Widow's Pique (9 page)

'Hurry!' she screamed. 'Hurry, before it's too—'

It was as far as she got. The oblivion that Claudia had so desperately craved a few minutes earlier was no respecter of changers-of-mind. It claimed her at a maidservant's feet.

The next light to be blinding her eyes didn't come from dozens of hastily lit oil lamps. It came from the sun, shining with inexorable brilliance into the room, and more specifically over Claudia's pillow. From a hundred miles away, she heard someone groan, and had a strange feeling that it might have been her.

'How are ye feeling?' a gravelly voice asked.

'Vile.'

But the cold, solid knot in her stomach had nothing to do with her fall.

'Aye.' Pavan nodded impassively. 'Ye would.'

He was sitting with one massive leg crossed over the other in a high-backed armchair upholstered in damask the colour of ripe Persian plums. His fingers were steepled patiently together.

She drew a deep breath. Willed the shuddering inside to subside.

'Is he dead?' she asked quietly.

Grey eyes stared without emotion for what seemed like an hour, but was probably no more than five seconds.

'When Mazares carried ye up here last night, ye were unconscious and bleeding.'

The seat was large and commodious, but the general made it look like a kid's chair.

'I very much regret, ma'am, that the closest we had to a physician last night was a ... a mule doctor.'

How comforting.

'Meaning?'

He stroked his ponytail thoughtfully. 'The mule doctor fears his painkilling preparation may have had certain side effects.'

'Name one.'

'Physical weakness.'

'Name two.'

She had a pretty good idea where this was leading, but needed to hear it from Pavan's own lips.

He adjusted his belt. 'We put every available man on that beach—'

'What about Raspor?'

The chair creaked as he rose to his feet. 'D'you feel up to breakfast, ma'am? Would a honeycomb straight from the beehive tempt yer appetite?'

'What - and I'll say this slowly - about Raspor?'

A different voice answered. It was low and velvety, and anyone who didn't know better would have taken his tone to be concerned.

'I'm afraid it's exactly as Pavan says, Claudia. We conducted the most thorough search of the area, but -' Mazares shrugged his very fine shoulders - 'no body, no blood . . .'

'Of course there was no blood,' she retorted. 'The poor sod was strangled.'

Mazares and Pavan exchanged glances.

'The mule doctor has no doubt that what ye saw was real in yer mind,' Pavan rumbled.

'How reassuring to have a diagnosis that comes quite literally from the horse's mouth. No doubt his sick asses tell him what they saw, and he then proceeds to explain to them how they imagined those blue oats and flying cabbages.'

Claudia took advantage of the uncomfortable silence to press on.

'For your information, gentlemen, Raspor was no hallucination.'

Hallucinations don't sneeze.

'He was standing underneath that very window, wringing

his little fat hands, and he was wearing the same singleshoulder tunic that he—'

'My Lady.' Mazares's tone was placating. 'Those who serve the gods also honour them. For a priest not to be wearing his official robes at any time is sacrilege.'

Of course, it could mean the little man had escaped his attacker . . .

'But you do have a priest named Raspor, who serves the Thunder God in Gora?'

'Ye-es,' Mazares said slowly. 'He's Guardian of the Sacrifice and his job is to select and then care for the animals whose lives are forfeit to Perun.'

. . . leaving him too weak and too frightened to seek help on the island . . .

'And would this Raspor be a small, round fellow with a ring of dark curls like a halo, perhaps?'

'Aye,' Pavan said. 'But Raspor is also a dedicated servant of his temple and tomorrow a white ram is due to be sacrificed for the Zeltane.'

Zeltane. Arguably the most important festival in the Histrian calendar . . .

'With all due respect, ma'am,' the general continued, 'it's highly unlikely that, faced with such a solemn obligation, he'd trek out here to Rovin.'

Except when concern for his King's welfare was more compelling than his priestly duties . . .

'Pula,' she corrected. 'He trekked out to Pula - well, you know that.' She turned to Mazares. 'I was talking to him when you arrived.'

'I hate to remind you, My Lady—' even through her fuzzy vision, there was no mistaking that twitching moustache - but when I first saw you, you were sprawled backwards over a crate of peacocks and squawking louder than they were.'

Slimy bastard.

'So, a man's been murdered, yet neither of you intend to take the matter further, because you think I made the story up?'

'It was a nasty fall,' Pavan pointed out.

Claudia snorted. She had not, repeat not, imagined Raspor being strangled, and her stomach lurched when she remembered his sandalled heels drumming impotently against the rocks.

Mazares read her expression. 'Let me ask around,' he said gently. 'Find out whether this was someone's idea of a practical joke.'

Baiting Rome had long been a source of amusement, he added, and if a group of embittered locals thought they could exploit the situation while she was befuddled by drugs . . . ?

'Why only a mule doctor?' she demanded.

Pavan came as close as he would ever come to squirming.

'The royal physician should have been on Rovin a week ago,' he growled. 'There's been no word. No official explanation. But . . .'

His voice trailed off as he found a sudden desire to examine his fingernails.

'Come, come, Pavan. Claudia's a woman of the world.'

That lazy sparkle had returned to Mazares's eyes.

'What the general is too shy to spit out, My Lady, is that the doctor's inclinations differ from the average red-blooded Histrian's, and although he isn't on the island as he was supposed to be, neither is a boat builder of the same persuasion. Now, since we Histri tend to take a, shall we say, more traditional view of family relationships, the general consensus hereabouts is that His Majesty's physician and the boat builder have taken a short vacation.'

He stroked his goatee beard.

'Nevertheless, I think I'll ask Salome to come across and check you over.'

'Tell you what. Why don't
I
visit
her?'

