Widow's Pique

Twelve

'What a stupendous honour, my dear! Truly, I am so pleased for you!'

Depositing herself with such force that the chair's life expectancy instantly halved, Rosmerta pushed her nose in front of Claudia's. The cosmetics had been applied with a steady, if somewhat generous, hand, but sadly they'd been applied in all the wrong places. She really needed the antimony here, here and here to open her eyes up, and the wine lees on her cheeks should have been extended further along, up and out. As it stood, she resembled a painted doll who'd been running too hard. 'Don't get me wrong, Lady Claudia.'

Rosmerta fluffed out the cuff of her sleeve.

'I've nothing against the way they celebrate Zeltane here, one should always recognize the need for steam to be let off, but I do feel that your being guest of honour will endow the festivities with the dignity and decorum that has been noticeable in the past by its absence.'

Lady Claudia was taking breakfast in the dining hall and trying to come to terms with sitting at a table to eat, rather than reclining sensibly on a couch, when Rosmerta plonked herself down beside her. Lady Claudia pulled off a chunk of warm cheese bread and chewed thoughtfully.

'What's that commotion outside?' she asked.

'Tsk.' Rosmerta helped herself to a honey cake. 'You'd never believe it, but vandals cut our ferry ropes in the night.'

When she shook her head, the wig wobbled so precariously that Claudia primed herself to catch it.

'Mindless it is, absolutely mindless. I mean, what were they thinking of, knowing people will be flooding in from all over for the Spring Festival? Who can possibly think that is amusing?'

Another honey cake disappeared without trace.

'I blame the parents, you know. Children today aren't disciplined enough, and we're starting to see the result of letting the little buggers run wild.'

Claudia glanced across to the courtyard, where Marek and Mir were tormenting a puppy by tossing it back and forth in the air between them, and mused upon pots calling the kettle black.

'That's a very attractive hairstyle,' she said, lining up a walnut on the table.

'Do you think so?' Rosmerta almost purred in delight. 'My wig maker tells me it's all the fashion in Rome.'

'Your wig maker's right.'

Unfortunately, it was a fashion adopted by far younger women.

'Only, I feel it's terribly important for a woman in my position to be stylish, don't you?'

Distracted by her own flounces and frills, Rosmerta missed the walnut pinging off into the courtyard. She caught only her son's yelp as something hit him hard on the ear, and didn't even notice the puppy drop from his hands and run like the wind for cover.

'Put an onion on it, darling,' she called. And get the men to check there isn't a nest nearby, one can never tell with a hornet.'

She turned back and sighed.

'Forgive me, Lady Claudia, but I'd better go. Make sure they get the sting out, and all that. Mustn't have it infecting my baby boy, must we?'

What irony, Claudia thought. The one person she could confide in on this godforsaken island was the last person she ever would…

'Godda margen.'

Apple cheeks flushed pink from working out in the gymnasium poked themselves round the door.

'Has the old trout gone?' Vani mouthed.

Claudia nodded. 'A hornet made an unprovoked attack on your husband — ' (brother-in-law?) — 'and Rosmerta's playing nursemaid.'

'Personally, I can't stand the old cow,' Vani said, perching on the edge of the table and swinging one long, muscular leg. 'But you have to hand it to old Fossil Face there, no one keeps a closer watch on her family. Trust me, cornered vixens couldn't be more protective, and I'm not just talking about her precious cubs.'

She selected a pear from the display on the table, then swapped it for a shiny green apple.

'The slightest sniffle and she's got Kazan wrapped up in bed, and I tell you, if I'd kept all the potions she'd given me to help me conceive, there'd be no room for the bloody bed in the room. Self-defeating or what?'

The sound of Vani's strong teeth crunching into the apple was the only sound in the dining hall and Claudia took advantage of the silence to study the exquisitely executed works of art on the walls, whose significance she was slowly beginning to understand.

Take the scene showing the High Priest hurling a sword into the lake. In this painting, he was surrounded by wailing women and mourners and that's because the spirit of every Histrian warrior is imbued in his weapon while it's being forged. It fell upon Drilo to consign this spirit to the gods after death. Another painting showed the God of the Fields arguing with the god who protects beasts of burden, reflecting the Histri's struggle to balance cruelty with output. But in each of the paintings little fat Varil scampered, either in the form of a goat or, more commonly, as himself. God of Lust and Fertility. In other words, whatever happened in the lives of these people, procreation was paramount.

