully. It's always the women who end up as victims, and only those young enough and brave enough can run off, because the older ones would have babies, and no one can hope to flee 300 miles with children in tow and the slave catchers not hunt them down.

'I'm not questioning the morality of your actions, Salome.'

Although frankly she doubted that even a quarter of the hard-luck tales were true. Once word got out that there was a rabbit run open, it's surprising how slick a lie can become when you have 300 miles to practise it.

'It's the legality that concerns me, and the consequences, which will ruin far more lives than you've repaired.'

She had no idea. Dammit, the silly bitch had no
idea
what would happen once Rome got wind of her racket.

'You think I care if this goes to trial?'

Salome tossed her red mane with defiance.

'Great Marduk, the evidence I'll lay before the court will open people's eyes to the realities of enslavement. My Freedom Trail will become an inspiration for others. Next year, there'll be twenty such organizations, the year after that fifty . . .'

Sweet Janus, she honestly believed it would reach
trial.

'Salome, we don't have time to argue,' Claudia told her.

Orbilio had already sent off his dispatches. The rider left at first light. The damage was already done.

'Start a bonfire in the yard, burn all the forgeries, destroy every testimony you've kept and anything that connects this place with runaways, because once word reaches Augustus, you can forget about justice and martyrdom. The army will have you put down like a dog, and it's not just a case of Bonni, Mo, Silas and Tobias being sacrificed to the cause. Not even Lora's exalted status will save her. The Emperor will have everyone on this farm executed whether they were participating or not.'

'They can't!'

'They can and they will, and you might be able to carry that on your conscience, but I certainly can't, now get going.'

There wasn't even a pause. Salome might have shoved reality to the back of her mind in the name of righteousness, but she knew enough about Roman reprisals to remember that examples were always made. She knew enough about slavery, too. The rules were straightforward. If a slave killed his master and didn't confess, then the whole household was deemed guilty and put to death. Ashen and shaking, she piled logs on the cobbles as Claudia used the coals from the treatment room to get the bonfire burning. How long before the rider reached Pula? How long before the soldiers marched north? They would be here tomorrow, she calculated, turning this farm upside down . . . but another fire on top of the damage already done would not be questioned. She was fanning the flames with her skirt when a hand clamped over her wrist.

'What the hell's going on?' Tobias snarled.

Claudia told him.

'Oh.'

She wrenched her hand away, but his scowling eyes pierced her for several long seconds.

'I thought you were a spy,' he said at length. 'I thought Rome had sent you, masquerading as the King's bride, because it was obvious you'd never marry Mazares.'

Oh, was it! She was tempted to take him to task over this, but her mind had already flashed back to the night of the attack, when she'd overheard him and the others at the feast. Silas had suggested it was too far-fetched for Claudia to be a spy, arguing that if Rome wanted to send one, surely they'd have sent one undercover. With icy clarity, Claudia recalled Naim's reply.

They've already tried that once, me lovely,
she'd said.
Remember that little Cretan girl, the one with the squint?

Silas had buried his head in his hands.
We shouldn't have let our guards down,
he'd said.
We should have sent her back.

He knew. The old man was wise to the ways of the authorities.

He knew what would happen to the farm and the workers, if word of the Freedom Trail got back. And Tobias knew, too. Claudia recalled how the hairs on her neck had started to prickle when he gave his chilling response.

Well, we didn't, and that's one spy they won't be seeing again.

At the time, and in light of Orbilio's account, she'd feared the worst. But look at the man! Look at them all! These people weren't slogging their guts out day in and day out for money, or glory, or power. The farm just about ticked over, because all the profits of their hard labour were being ploughed back to give runaways a new life and a new identity. The masters were working harder than any slave and they were doing it out of love, not for greed. Idealists the lot of them, and Claudia shook her head in despair at their naivety and ignorance. Love, she thought, as Salome came running back with pells of parchment stuffed under her arms, has much to answer for.