Widow's Pique (37 page)

'You have no idea what it's like to have a brother strutting around like some puffed-up cockerel, telling me how he's got the best of this, the biggest of that, while pointing out how worthless and useless I was, an unwanted afterthought, nothing but the runt of the litter.'

As droplets became heavier, Claudia grasped a new side to Dol. One in which duty came first as he oversaw everything himself, leaving his sons to grow up without him. The eldest compensated by becoming a braggart and a bully, leaving the youngest to be overindulged by his mother. Only the middle son learned by avoiding their mistakes - then made one of his own by following his father's example.

'It was a good way to go,' Kazan said.

The rain was drumming, turning the red mud to orange sludge.

'Fevers creep up, until all sense of logic is lost. Brac died in his sleep. Crumbs, it was obvious to me, even at the tender age of fourteen, that Mazares was head and shoulders the best man to take over from Father. Brac didn't want the job. He didn't give a stuff about Histria, all he was bothered about were his pecker and his belly. No, Mazares was the caring one. He was the best-looking of us, too, clever at schooling, and Brac's bride wasn't just a stunner, Delmi was a princess. As a mere second son, Mazares would only have qualified for

a chieftain's daughter, same as me, so, if you like, you could say I was doing both my brothers a favour.'

An interesting viewpoint, but one which Claudia doubted many would share, and Brac least of all.

'What about Rosmerta?' she asked.

'Yes, well, knowing what I know now, I'm doubly sorry that wig was so thick, and as for that incompetent idiot of a mule doctor . . .'

Another one who'd underestimated the doctor's abilities, it seemed, because when Kazan slipped what he believed to be an overdose of painkiller down his wife's throat, he was merely putting her into that recuperative sleep.

'I hate her, Claudia, I've always hated the bitch. The look of her, the touch of her, it's revolting, and can you imagine how much I ground my teeth doing what I had to, until I'd sired those boys?'

His sodden hair shuddered.

'She stifled me. One sniffle and she'd have me covered in mustard poultices. She was bossy, domineering, always made me feel less of a man and, sure, I made light of our separate lives, but hell, that isn't marriage.'

No, it isn't, Claudia thought. But it takes two to settle into that kind of arrangement.

'Then Vani told me she was pregnant and that changed everything. Mir knows full well it isn't his, he hasn't touched her in months, and it's not as if she loves the lad.'

So it was Mir the athletic Vani was married to, was it? Claudia tried to picture which of the two sons had restrained the mastiff on its short leash and which one then released it. Either way, both were guilty of murder, and this time they wouldn't escape the smell of roasted man-meat. The flesh on the fire would be theirs.

'So, you wanted Rosmerta out of the way to marry Vani?'

Oh, Kazan. Don't you listen to any of your women? Don't you understand a single one? For better or worse, Vani had nailed her colours to the marital mast. Adultery was one thing, but divorce was out of the question. She tried not to think

how it was for Delmi, lost in grief and looking for consolation in the handsome lover with the slow hand, only to find emptiness in both.

'Vani and I are good for each other, you've seen that, but more importantly, that's my
child
she's carrying.'

Love, protection, affection, Claudia could understand all that. But . . .

'Why didn't you divorce Rosmerta?'

The puzzlement in his eyes was her answer and Claudia instinctively edged back a pace. He'd stifled his brother and got away with it. With his wife, it hadn't occurred to him to do anything else, and no wonder there had been a look of such deep concern on his face when he realized the assault hadn't proved fatal. He was worried Rosmerta had seen him, so he tried to finish her off with the poppy draught. Like a rogue tiger, she thought, he'd acquired the taste. Kazan had become a rogue male . . .

'What are you going to do?' he asked quietly.

Claudia drew a deep breath.

'Nothing.'

She lifted the last remaining item from her basket and balanced it on the edge of the boat builder's grave. It was a small phial of green glass that, until this morning, had sat on the shelf in Salome's treatment room. The papyrus label proclaimed it as hemlock.

'We must each take responsibility for our own destiny, Kazan.'

Murderers weren't allowed to rest in this holy precinct, but that was presuming somebody knew.

'Only you can decide whether you want your soul at the mercy of shroud-eaters and to never find rest, or whether you would rather lie here, with your brother and father.'

The rain drummed out Kazan's reply.

The boat-thronged harbour ebbed away into the distance.

Slowly, the scent of the islands was replaced by the tang of the ocean, and the white hill that was Rovin, rising out of the foam like Venus, Goddess of Love, grew smaller and smaller until it was no more than a spot on the horizon.

The great striped sail billowed and shook as Claudia rested her elbows on the red-painted rail and rested her chin in her hands. Strange, but she would miss these crystal-clear waters, the pebbly beaches and golden coves, the eternal beauty of this evergreen archipelago. Histria was not at all how she'd imagined, but the biggest surprise was how hard it had been to say goodbye to this heavenly oasis of pines and vines, a land full of contrasts, of ancient secrets and wisdom. She would never return. Too much had happened, but there was an emptiness at knowing she'd never inhale the herbal aromas of Salome's treatment room again, or watch fleeces being combed instead of shorn, or listen to the Amazons squabble and sing as they worked in the fields, their skirts kilted up to their knees. Nor would she know how Broda's emotional scars would affect her as she grew into adulthood, or whether Raspor would be re-buried in Gora or left in peace where he was.

'Copper quadran for your thoughts,' a baritone murmured in her ear, and suddenly sandalwood was blotting out the smell of pitch and salt. With just a hint of the rosemary that his patrician tunic had been rinsed in.

Claudia turned. What could she say? That she had been

gazing at the land as it blurred into blue on the horizon, conjuring up Nymphs of the West singing lullabies in gardens full of apples of gold, which had been walled by mighty Atlas himself . . . before she remembered how Histria was a land of two halves. That werewolves roamed the dark side of the collective imagination, as well, alongside shroud-eaters, vampires and fire-breathing monsters, and that arch-ghoul with the lolling head, Nosferatu.

