Dark Horse

Twenty-Eight

With thiss libation, I pray and beseech thee that thou mayest look propitiously upon thiss house.'

Dressed in flowing white robes, Llagos dribbled wine over the threshold to appease the gods who guarded the entrance. The whole estate staff, even the children, were congregated in the yard outside the atrium, but only Marcus, as chief mourner and next of kin, and Llagos stood on the portico.

'That thou preserveth those who enter here' — the priest sprinkled salt on the stone still darkly ingrained with Leo's blood — 'and those who leave.'

Claudia thought back to the moment when, in her haste and panic, she mistook Marcus for his cousin. Was it any wonder, seeing the place where Leo's life had oozed into oblivion, that she'd mistaken him for one of the Lemures? Those lost, lonely spirits left wandering the earth unable to comprehend their untimely deaths? Now, as the priest wafted incense over the cedar-wood doors, a rock lodged in the base of her throat. Was any death more untimely than Leo's? To die young is bad enough. To die alone and in unspeakable agony — she swallowed, but the rock would not budge. Such hate, she thought. Such unimaginable spite. Standing on the spot where he died, she could feel its malevolence. The hairs prickled on the back of her scalp. Gooseflesh covered her skin. She shuddered, but the cold hand of evil could not be shrugged off.

'Ye gods of the threshold, accept thee thiss sacrifice for the outrage that hass been committed.' Llagos beckoned forward one of the temple acolytes holding a white sheep by one of its gilded and beribboned horns. 'Take the life of thiss animal — ' he paused while the acolyte stunned it with a hammer '- let its strength be thy strength' — a sharp knife slit its comatose throat — 'and mayest thou receive the power from the sacrifice to protect thiss house once again.'

Without trumpets on hand to drive away evil spirits, Cressia's squint-eyed miller blew into a pair of pipes fashioned from ash wood, coaxing unearthly shrieks from a sheepskin bag as he pumped. A stranger could be forgiven for thinking the sheep wasn't dead and the miller was intent on strangling it slowly to death, but when it came to dispelling spirits, the bagpipes shred them to pieces. Good and bad.

As the screeching died away, the butchered joints were roasted upon the open fire in the courtyard. Shamshi had taken away the soft internal organs, muttering to himself in Persian as he pored over heart, lungs and liver while Saunio's BYMs hugged one another and wailed like cats in a mincer.

Claudia's gaze swivelled to her left. To Lydia and Silvia, standing together, one as fair and petite as the other was dark and tall. Neither had spoken. Neither had shed a tear. Silvia had pinned a scarf across her neck to hide the bruises and when, on the odd occasion, she glanced at her sister, it was to flash her a look straight from the Arctic. Watching the Ice Queen, fists clenched, shoulders rigid, one might almost think Silvia hated her sister.

Lydia's spine was equally determined, her fists equally tight, but not out of grief, and not out of animosity or spite either. Indeed, pride seemed to be the overriding impression. There was a bloom to her skin, a glow to her face and for a woman discarded by her husband, abandoned by her lover and then left widowed without a penny, Lydia looked pretty damn radiant.

'Let us eat,' Llagos said, descending the steps to hand round platters of crisp roasted lamb.

Leo's voice echoed back. You must try our local mutton. The salty grass and diet of wild herbs gives it a magnificent flavour. Maybe. But Claudia could not force a single mouthful of lamb past her lips.

'What's that?' she asked Llagos, pointing to a thick white slime on the doorpost. Already the salt was starting to bleach out the bloodstains on the white stone step below.

'Wolf's fat,' the priest said proudly. 'For Roman ways, iss used in marriages, yess? But on Cressia, iss protection against sorcery. We hef no wolfs left on the island so iss very precious commodity, but iss much needed right now.' in what way?'

'Because although there iss always much superstition on island, when things go bad, peoples revert to the old ways to see them through crisis.'

'To which the priest of Neptune turns a blind eye?'

'No, no,' he said, 'I help them. To ask peoples to change when they are suffering iss not good. So I work with them, alongside them, let them see we are brothers shouldering our burdens together. But at the same time I show them the new ways, let them decide for themselves which is best. Also,' he winked, 'thiss way, I always know what iss going on this island!'

Cunning old bugger.

'But now cerymony is finished, you muss please excuse me. There iss problem in town. Iss escalating, and though I am not sure how to deal with it yet, I muss go with the peoples this afternoon to the hills.' He pulled a face. 'The old ways hef a lot to answer for, sometimes!'

Orbilio was still standing on the portico, staring unblinkingly up at the frieze of Odysseus, deep furrows etched in his forehead. Saunio and Nikias were engrossed in discussing the merits of haematite crystals versus Spanish cinnabar, Volcar was whispering something into the ear of a kitchenmaid, making her blush to the roots of her hair, and she could be mistaken, but Claudia thought she caught sight of Magnus hovering at the edge of the crowd talking to Qus. Beside her, Silvia and Lydia remained stiff and unspeaking. A sisterly show of solidarity, but that's all. A show.

When she glanced back, the portico was deserted, and now Qus and whoever he'd been talking to had disappeared. She edged her way through the tremulous crowd, who were alternately sobbing and praying, scared of what might happen next. So far, though, Orbilio had made no move to address them and allay their fears.

What the hell was going on here?