Sour Grapes

Fifteen

Midnight, and rain lashed the hillsides of Tuscany, swelling the rivers and nourishing the roots of the vines and the olives. There was no lightning, no thunder, thus the Augurs of Tins had no need to be summoned from their beds and continued to snore soundly, oblivious to the drumming volley. For the Priests of the Auspices, however, there was no such luxury. As the clouds discharged their watery cargo, they interpreted the secret language of the sky, musing how the shapes of the puddles related to the Order of the Cosmos and whether the swirls of the rain would maintain Divine Harmony. Around them, drenched acolytes made the sign of the cross for the four sacred quadrants, chanting, 'This is my front, my back, my left and my right', while sodden altar boys laid bowls of bulls' blood on beds of laurel and poplar to propitiate Aplu the Weather God.

In her humble cottage on the Mount of Mercury, surrounded by relatives yet never more alone, Vorda's mother shed a torrent of her own. Life was predestined, she understood that, but to cut Vorda's thread before she'd danced was an act of unspeakable cruelty. The Priest of Uni insisted the rain was the tears of the Queen of the Cosmos falling in sympathy. The Priest of Fufluns told her the rain was swelling the grapes, ensuring little Vorda would live on in the vintage. The priests of the river gods consoled her by reminding her that Fraon the demon had been denied Vorda's soul, and that her daughter would walk the Everlasting Meadows with a heart as pure as her body. For the first time in her life, Vorda's mother found no comfort in the priests' words. Her baby, her baby, her beautiful baby was dead. Lying cold on the rough wooden table that served as her bier, Vorda's laughter would echo no more round this cottage. There'd be no more scolding her for not cleaning her teeth, no more decking the door with gorse together on the spring equinox, no more hugs before bed. Clutching her daughter's cold hand to her breast, Vorda's mother howled like a wounded beast.

In her room at the hot springs, the rain drummed down on the terracotta roof tiles as Candace studied her perfect, unlined reflection in the mirror. Kushites, she was assured, were the handsomest race in the world. They were tall, graceful and naturally slender, they lived to six score years without a day's illness and their bows were so strong that no non-Kushite could pull them. She had also been assured that the grasslands of Kush were populated by spotted beasts with necks so long that they could browse the tops of the trees, that there was a lake where not even a petal would float but sank to the bottom like stone, and that gold oozed out of the rocks along the Nile. These things Candace had been assured for the simple reason that the only personal recollections she had of her homeland were memories that left her with nightmares more than two decades on. But, as everyone knows, hearsay is unreliable. One needs hard facts, not rumour, truth rather than fiction, and she dismissed the tittle-tattle with a shake of her closely cropped head. There were far more important issues to concern a sorceress, and if she was to walk the winds that blew over the Elysian Fields and open gateways to the next world, then this summoner of spirits has to live up to her reputation of belonging to the handsomest race in the world. Carefully Candace tweaked her eyebrows into an arch.

Four doors along, Orbilio listened to the rain swirling down the gutter spouts and splashing into the butts below. He hadn't bothered undressing, for how could he sleep after he'd caught Claudia in his arms beneath the cascade and felt electricity surge through his whole being? He'd thought of nothing else since. His interview with Hadrian he'd had to write down; he kept forgetting what had been said. That report on a local girl's suicide he must have read a dozen times, yet the details still failed to register. Claudia. It was all he could think of — Claudia, Claudia, Claudia — and he was as powerless to harness his emotions any more than he could harness the wind — or harness her, for that matter. She was untamed and untameable, unprincipled and unpredictable, a forest fire out of control. She could not, would not, trust anyone as a result of her past, and he would not, could not, risk harming her further. What she needed was time — lots of time — and if she married him as a matter of expediency to prevent Darius taking control of her business, he'd give her as much time as she needed. As for sex… as much as he yearned for her, any move there would have to come from her, and the reason he was happy to wait was because after yesterday he realized at long last why she persisted on keeping him at arm's length. Not because she wasn't interested. Hell, no. He saw — oh gods, how he saw — how her eyes darkened to pools when he gripped her. Felt the tremble that ran through her body. Claudia, he realized, was scared. Not scared of what happens when two bodies unite. But what happens when two souls fuse together. For the second night in succession, Orbilio sat at his desk, poring over his case files, and tried not to think about being turned down.

