Widow's Pique (7 page)

The kohl was making ugly black stripes down the rouge. 'I can't help what I do, Marcus. I genuinely can't help it.'

He drew a deep breath. Held it. Let it out slowly. 'I know,' he whispered.

His cousin wasn't alone. There were plenty of people, wealthy people at that, who had the same problem. Addicted to sex. Addicted to selling their bodies. That was the reason he hadn't walked out earlier. The poor sods just couldn't help it.

'But you can't go on prostituting yourself like this,' he said gently. 'You have to stop, for your own sake as well as your family's.'

This was probably
not
the time to bring up the subject of diseases. Or blackmail. Or beatings. Or what happened when good looks started to fade . . .

'Marcus, oh, Marcus, what am I going to do?'

Orbilio spiked weary fingers through his hair. 'For a start, you're going to dry your eyes, patch up your make-up and put that ridiculous wig back on. Then, my dear cousin, you and I are going to walk out of here as though I'm taking my little playmate home for the night.'

He felt a hundred years old, not just twenty-eight, and a vice was crushing the life from his ribs.

'When we're far enough away from this place,' he continued, 'you're going to wash your face, change into a tunic that isn't see-through and slit to the crotch, then you're going to go home to your poor bloody wife, tell her you spent a wonderful evening with your cousin Marcus and then tomorrow morning, Horatio, you're going to sit on the magistrate's bench as usual. Is that clear?'

Silence.

'Horatio, I said, is that clear?'

Unable to speak, Horatio nodded dumbly.

As much as Claudia would have liked to think the islanders' searing scrutiny was centred on Mazares's skin-tight pants, she knew it was curiosity at a possible future Queen that had their eyes drinking in everything from the straightness of her back to the gilding on her sandals, the childbearing potential of her hips to the shining silver tiara that stopped her curls from tangling in the breeze. Darkness had encompassed the archipelago, but she could feel the women contrasting her elaborate coiffure with their own simple braids and comparing her fashionably pleated (and hideously expensive) embroidered gown with their own plain and practical tunics. Ah, but when they weighed up the stiff gold girdle beneath her bust, how did that rate against the comfort of a soft woven belt tied loosely round the waist?

Kazan had shouted, 'Drinks all round!' to everyone who'd turned out to welcome the King's bride, an offer seized upon with alacrity by his two sons. The ponytailed Pavan had strode off into the night, presumably to find some more badgers to pickle, Drilo had led his priestly entourage off to make sacrifice for Claudia and the ship's safe arrival, heaven knows where Vani had disappeared to, probably arm-wrestling with the crew if those muscles were anything to go by! So, with Rosmerta barking orders for the disembarkation of Claudia's luggage with an efficiency that many a centurion could learn from, it was left to Mazares to lead Histria's honoured guest through the labyrinth of winding streets to the King's house.

Any preconceptions of this being a nation of backward, warring pirates who needed to be kept in check by their Roman vanquishers had long gone. Between the late King, Dol, and his successor, a culture had been created that was as sophisticated as it was autonomous, and although the Histri worshipped different gods and retained their own traditions, theirs was as vibrant and progressive a society as any within the boundaries of the Empire.

Equally, though, Histria was a land of opposites. Half the kingdom comprised a string of isolated coastal communities who made their living from the sea and were defended by a fleet of fast, sleek galleys. The other half was made up of the hunters and farmers of the peninsula's interior and was policed by an army officially classified as Roman auxiliaries. Light and shade, she thought. Light and shade . . .

'The person who can successfully juggle the needs of two such diverse factions must be quite a man,' Claudia said.

She saw no need to add that there was no way such a hero would seek out a low-born, impecunious widow for his wife.

'Not for someone born among the two communities,' Mazares replied, holding the torch high, so she wouldn't miss her footing on the steps. 'To us, it's no different from having a man and a woman as parents. Separately, they're chalk and cheese; together, they make the perfect team.'

An interesting analogy, because, in Claudia's experience, most domestic murders were committed by the spouse . . .

'I don't think the King's general approves of me,' she said, as they climbed yet another flight of steps cut in the rock.

Mazares let out a soft, velvety laugh. 'Don't mind Pavan. He's a soldier through to his marrow and sees no point in using three words when none will do.'

Hardly an answer.

And what about you?' she said cheerfully. 'Why don't
you
want me to marry the King?'

She expected to hear a frantic fluttering of wings as half a dozen cats were dropped among the pigeons. Instead, there

was an imperceptible stiffening of back muscles and, when Mazares turned, his expression was diplomacy personified.

'I cannot imagine . . .'

For good measure, she lobbed in a couple more moggies. 'Is it because I'm a foreigner? A widow, perhaps? Or is it because I'm in trade?'

'My Lady.'

With Histrian solemnity, he clicked his heels and dipped his head towards his chest without the slightest hint of obsequiousness.

'My Lady, nothing would please me more, believe me, than for you to contract an alliance with the King.'

He was lying. There was nothing in his eyes, in his voice, in his mannerisms to betray him. But Mazares was lying through his strong white teeth.

'Good. Then you can advise me on the wedding ceremony.'

Catkin eyes held hers for a beat of perhaps three.

'An honour,' he murmured, and as he set off up the slope, she could feel emotion pulsing off him like raindrops on parched earth. Though, for the life of her, she didn't know what.

'Like all Histrian marriage rites,' he said, 'it would take place under the watchful eye of the Sun God, for it is Svarog who governs our happiness.'

He didn't say it will take place. Only that it
would . . .

'Governs happiness, because he lives in a palace of gold and rides the sky in a diamond chariot?' she asked brightly.

See! Some parts of the King's long-winded introduction had stuck!

Actually, I think it has more to do with Svarog keeping two nubile wives, Dawn and Dusk, and having his youth restored to him every morning.'

