Dark Horse (20 page)

Maybe she was over-reacting. Suppose it was just that runt of a priest, hoping for a free peep show? Children, perhaps? She listened for sniggers, for Llagos's ragged, aroused breathing. Despite the searing heat, Clio's teeth were chattering.

There was only one door to the cottage.

'Don't think I don't know what you're trying to do,' she called to the shrubs beyond the clearing.

Legends linger. Like precious date palms, they were nourished and fed, giving every attention to make sure they stayed alive here on Cressia. Centuries back she suspected some recluse had settled up here, perhaps a healing woman, and perhaps this woman had a daughter, and so on. Gradually, with the passage of time, generations of solitary dwellers had rolled into one creating a legend of immortality endowed with all kinds of mystical powers. Circe!

A goat bleated far in the distance, and four or five small birds twittered over her roof and were gone. Clio shivered and hugged her arms to her body. Why, oh, why couldn't the islanders have seen her as a reincarnation of the enchantress? Embraced her as Circe, four maybe five hundred years old, to be left offerings to win her favour and left in peace to work her magic powers. Instead, they interpreted Clio's long black hair

as a cloak of evil. Her clear, unwrinkled skin as the result of a bloodlust. Made her a scapegoat for the island's misfortunes. Drought last year? Blame the witch. Olive blight three seasons ago? Plague of thistles? Bad harvest? Even though she could not see them, she felt the islanders' malevolence outside her cottage.

'How many of you cowards does it take to frighten a woman? Four? Five? Twenty-five?'

Her worst fears had been realized in the night.

The carpenter's eight-year-old son had succumbed to the same wasting disease that had claimed the fisherman's wife. Leo's murder was the final straw the ultimate affliction on the islanders' fortunes, having the security of Rome whisked from under their feet. Someone must pay.

And once the witch was dead, the evil spell would be broken.

From the single window, she could see higher piles of whitethorn, more heaps of intestines, rotting, stinking in the midday heat. But the islanders' hex had proved ineffective. The 'vampire' had still managed to carry off two more victims. And all the while, the crickets rasped.

'You iss alone now, pretty one.'

The disembodied voice made Clio jump.
'Who's there?'

'No ones to protect you, iss there?' called another.

'Becoss Leo is dead,' a third piped up.

'Dead as your wicked black soul,' the first voice sneered.

Enough! Clio slammed the door, bolting it loudly behind her. That second voice! That was Llagos the priest! With shaking hands she slammed the shutters closed, plunging the cottage into Stygian blackness. Now even the temple was beyond refuge! If only she'd taken Leo's thirty gold pieces. She'd be on that little freighter sailing to Pula.

The prediction of Leo's astrologer was common knowledge across the island.
Before the sun stands thrice more over our heads, a woman shall die.

Her breath was ragged, her body wracked with convulsions she could not control. Sweet Janus. She was alone up here in this isolated cottage. Alone. And trapped. With no one to turn to - and a prophecy that needed fulfilling.

Tonight, she thought. That's when they'll come for me. Tonight.

Clio sank to her knees. She had never prayed before in her life, but this was as good a time as any to start.

Silvia made her move immediately after the purification ceremony had been disbanded and the last of the sacrificial roast thrown to the dogs. Claudia wasn't surprised. Any woman who had managed to curl her hair, disguise the bruises and adorn her elegant frame in a soft peach-coloured cotton robe within an hour of nearly drowning in the River Styx wasn't going to let the grass grow beneath her finely tooled purple sandals.

'Marcus.' Her voice was still low and croaky as she caught him in the courtyard. 'Might we have a word? In private?'