One floor below, Rex patted the concubine on her bare rump and tipped her an extra sesterce. Always felt better when he came to this spa place. Must be the air or something, but he never felt liverish here, and he was glad now he'd brought his son along. Do him good to get out and about. Bloody shock to see Marcus when they drove in, mind, but that was his own bloody fault, he supposed. Shouldn't have told Eunice he was bringing the boy; woman never keeps a damn thing to herself. Can't blame her, of course. Have to feel sorry for a respectable widow being taken advantage of by a lounge lizard like Lars. Scandalous. Absolute bloody disgrace. Rogue's only after her money, any fool can see that, though as it turned out, there was no harm done by her blabbing. Hadrian didn't tell Marcus anything he hadn't told him before, though god knows what the lad's father would say, may he rest in peace, having his son poking his nose in business he's no right to be poking in. Hardly a chip off the old block, young Marcus. Still. That's a millstone we all have to bear, what. Rex snapped his fingers and called the whore back. Perhaps she could do that last thing again? Pretty sure he was up to it this time.

Across the hallway, Hadrian sobbed into his pillow and the same word echoed round in his head. No, no, no, no. If only he could undo the things he had done. Unsay the things he had said. But he couldn't, he couldn't, and because of him Lichas was dead, and there was nothing he could do to bring him back. Not one bloody, damn thing. Hadrian turned his pillow over and proceeded to flood the underside.

Down in the cramped cubby-holes that passed for the slave quarters, a girl with dark olive skin and a nose like a hawk's and a man with the same olive skin and the same sharp nose went through their paces in silence. Their stretches were graceful, feline, lithe and athletic, Judith's movements in perfect harmony with Ezekiel's. The only odd thing about it was that the couple were two floors apart.

In her small stone hut in a grove of sweet chestnuts, old Etha stared at the bowl of soup on the table. She had to eat. Aye, she must keep her strength up, for already Deathmist hovered outside the door, waiting for her to bid him enter. She would not. So long as hope for Tages burned in her breast, Etha would not let him in. A spoonful at a time she sipped the broth. He was a smart boy, her Tages. Too smart to have got himself killed, and if he'd slipped in the storm they'd have found his body. Aye. They'd have found his body by now. Wouldn't they? In the pen, his sheep bleated pitifully. She'd milked those ewes that didn't have lambs the best she could, but her joints were stiff and her heart was aching, and one of them needed a thorn pulling out and two of the lambs had ticks. Etha was waiting for Tages to come home and fix that. It needed nimbler fingers than hers, and he'd come home. Sure he'd come home. He was a good boy. A smart boy…

Old Etha pushed the bowl away, laid down the spoon and rocked herself in the chair. Outside the door, Deathmist inched a little bit closer.

Alone in the workshop where her brother carved toys, Rosenna sharpened a small stabbing dagger. She had no qualms. She'd played it through many times in her mind, and besides, the omens were good. Blood was red. Her hair was red. She would strike on the night of the red-headed moon. Three reds, for three was an auspicious number. It was the number of gods in the triumvirate: Uni, Tins and Menvra. It was the number of favourable auguries in the sky: north, south and east. And, when the Brides of Fufluns danced in the firelight and all eyes were upon them, three was the number of lives Rosenna would take in retribution: Hadrian, Rex and the patrician. With deadpan indifference, she kept the edge to the grindstone.

'Mrrrow?'

Drusilla wove herself in a figure of eight between Claudia's ankles, but for once no stroke was forthcoming. In one liquid leap, she was up on the table, head-butting her mistress's chin.

'Mrrrrrow!'

'Damn right, poppet.' Claudia ruffled the cat's ears with her free hand as she traced Tarchis' gridlines with her finger. 'It's extremely irritating, but no, I haven't found the connection between Lichas and the six witnesses at Felix's trial.'

Nor, for that matter, any connection to Tages and Vorda.

'But I will'

Just give me time, and I'll have Felix connected to them so tight he won't be able to move, but in the meantime let's consolidate what we already have. Five decent, honest, hardworking freemen, who were ridiculously easy prey in this superstitious religious climate.

'Whereas Gaius was the odd one out.'

