Widow's Pique (2 page)

Claudia shot him a condescending smile.

'I might have my faults, Orbilio, but being wrong isn't one of them.'

And she ought to know whether Histria was dire or not! For a start, she'd had trouble finding the bloody place. In fact, it had taken much poring over of a rather smelly leather map from her late husband's account box, not to mention some help from her steward, before she eventually located the horrid little territory, but there it was. That tiny peninsula sticking out into the Adriatic like an insolent tongue.

'You tell me
that
isn't going to be barren and boring, covered in scrub, and with rocks bleached white by a blistering sun!'

'Very well. It isn't barren and boring and covered—'

'Sarcasm is beneath you, Orbilio.'

'Then we're making progress. Previously, you've given the impression that not even the lowliest worm was inferior to me.'

'I believe I said slug slime, but that isn't the point. Histria was dragged kicking and screaming into the Empire, and the pages of their history books are
still
dripping with blood.'

'Strange, but I was under the impression they were our friends.'

'Which only goes to show what kind of company you keep, Marcus Cornelius.'

But the Histri weren't just bloodthirsty, they were stupid as well. After one raid too many on their imperially protected neighbours (and the fact that they would insist on sinking Roman cargo ships), the Senate was left with no option but to declare war. For once, though, superior weaponry and battlefield tactics proved no match for guerilla tactics. The legionaries were trounced in the very first skirmish. Yet instead of giving chase and finishing them off, the tribesmen fell on

the wine which had been left behind in the rout. Come the second wave, they were too drunk to lift so much as a fly swat against the invaders. The frontier was pushed out overnight.

What troubled Claudia was that Histrian brutality was ingrained. They could argue until they went hoarse that their motives had been noble, because they had no way of telling what savagery the Roman army might be capable of - but, by Croesus, Claudia would never call throwing innocent women and children over the city walls to their deaths a favour. Not in a million lifetimes.

'Five generations under the eagle,' she said. 'Butchers under the skin.'

'I'll concede their track record in public relations leaves a lot to be desired,' Orbilio said, exchanging three copper quad-rans for a bag of raisin-and-cinnamon buns, 'and you can take it from me the Histri are cunning, they're sneaky and they're all double-dealers - but surely, Mistress Seferius, by your standards, those are their plus points?'

Claudia shot him a glare that would have frozen the Sahara, but unfortunately he was bending forward to adjust something on his stallion's harness, with the result that a root cutter from the country took the full force of her scorn. Rhizomes and bulbs bounced over the highway like hailstones, but the cutter was scuttling away far too fast to concern himself with his loss.

Biting into one of the warm, spicy buns, Claudia thought what the hell. Who cares that, until only recently, Histria and piracy were like husband and wife, with little solid evidence that a divorce had gone through? A few weeks of misery was nothing compared to what she'd gain at the end - and let's face it, she'd been on worse trade expeditions!

As sultanas and cinnamon exploded in a fusion of hot, honeyed sweetness, she let her thoughts drift back to last Monday, when a letter bearing the royal seal of a woodpecker encircled by a rainbow was delivered by messenger to her house. The letter was a surprise in itself, but - even more of

a shock - it was accompanied by a pair of ivory figurines, three pure white calcite bowls, a bronze mirror whose handle was shaped like a cat, two silver platters engraved with dragons and snakes, half a dozen brightly coloured woven rugs and a counterpane of arguably the finest damask Claudia had ever clapped eyes on. Oh yes. And enough sweetmeats to feed a family of fifty until Saturnalia! Spearing one of the exquisite white truffles preserved in extra virgin olive oil that His Majesty had sent her, she'd broken the seal of the scroll.

To the Lady Claudia, warmest greetings from his Imperial Highness, Ruler of the Forty Capes, Master of the Hundred Islands, King of all the Lands from the Mountains of the . . .

Blah, blah, blah.

. . . son of Dol the Just, grandson of Lijac the Invincible, great-grandson of. .

Rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb.

. . . begat by Svarog the Sun God, Master of the Heavens, who rides the sky in his chariot of diamonds . . .

She skipped through never-ending sheafs of parchment.

. . .
deep regret that, due to personal illness, his Omnipotence is unable to travel to Rome to call upon the Lady Claudia in person . . .

Don't worry about that, chum, the gifts more than compensate.

. . .
especially in this most fecund of seasons, when the corn is in full growth and the vines are sprouting . . .

What a windbag. Aha! Here we go! Right at the end.

. . .
kindly requests that the Lady honour him with a visit to his Kingdom, in order that a certain contract might be drawn up between His Royal Highness and Herself, binding their two parties in mutual agreement.

Certain -
she'd rolled the words around on her tongue with another white truffle -
contract.
Certain contract. Contract certain. That was when she'd reached for that old ox-hide map and found Histria (eventually!) at the junction of Alps, Adriatic and Pannonian plains.

'It's where mountains meet sea, east meets west, civilization

meets barbarism,' she told Marcus, through a mouthful of bun. 'Can you seriously think of a better place for a young widow to set out on the road to rebuilding her fortunes?'

'None whatsoever,' he said cheerfully, lifting himself into the saddle and tossing the bag of pastries down to her.

'The challenge of a crossroads is always exciting.'

Her eyes narrowed in deep suspicion. 'You mean that?'

He gave his stallion's neck a firm and reassuring pat.

'I'd have thought you knew me well enough by now to know that Marcus Cornelius always means what he says.'

'Hm.'

'So when he says that whenever Claudia Seferius comes to a crossroads, one road will unquestionably lead to trouble, another to mayhem and the third to chaos and ruin, you can be absolutely sure that he means it.'

He clicked his heels and the horse set off at a trot.

'I just hope you choose the right road this time,' he called over his shoulder.