'I was just thinking how a girl can't even catch a boat nowadays without it swarming with Security Police.'

Orbilio grinned. In fact, now she came to think of it, he'd been grinning like an idiot since he boarded this ship.

'You have to agree, though, that when it comes to swarming, I'm up there with the best of them.'

'No, Marcus, that's smarming, and you owe me a quadran.'

'I owe you an apology, too.' His expression became grim. 'I ought to have taken your concerns seriously, only, so many deaths seemed . . . well, absurd.'

Also, she thought, he was too close. He'd known Mazares a long time, and if Mazares himself was convinced that his family was jinxed, that conviction would have no trouble transferring itself to others. Orbilio couldn't have changed one damn thing. But she would let him work that out in his own time, not hers. She hadn't forgotten who'd palmed her off like an old vase in the first place!

'You realize you've ruined my hundred per cent detection record?' His strong, patrician nose wrinkled. 'The runaways racket's closed down, but I've no conviction, and, since I wrote in dispatches that my prime suspect was all but in irons, the only credit I'll be getting is a bollocking for aiding a Cretan girl to escape. Also, I see no point in reporting Rosmerta's plot to Rome or they'll send a flurry of governors by return post, and that will be utter disaster.'

'Into every life a little rain must fall, Orbilio. I'm sure someone will dream up a luscious attempt on the Emperor's life to redress the balance.'

Steaming in with the navy, charging up with the cavalry,

legging it in with the legionaries, his career wouldn't remain in the shadows for long. Marcus Cornelius was far too ambitious for that - except, now that Claudia was returning home without a royal ring on her finger or a contract to supply Histria with her wine, she could only pray that the tentacles of his ambition didn't stretch in her direction. She would have to be even more inventive with her finances from now on.

'Yes, and talking of rain,' he said, 'that storm was a monster, but, praise be to Juno, it didn't last long.' He slanted her a quizzical glance. 'What chance, do you think, of the calm lasting?'

Claudia thought carefully before she answered.

'Fair,' she said. 'Maybe even good, if Mazares continues to flourish.'

The relief - oh, the relief - when Salome told her that the cold sweats were gone and the tingling had subsided completely.

'Why didn't you accept his proposal?' she'd asked, placing a parsley poultice on Claudia's swollen jaw.

'Because I'm not the right woman for him,' she'd replied bluntly.

The right woman doesn't question her man's integrity. The right woman's trust doesn't falter. The Syrian girl pushed her foxy mane behind her ears in a way that would scandalize the matrons of Rome, where society decreed that women must tie their hair up.

'Maybe,' Salome conceded. 'But then again, my dear, have you considered the possibility that it was because Mazares is not the right man for you?'

Not at all, she thought, pushing aside images of dark, wavy mops, and anyway dawn was starting to break. Admittedly, it was cold, grey and damp, but it was still dawn - which meant there was still time.

'Come with me,' she ordered Salome.

Mazares sat propped up in bed, his curls lank, his skin yellow and with purple caverns under his eyes, but to Claudia

he'd never looked better, and, on the rug by the window, his two Molossan hounds snored contentedly.

'That woman's a witch,' he drawled, shaking his finger at Salome. 'She fed me the most abominable potions you can imagine. As if I wasn't in enough discomfort!'

'Console yourself that she won't need to resort to such drastic tactics when you're married,' Claudia replied crisply. 'Pavan, do you still have the papers?'

'Aye.'

One arm in a sling, he passed the scroll across with the other. Here was another one who should be in bed, she reflected, but it seems you can't keep these three-headed gorillas down.

'What are you talking about?' Salome and Mazares chorused at once.

'There's still time,' Claudia said, 'if you hurry, because in a few minutes it will be morning.'

The King and the widow exchanged puzzled glances.

'The morning of the day
after
marriages can be announced,' Claudia explained.

'Yes, but—'

'But nothing, Mazares. She loves you, you love her, now put your damned seal on the contract.'

She should have realized. That jolt of electricity when they bumped into each other. The way his jaw dropped as the blue nymph consigned her herbs to the Fire of Life. The pig he'd sent her, the spotted kind she'd always wanted. The way he'd watched the farm from his window, which was how he was able to raise the alarm so quickly. But, most of all, it was the fact that he suspected what was going on regarding her Freedom Trail and sought a friend's advice, rather than the tribune in Gora . . .

There would be ructions, of course. Salome's views on equality of the sexes alone would produce enough fire to heat the palace throughout the winter, but then, in those pants, marriage to Mazares was never going to be lacking in passion! And she would give him the kind of heirs that he wanted.

Children who'd stand up for what they believed in, freethinkers, free-wheelers, he'd said, unburdened by conventions and hidebound traditions. Yes, indeed. With Salome around, he'd never go short of those!

'Mazares, you have three minutes of today remaining.'

Dancing catkins swivelled towards his redheaded healer. 'Just what drugs did you feed this poor wretch?'

But, instead of laughing, Salome threw her hands into the air. 'What
is
it with you boneheaded Histri? Can't you
ever
see what's under your noses?'

He blenched. 'You mean it's true?'

'Great Marduk, I've loved you since the first day I met you, now will you please, please do as Claudia asks, and no, this has nothing to do with time running out. It's so the bride can bloody well kiss you.'

His reply sounded like, 'Why am I cursed with women breaking my balls?' but Claudia couldn't be certain, because, for one thing, Pavan was rustling the parchment in her ear, and for another, the King's mouth had been completely covered by a ravishing redhead. Well, well, well. Who said you can't be a dutiful monarch and still be happy?