'You've been trying for babies?' Claudia murmured.

Vani took careful aim before lobbing her apple core into the fountain with a perfect bullseye.

'For that, pumpkin, it takes two, and maybe if my husband spent more time in his wife's bed than with his bloody mastiffs, we'd have a better chance, though frankly, with his miserable performance, I rather doubt it. Mollycoddle them too much and everything goes soft.'

No wonder she found Kazan so attractive. A seasoned womanizer with that oh-so-essential ingredient, charm, he was that archetype of all lovers. The broad hunk with the slow hand. Claudia tried to think of a way to steer Kazan into the conversation.

'It was good of you to look in on me after my fall.'

'Don't be silly, it was the least I could do! I mean, honestly, fit as I am, even I don't take stairs twelve at a time. Dammit, woman, you put me to shame!' Vani shot her a sheepish grin. 'Mind, I thought you were asleep. I suppose you… well, I suppose you saw me kissing Kazan…?'

'Either that, or I dreamed about limpets.'

Vani eased herself off the table and bridged her back on the floor.

'It's only sex. '

Her back arched like a bow.

'The thing is, I signed up for this marriage and I've no intention of leaving my husband, but — well, Kazan's fun.'

She contorted into another gymnastic position.

And we do try to be discreet. Well, discreet-isA/ It's not easy when there are so few opportunities, so when that old battleaxe insisted Kazan remained in your room to keep watch-'

'Rosmerta did?'

'I told you.' Vani was in danger of tying herself in a knot. 'She doesn't look the motherly type, but tigresses could learn from that woman. As far as she's concerned, you're Histri now, pumpkin, and even though she's Illyrian born, she's Histri by marriage and that makes her one herself

'A dozen more stairs and I would have been history in every sense,' Claudia quipped.

Another performance like that, my girl, and I'm in danger of losing my crown for the Milk Race!'

'Milk Race?'

'Sorry, pumpkin, I'm forgetting you're a stranger to these shores.' Muscular legs performed the splits. 'See her?'

Vani pointed to a stone cat curled in the corner.

'That's Kikimora, Goddess of Plenty, and on the day of her festival, libations of milk are poured, rather than wine. Also, since Kikimora stands for contentment, her day is a public holiday with foot races, boxing competitions, wrestling, discus, you name it, hence the term Milk Race. Like the Greeks, though, our men compete naked, and the following day, of course, it's the marriage announcements.'

She straightened up and grinned impishly.

'That way, we girls know what we're getting.'

Although principally a fishing community that served every farm and village in the close proximity, the town of Rovin was still that: a town. A thriving, bustling town to be precise, where bankers set up stalls outside the temples, street sweepers kept the cobbles clean and masons hammered dawn till dusk, sculpting the island's bright, white stone. Since the Histri were self-sufficient in every sense, many trades were absent, such as weavers, barrel makers, basket makers, bone whittlers and dyers, and with no funds for luxury goods, there were no ivory carvers on the island, either, no perfume sellers, glassblowers or spice merchants, which would proliferate in the streets of Pula.

Barber shops were missing, too, the Histri having a strong attachment to their hair, whether on the head, on the face or on the body, a sentiment that sadly applied every bit to women as to men. It seemed odd, not having chariots trying to mow people down every ten seconds, for astrologers not to be touting their charts to read your fortune and viper tamers piping over their menacing charges. But Rovin still resounded to the clack of cobblers bent over their lasts, to the grinding of grain and the sawing of timber, and thirsts were still quenched in the many taverns whose stools spilled out into the shade.

Claudia was one such customer, the tavern keeper both flattered and flustered at such illustrious patronage, so that, having already plied her with a jug of his finest red wine at no cost, he was now in the process of inundating his guest with a selection of cheese pastries, ham rissoles and chunks of blood sausage deep fried with garlic. The tavern was nothing like the one she used to dance in, what seemed like a lifetime ago now. That had been smoke-filled and dirty, populated by sailors disembarking after too many long months at sea. She shuddered at the memory.

'It seems my hospitality has been somewhat lacking.'

The shadow that fell across her table smelled of cool mountain forests and his bow was so deep, it was a wonder his pants didn't split. She'd wondered how long it would take him to run her to ground.