'Is that the same youth every morning, or do they take turns?'

'No idea,' he laughed, 'but I'm -
oof!'

Turning the corner, the breath was knocked out of him by a figure coming the other way. In the light of his spluttering
torch, Claudia could see that the woman was nearly as tall as he was, with a mane of dark red hair tied back in a pale grey ribbon. Her skin bore the deep, healthy tan of the outdoors, yet there was something about her long nose and finely chiselled cheekbones that suggested she wasn't of Histrian ancestry.

'Salome!'

'Mazares.'

Like an eel through water, something passed between them and just as quickly it was gone.

'How are you?' Salome asked quietly.

Mazares ignored her concern for his health. 'I'd like you to meet Claudia, Salome.'

Green eyes widened in surprise - and perhaps with something else. 'Well, congratulations, my dear!'

She put down her basket laden with herbs and opened both arms to embrace the newcomer, but Mazares held up his hand.

'Whoa! Claudia hasn't accepted the King's proposal. She's merely checking out the lie of the land.' He turned dancing eyes on Claudia. 'Or have I read the lady wrong?'

Frankly, she doubted Mazares read any lady wrong. Out across the water, a flock of late seabirds made their way home, their wings almost skimming the dark heaving ocean, and the air was fragrant with oleander and myrtle.

'And since she knows very little about his illustrious majesty,' Mazares put in before she could come up with a suitable retort, 'Claudia is also keen to find out as much about him as possible.' His grin widened to something a wolf would be proud of. 'I feel sure you'd be only too pleased to enlighten her.'

Salome's eyes moved slowly from Mazares to Claudia and back again.

'I appreciate the compliment, but I really don't feel a lowly Syrian farm widow is qualified to comment.'

'I beg to disagree, but...' Mazares stroked his goatee beard pensively. 'That's your prerogative, I suppose. The King still intends for you to change your practices, you know.'

'The King Salome turned the word into a cross between a laugh and a sneer - 'can intend all he likes. He has no jurisdiction over me.'

She turned to Claudia and took both her hands in hers.

'I do hope you enjoy your stay on Rovin, my dear. There's lots to explore in the area and I know Mazares will ensure you have a wonderful time here, but if you'll both excuse me, there's a little girl I need to see before the ferryman closes up for the night, leaving me unable to get back to the mainland.'

'Nothing serious?' Mazares asked, indicating Salome's basket, which also contained several phials among the lavender, yarrow, chamomile and mint.

Salome's expression changed. Became sad. 'Poor child,' she sighed. 'For the last couple of weeks, she's been unable to sleep. The little mite's convinced she's seen Nosferatu.'

'Nosferatu?' Claudia asked.

'It's nothing,' Salome said, with a shake of her head. 'Nothing at all. Little ears pick up tales of shroud-eaters who suck blood from human veins, men who transform themselves into wolves and fire-breathing, serpent-tailed giants, and their childish imagination runs riot.'

Mazares laughed. 'Even if there were such an arch-ghoul on the prowl, I'm sure the ferryman would have picked Nosferatu out of a crowd of passengers. I mean, we're an ugly bunch, us Histri, but we're not
that
ugly!'

Ghouls? Vampires? Werewolves? This was yet another example of the diametrically opposing faces of this little kingdom, with Histria selling itself as the home of the Nymphs of the West, whose sweet songs lulled folk to sleep. But then, under the circumstances, promoting the gentle offspring of Night and the Evening Star, who lived in the Gardens of the Hesperides, which had been walled by mighty Atlas and were washed by the waters of purity
would
be preferable to owning up to home-grown nocturnal monsters!

'Whether Nosferatu exists or not,' Salome said, looping her basket over her arm, 'he's real enough to the shipwright's little niece. I only pray my remedies can help.'

With a broad smile of farewell, she turned and marched confidently down the narrow steps, even though they were pitch-black and in shadow.

'What practices?' Claudia asked.

Mazares stared down the hill for several seconds. Far in the distance, a dog began to bark.

'I beg your pardon?' he said.

'What practices does the King intend Salome to change? She doesn't look the sort to use her herbalism to practise the black arts, but then again, if you told me she was five hundred and eighty-two last birthday, I might be prepared to revise my opinion.'

Mazares didn't laugh.

'This is Salome's thirtieth summer,' he murmured. 'Ten years ago, she came here with her husband. He was newly retired from your army and you don't need me to explain how the Histrian mainland is being parcelled up by your illustrious Emperor and our land distributed among your war veterans, now do you?'

The bitterness in his voice was raw, and he regretted it. Ever the diplomat, he apologized at once, but not before Claudia had glimpsed how differently people viewed things from the opposite side of the imperial fence.

In Rome, it all seemed so expedient. The reward for twenty years' hard slog was to allocate fertile plots of land to retiring soldiers, shipping in slaves to work the fields and bring home the harvest. Such was the efficiency of these agricultural practices that high yields were guaranteed, thus increasing the retired warrior's profits as the surplus was sold on, and Augustus had been lauded to the heavens for introducing the scheme; a win-win situation as the Senate liked to say. Win-win for everyone, it would seem, except the poor sod whose land had been taken from him.

'You still haven't said what practices the King is against.'

For the first time since Salome left them, Mazares laughed. 'Try all of them! Do you know the locals' nickname for her farm? Amazonia!'

'Amazonia?'

'Land of the Amazons,' he said, rubbing his jaw. 'Claudia, I swear that woman flies in the face of every convention you can think of and then half a dozen on top. You see, not only does our Salome have strong views on women not being treated as chattels, she rejects the concept of slavery on every level. The first thing she did after inheriting the farm from her husband was to free his slaves, then before you know it, women started to appear on her farm from all over, calling it a refuge—'