Waste of time, kid. Orbilio's defences may have hit rock bottom, but he's way too sharp to fall for the old big-blue-eyes-and-the-toss-of-the-ringlet routine. He knows your history, sweetheart. Nevertheless, there was no chance of sneaking away from the Security Police in broad daylight, and even though she had another call to make before she left, Claudia was curious. She gave them ten minutes before taking a nonchalant stroll which, surprise surprise, just happened to be via Silvia's bedroom. Because you can bet your bottom denarius that any social pariah worth her salt intent on snaring a wealthy, successful, good-looking meal ticket will kick-start her campaign in a place brimming with pillows and a soft double mattress! First it would be the scarf dropping to the floor to reveal the bruises, poor me. Then I feel faint, I must lie down. And finally it would be the my poor throat, I can't speak, come and lie here beside me while I whisper what I have to say.

In your dreams, girlie.

The door was a quarter open and, by bending down to adjust the thong on her sandal, Claudia had a clear view of the Ice

Queen, if not her quarry. Sure enough, the scarf was already a soft pool of peach on the tail of a mosaic lion. She heard the gentle glug-glug-glug of pouring wine. The murmur of two people conversing in undertones.

Undertones?

Silvia she could understand. Never mind play-acting, her throat really
would
be painful after that ordeal. But why should Orbilio whisper? Then she remembered how delighted Silvia had been to see him when she came to. The tenderness with which he had brushed that wayward strand of hair from her face and covered her revealing nightgown with the counterpane. Surely . . . ? Nah. Not Orbilio. What would he see in that icy fish? She contrasted her own unruly dark curls with Silvia's obedient ringlets. The way Silvia glided under her pleats like a swan, while Claudia's gown billowed behind like a sail and her hands flapped when she talked, whereas the dainty patrician kept hers folded in front of her, and—

And—

And let's face it. Lots of men find flat chests appealing.

But come on. He couldn't. He wouldn't. Not
Silvia.

Could he?

Silvia was only six when Lydia had married his cousin, but despite limited family contact, these two would still have known one another from childhood. Who knows what went through his mind, seeing her again out of the blue? Claudia became aware of a nasty taste in her mouth. Marcus was no longer a set product of his class. Convention didn't matter to him and he wouldn't give a tinker's damn that disgrace clung to her like a second skin.
If she was the woman he wanted. 
Claudia felt the return of the needle which had jabbed when his lips closed over the Ice Queen's.

'. . . there was a child,' Silvia's sexy damaged voice was saying.

'There was
what?'
The baritone ceased being a rumble.

'A boy,' she began, but at that moment, Orbilio turned and saw Claudia on her knees at the open door. She knew what he'd do. He'd shoot her a glance which was both admonishing and amused. She'd indicate her sandal as though to say look, stone in my shoe. His left eyebrow would say like hell there

was and, then, with a twinkle in his eye and a twitch at the side of his mouth, he'd close the door ever so gently in Claudia's face.

Which he did. Closed it, that is. But there was no amusement on his face, only a look like thunder, and he did not shut the door gently, either. He slammed it so hard, the hinges feared for their lives.

'You sent for me, madam?'

In daylight, Junius's injuries looked even worse. His left cheek was up like a puffball, the eye half closed and purple. My, my. That was some punch Leo had packed.

'It's just as well you don't work here,' she told him, clicking her fingers for him to follow her into the herb garden. 'Leo would have had you sold at the auction block for clashing with the estate livery.'

Was that a smile which flickered at the corner of his lips, or a grimace of pain from the place where Leo's punch had connected? You couldn't tell with the Gaul, enigmatic wasn't the word. High, wide and handsome, the bodyguard did a bloody good job, keeping tight to his mistress as though expecting an assault on her life any moment. Yet you couldn't accuse him of being
over
zealous. Conscientious, but in an intense, absorbed sort of way. Any other chap, of course, and Claudia might have suspected him of carrying a torch, the way his blue eyes fixed on her with an expression of solemnity bordering on pain. But good heavens, Junius must be four years younger than her - and what boy of that age lusts after mares, when there's a whole paddock of fillies out there?

'Now then.' Stripping leaves from a hyssop, she mashed them with water from the fountain and rubbed it into his bruises. 'Your honest opinion, Junius. Do you think you can row us to the mainland in the dark?'