As a producer and merchant of fine wines, not to mention a pragmatic Roman of equestrian status, Gaius Seferius was no soft target for Felix's revenge. You couldn't ruin his livelihood by simply poisoning a well! On an estate of this magnitude and with this number of slaves, you couldn't set fire to his vineyards or sabotage his vintage and hope to get away with it, either.

'And friend Felix certainly intends to get away with it!'

If he didn't, he wouldn't be so bloody subtle. Revenge would be reward in itself and he wouldn't give a toss what happened to him.

'Prrrrrr. ' Drusilla clambered up on to Claudia's shoulders and wrapped herself round like a fur collar.

'Yes, poppet, I do realize that nothing horrible has actually befallen Gaius's nearest and dearest. Yet,' she added softly.

Because it was highly unlikely that, simply because Gaius was dead, Felix had decided to abandon his campaign against the sixth witness. Not when Candace turned up out of the blue, casting spells to avert an epidemic of bad luck. Not when Darius appeared on the scene, wanting to marry a woman old enough to be his mother.

'There's only one conclusion, I'm afraid.' Claudia stared into Drusilla's crossed blue eyes. 'Felix and Darius are one and the same.'

In assuming the identity of a bona fide horse-breeder (and had anyone actually checked on the real Darius's whereabouts?), Felix installed Candace to frighten Larentia and make the poor old trout dependent on him.

'Brrrp?'

'You mean those remarks of his at the market?'

'Candace is the main reason I'm pushing Ren to fix a date for the wedding. More and more, your mother-in-law is becoming dependent on that woman's visions and spells, and I'm not convinced that's a healthy development.'

'Weasel words, poppet.'

Trying to make out he was against Candace, when in reality it was the opposite.

'Can't find out one damn thing about her. Other than the fact that she's Kushite by birth, our lovely sorceress remains a mystery, and mysteries, my dear Claudia, trouble me greatly.'

The hell they did. By shedding suspicion on Candace, he's effectively clearing himself, adding to his own credibility by intimating that there's no point in anyone else checking her out, because if a wealthy horse-breeder can't uncover her past, then who can? And all the while the pressure increases on Larentia to marry him quickly.

'We have Gaius cheering his mother on from the Underworld. Her late husband giving the wedding his seal of approval. Even Darius's cough is supposed to make her feel guilty about keeping him away from his good southern health!'

Claudia's instincts had been right from the outset. The bastard was after taking control, but not purely from the financial angle. Yes, running Gaius's business would be the ultimate in revenge. But once he assumes control, it is total — and imagine the satisfaction of being in a position to marry off his enemy's widow to a three-legged dwarf if it pleased him, or contract Gaius's unworldly daughter to an elderly lecher. As he'd calmly destroyed the brick-maker, the paper merchant, the tavern-keeper's families, so he can sit back and ruin Gaius's impoverished sister and her weak and vacillating husband, pulling his strings on the puppets they were and watching them dance to his tune. With the most lavish portion reserved especially for his enemy's mother.

'You callous bastard,' she whispered into the night.

Leading a vulnerable old widow on, purely to set her up for rejection and humiliation. A man might divorce his wife for infidelity and cruelty, but thanks to Rome's entrenched chauvinism, it was virtually impossible the other way round. Having married Larentia, he could treat her like a dog and she'd have no choice but to endure, and suddenly Claudia recalled the locked gazes between Darius and Candace the night the spirits were summoned. Hard and assessing on both sides.

'Unless I miss my guess,' she told Drusilla, 'this puts the happy pair in partnership.'

How cruel does a heart need to be in order to plan installing the mistress before he's even married the wife? How evil? His voice hadn't just trod the path to Hell, she reflected. The bastard had dragged Hell back up with him.

'Mrp.' Drusilla disengaged herself from Claudia's neck and settled down on the desk with her front paws folded in front of her.

'Make the most of it,' Claudia warned. 'It's only a matter of time before Felix-stroke-Darius tosses you down the nearest well, too.'

'Hrrrrrowl.'

'Oh, don't worry.' She flattened the cat's rising hackles and kissed her firmly between the ears. 'It won't come to that.'

There were many places where hemlock grew wild around here, though Claudia sincerely hoped it would not come to that.

Colchicum was much more painful.

In the dank, dark subterranean caverns where no daylight penetrated and the sighs of the hopeless twittered like moths, Veive fitted three more gold tips on his arrowheads.

Beside him, the winged avenger dipped them in poison.