'If . . . if that's what the Lady Claudia wishes.'

'It is.' Anything to get out of here. Anything. But the mention of Salome had jolted a memory. 'Wasn't she on her way to tend the boat builder's niece yesterday evening? The child

who was traumatized after seeing Nosferatu about his grisly business?'

Mazares turned an amused glance on Pavan.

'Good heavens, Claudia's cracked it,' he chuckled. 'Nosferatu! The beast that dares not speak its name!'

'It would explain why the legend's so widespread,' Pavan rumbled back.
'And
why he only comes out at night.'

'Yes, but we can console ourselves, General, that our reviled monster remains a creature of superstition.'

'How so?'

'Oh, Pavan, don't tell me you, of all people, actually believe in fairies?' Mazares forced his expression to become serious. 'I'll arrange transport to Amazonia, My Lady.'

Together the two men strode out of the room, hardly waiting until the door was shut before resurrecting the fairy joke.

Alone once again, Claudia could not control the shakes that gripped her. Raspor had come to her for help and she had dismissed him, an act of disdain that had cost him his life.

Too many, how you say - innocents? - have died, and the King, he is too trusting. He thinks only good of people, but there are bad people around him. Very bad.

She saw again his terrified eyes scanning the crowd.

Just say you 'll meet me. Then I give you names of people who was killed and dates when these so-called accidents happen, but not here, not now. Is too open, too dangerous. I am dead man, if I am seen talking to you.

Paranoia, she'd thought at the time. Like Pavan and Mazares, she'd put it down to 'all in the mind'.

Please. You have King's ear. He will listen. When you give him detail of murders, he have no choice but to listen, because Mazares, he will stop at nothing to
—

Those were Raspor's last words. Mazares will stop at nothing . . .

Claudia pulled on a gown of soft apricot cotton, fixed her girdle in place. She didn't know why she'd been lured to Histria, only that if Mazares wished her dead, he could have finished the job off last night and no one would have been
any the wiser. From that point of view, at least, she was safe. But who else might not be? And how long would her life be protected, once Mazares realized that she was on to him . . . ?

Nosferatu laughed.

'
Oh, there you are, Marcus.'

His aunt breezed along the portico, two slaves trotting at her heels like hunting hounds, as sunlight bounced off the gold-filigree tiara in her hair and dazzled the sapphires dripping from her neck.

'I wanted to thank you, darling, for sorting out that awful business with Horatio. You have no idea what a strain it put on your poor uncle's heart when he heard those rumours. Wicked, absolutely wicked, and frankly, Marcus, I think the people who start them ought to be tied to a post in the Forum and whipped for the anguish it causes.'

'Well, it's settled now,' Orbilio said, mentally crossing his fingers. 'You can both rest easily.'

'D'you know, I can't help thinking that someone must have heard about those unfortunate incidents in the boy's past. I mean, how else could the rumour have started? Between you and I, dear, part of me wondered whether they mightn't have been true, leopards and spots and all that, because, heavens to Hera, I'll never forget the first time I saw my son dressed in women's clothes. Never! The boy was only eleven, but thank goodness, it was just a passing phase that he grew out of. Are you sure I can't persuade you to stay another few days? Your uncle has so enjoyed having you here.'

'I've enjoyed my visit, too,' he lied.

Through a pair of tall double doors opening on to the colonnade, he glimpsed the aftermath of last night's banquet, the Trojan theme mosaic littered with the broken shells of

lobsters, mussels, crabs and oysters, and scattered with date, peach and cherry stones, meat bones, pastry crumbs, pools of spilled wine, and a broken lyre that lay in the corner. Oh, and somebody's sandal sitting forlornly under one of the couches. If only his aunt and uncle had talked to their son and listened to what he'd had to say! But no. Night after night, year after year, friends and associates would gather round the table like vultures, gorging on overpriced delicacies, nibbling at the choicest part of the animal, while in the room next door, a lost and lonely child grew into a lost, unhappy man . . .

'Unfortunately, my dear Lucretia, duty calls.'

His aunt sniffed loudly. 'I do wish you'd adopt an appropriate career.'

'Ah, you'd prefer thieves, rapists, fraudsters and killers to remain on the loose. How about anarchists and those planning assassination attempts on the Emperor's life?'

Take the case he'd been assigned to at the moment. A tricky affair by any standards, and gathering the evidence would be a bugger - but then weren't all plots to destabilize the Empire hell?

'Sit down, Marcus.'

It was an order, not an invitation, and therefore he remained standing, arms folded over his chest, his shoulder against the green-veined marble column, and wondered why he felt so ill at ease in this villa where he had often played as a child. The pillars, the paintings, the exquisite mosaics, were exactly the same as he remembered. Likewise the painted marble statues of his forebears, the expensive drapes and awnings, the fountains in the garden. Even the livery of the slaves was the same nauseous pea green. It was him, he supposed. He was the one who had changed.

'Marcus, I don't need to remind you that your father was a highly respected advocate.'

She settled herself on a bench under the shade of a pomegranate tree and clapped her hands. Instantly, a slave appeared and proceeded to waft a fan of ostrich feathers to create a breeze that, like so many things around here, was 100 per cent artificial.

'Both your brothers are in the law, and quite honestly, that's where you should be, my boy.' His aunt's voice grew strident with censure. 'In court.'

'I often am, Lucretia. It's called giving evidence.'

Imperious eyes rolled. 'The Security Police pay you a pittance, Marcus, and snooping is no career for a healthy young man. You're twenty-six and it's high time you married.'

'I'm twenty-eight,' he reminded her, 'and I've been married. She ran off with a sea captain from Lusitania, if you recall.'