The Gaul puffed out his cheeks. 'It's got to be at least fifteen miles,' he said, 'and after this latest attack, there's no guarantee the villages will be lit at night to act as a guide. So, no, madam. It's far too dangerous and I really wouldn't care to risk it.'

Clearly, if a girl wants an honest opinion she's going to have to give it to him herself!

'Moonrise at the cove it is, then. Be there, or I'll row off without you.'

How hard can it be, pulling on two lumps of wood for fifteen miles?

'In the meantime, I have another little job for you. Er, did I just see your shoulders slump?'

'Me? No, madam. Certainly not.'

'Then why are you frowning?'

'Squinting, madam. Against the sun.'

'You're standing in the shade, but it doesn't matter, Junius. You are still going to do it.'

'Do what?' he whispered hoarsely, and look how fast the hyssop poultice worked, because even the swelling had turned pale. 'With respect, madam, I've already picked a fight with an aristocrat and sawn a hole in his ship.'

'Yes, and now you're going to search Orbilio's room.'

'Why?'
he rasped.

Leaning her hip against the white marble sundial as a scramble of white roses offered up their fragrance in a perfumed libation to Apollo, Claudia thought that was pretty obvious. 'Because I want to know how much he's got on me, of course.'

'No, madam, I meant why me?' Through the gate, the young Gaul glanced nervously across to the portico, where Marcus Cornelius had returned to stare at the marble frieze of the Odyssey. 'If he catches me, a common slave, searching not only a patrician's belongings, but Security Police papers as well—'

'He's too busy thawing icicles to bother about that,' Claudia assured him, 'and excuse me, I won't have it bandied abroad that any of
my
slaves are common! Now chop, chop, Junius. I'd do it myself, only I have to check something out before we go.'

'Dawn would be less chancy, madam.'

'No wonder Rome conquered Gaul. The place is teeming with wimps. Now, if you could just take my trunk down to the cove? Plus my leather travelling satchel, a couple of blankets in

case it turns cool, some cushions to sit on, don't forget Drusilla - she'll be hard to round up if you wait until vole time - and that golden statuette in the atrium.'

Which ought to sort out four, if not five, angry creditors.

'Statuette, madam?'

'Next to the left-hand pillar as you go in, the one with Persephone holding a pomegranate in her outstretched hand, but you're right. Bring that gold unicorn with you, as well.'

That should keep another three sweet.

'Unicorn . . .'

'Leo specifically wanted me to have it. He said, and I quote, if anything happened to him . . . Anyway, while you're about it, you might pack a light picnic for the journey. Half a dozen meat pies would be nice. Two or three cheeses. A chicken. Ham. One of those big smoked liver sausages I saw hanging from a hook in the kitchens. Some wine and honey cakes would go down well, one of those big crusty olive loaves, and I saw them stuffing dates with almond paste yesterday, so you can pick up ajar of those as well. Yes, and don't forget we'll need a jug of wine. Oh, and Junius?'

'M-madam?'

'Close your mouth, please. You look like a goldfish.'

On the grassy shores of a small island many leagues south of Cressia, Jason lay on his back, his shirt open to the waist, one knee raised, the other ankle resting on it. His hands were laced across his eyes to shield them from the fierce rays of the sun, and a wolfhound snoozed at his side. Music and laughter floated out from a tavern in the village beyond, but not so loud that they drowned the splash of terns diving into the shallow lagoon or the snoring of the taverner's dog.

He lay there, chewing on a leaf of the mint which rampaged across the island, and considered the tall and graceful woman who had given birth to him thirty-three years before. Nearly five years had passed since he'd seen her, and although the High Priestess had insisted the cough had been curable, his mind would not be at rest until he saw for himself. Sixteen hundred miles away, all he could do was pray to the moon goddess, Acca, to keep her devoted priestess safe and well -and make sacrifices to Targitaos, the sun god, that her warrior son would acquit himself well in her name.