She threw the buns. Naturally. But he'd timed it so he'd be out of range.

As the last of the seabirds flapped lazily homeward and crickets rasped out their age-old song, Zorya, Goddess of the Night, cast her dark mantle over the Histrian landscape, calming the ocean and cooling the rocks as she tempered the brilliance of the fertile orange soil to terracotta. Bats took to silent wing, moths sipped nectar from the blooms of myrtle and, as Juraj the Moon God rose to meet his gentle lover, soft breezes carried the scent of pine and cypress across the waters from the islands.

In the bowl beside the young girl's pillow, sleep stones wafted their lavender fragrance into the warm night air, and the sound of water lapping against the shore made for a peaceful lullaby. Occasionally, a breath of wind would ruffle the fringes of the tasselled counterpane or lift the edges of the ribbons that hung over the back of the wicker chair beneath the window, ribbons that would tie up her long, black hair in the morning, but for now flittered like pennants from a ship's mast.

Broda didn't know what woke her. A creak, perhaps? The tread of unfamiliar feet? Small ears strained in the darkness for other foreign sounds, but nothing came, and she almost believed that she'd been woken by a dream when she heard the grating noise. As though a table or a stool had been pushed aside.

Swinging her little chubby legs off the bed, she pushed her long, black hair behind her ears and tiptoed across the cool, tiled floor. Pushing aside the curtain that hung across the door, she heard whispering - but who was whispering at this

time of night? And why? She oughtn't go any closer (how many times had she been told that eavesdroppers grow ears like asses if they're caught?), but she couldn't help herself. She thought she'd heard her father's name and she was curious. Three tiptoed steps. Four. Five. Then a soft scrape told her that the whisperers had gone outside, closing the house door quietly behind them as they left. Pattering back to her bedroom, Broda climbed up on the wicker chair and was mindful not to catch her nightshift on the windowsill as she wriggled through.

Outside, Juraj had bathed the landscape in his moonlight glow, turning the sea to rolling molten silver and causing everything, from the ancient gnarled olive trees to the little fishing boats lined up along the beach, to cast huge, black pools of shadow across a town which dreamed in silence beneath a million twinkling stars. Keeping close to the stone wall of the house, the child could see the dark line of the deep but narrow channel that separated this hilly island from the mainland and, in the Moon God's clear blue light, the ropes that worked the ferry glistened white, like elephants' tusks.

For a moment, the little girl was tempted to forget about the whisperers and explore Rovin's deserted streets instead. Racing up and down the white stone steps in a way that was never possible in daytime, or skipping down to the water's edge, hoping (who knows?) for a glimpse of those elusive night spirits known as wander-lights, or maybe just lying on the pebbles, staring up at the Milky Way and listening to the croak of the frogs! Then she remembered that she'd heard mention of her father's name. Bare feet padded determinedly on.

The whisperers were in no hurry, but Broda faced some serious distractions. A shiny brass coin on the wayside, which she bit with her back teeth - yes, it was real. An octopus crawling over the pavement - she'd heard they could 'walk' but hadn't ever seen it. A cat rubbing up against her leg. Finally, Broda turned the corner and the coin fell from her hand.

Nosferatu!

She could see the demon's long shadow. Saw his great, bald, lolling head and giant hands that ended in long curved claws black as night against the white stone wall—

'O, Svarog!' she gabbled. 'O, Sun God who sees everything, I'll never be naughty again, never ever, and I'll go to bed when I'm told and I'll stay there, I promise!'

Until now, Nosferatu was just something grown-ups threatened you with. And if you were naughty and didn't obey, then you knew the Shuffling One would come and get you . . .

But Nosferatu was real. All Broda wanted now was to run back to her lavender-scented room and pull the counterpane over her head.
But her little legs wouldn't move.
She wanted to scream for help.
But her jaw was locked solid.
Quivering with terror, the child had no choice as the scene unfolded before her.

In stark silhouette, she watched conversation turning to anger . . . Nosferatu's hands lashing out . . . claws grasping his victim's neck.

With eyes bulging in horror, she watched the terrible bobbing backwards-forwards-backwards-forwards of that grotesque oversized head . . . giant fingers squeezing and squeezing.

Broda closed her eyes, but there was hissing. Grunting. Gurgling. She opened them again and saw shadow arms flailing.

Feet kicking in a dance that never ended . . .

But eventually, as the talons gripped tighter, the struggles grew feebler, until the shadow finally fell limp at the demon's feet. Even then, Nosferatu did not lessen his grip. He kept squeezing and squeezing, and it was only when he'd dragged his lifeless victim out of sight that the little girl's legs finally moved. They buckled beneath her as she fainted.

Under a cloudless cobalt sky and in waters so clear you could almost reach down and stroke the wings of the rays gliding through the turquoise Adriatic, the little galley that had brought Claudia from Rome brailed her red and white striped canvas sails, shipped her polished steering oars and let the tug guide her through the maze of larger merchantmen and warships that were anchored in the bay.

Such was the demand for trade in this new and bustling port of Pula that no sooner had the crew dropped the anchor stones than a swarm of scribes and accountants began positioning their tables and tally stones on the quayside down below, and the poor old gangplank had hardly hit the wharf before the first of the harbour clerks was scampering up, scrolls and ledgers stuffed every which way beneath his arm.

'Ladies first, if you don't mind,' Claudia told him, sweeping down.

Twelve days was quite enough. She had no intention of waiting another second before stretching her legs, and besides . . . That fanfare of trumpets accompanying the long line of rugs being laid across the wharf was obviously in aid of some foreign dignitary's arrival. If she didn't make a break for it now, she'd be stuck aboard this vile floating bucket for another three hours, and dammit, she had an appointment ashore.