'Not a bit,' she replied, tucking into another piece of spicy red sausage.

'But…'

A languid boot hooked up a stool and sat down beside her. Wasn't there a nursery rhyme about that?

'… I was under the impression that you'd been offered breakfast.'

Claudia reached for another hot pastry. And your point?'

Mazares rested his elbows on the table and shook his head slowly. 'None at all, My Lady. None at all.'

People were staring. They were trying to be subtle about it, but they were unable to hide their astonishment. The nobility don't eat at streetside taverns! They just don't! It's not done! She'd hoped such indignity would make him squirm, but if it did, he was hiding it well.

'You might be interested to know that the King had invited you to be guest of honour at the Feast of Zeltane tonight.'

'Yes, I know.'

That lifted his eyebrows off their launch pads!

'Rosmerta told me.'

'Did she?' he drawled. 'Anyway, if you wish to travel to Gora instead, and you did say it was your intention to hasten there with all speed, let me know and I'll put the arrangements in hand.'

'Nonsense, I'd love to be guest of honour,' she cooed, returning his artless smile.

So many people milling around. So many opportunities to slip away!

'One thing puzzles me, though, Mazares. This invitation? I understood communications to the mainland were severed.'

'Not all requests come by messenger, My Lady, but in this case the invite is of long standing. And since we Histri can't resist dressing up for our festivities, the King's taken the liberty of having a costume prepared for you in advance.'

Really? How did anyone know exactly which date I'd arrive…?

'How thoughtful.'

'We're a thoughtful race,' Mazares grinned. 'Now, me, since the moon is in Taurus, I shall be wearing the headdress and pelt of a bull.'

'You disappoint me,' she replied. 'At the very least, I expected a wolf.'

'Then I shall make a note to come as a wolf next year.' His wrist performed a theatrical flourish. 'But for you, My Lady, and seeing how this festival celebrates the zenith of spring and thus the very flowering of life itself, for you we've had sewn a gown of rainbow colours.'

'I'm sure I'll suit every one.'

'They'll certainly match every bruise,' he tossed back. 'But you see, the rainbow is the Queen of Heaven's sacred emblem, and we Histri believe an iris grows wherever one touches the ground.'

A nobler notion than the pot of gold we Romans tend to look for.'

'We're a noble race, My Lady.'

'Thoughtful, noble, is there no end to your kingdom's discerning attributes?'

'None whatsoever. Will you walk with me, Claudia?'

Oh, good. He was squirming.

She slipped her hand through the proffered arm, encased in its customary crisp white embroidered cotton and, just like any long-time married couple, they strolled leisurely down to the quayside, where fishermen hauled on flax nets across the shimmering lagoon. Thanks to the angle of the sun, one island merged seamlessly into another on the horizon while, behind them, Rovin's white stone buildings retreated up the hill in tidy terraces.

'Zeltane is but one of many festivals,' Mazares said, 'and since you'll be marrying into us, I reckon somebody ought to explain about our arcane practices and spooky customs.'

Who better than the werewolf himself?

'How spooky?'

'Ooh…' Mazares shrugged his broad shoulders. 'Maybe…?'

As he leaned forward to preen his reflection with both hands in the mirrored calm of the sea, something brushed the nape of Claudia's neck. She shivered, and they both laughed. Amusing, yes. Sleight of hand always is, especially when it's accompanied by comic gestures. But make no mistake, Claudia Seferius was the puppet and Mazares the man jerking the strings. So far, the genial puppet-master had required little of his marionette, but she knew the dance was about to begin, and she shivered again.

'Cold? You're welcome to my shirt.'

'I'd hate to see you go naked.' Though many women would not.

'I wasn't offering to go that far,' he murmured. 'These boots are a sod to take off. Oh, Pavan!'

The general looked up from where his strong arms were assisting a small boat to tie up at the quayside.

'Be a pal, would you, and run through our quaint Histrian ways with our honoured guest? Only, there's going to be a riot soon, unless those ferry ropes are fixed-'

Mazares stopped short, his whole expression changing as a crate was hauled out of the boat and lowered by winch on to the jetty. The latch was flipped and suddenly two enormous Molossan hounds were bounding over the cobbles. Claudia took two paces backwards. These dogs were just one step down from a wolf and, with their heavy grey pelts, amber eyes and pricked ears, she could just picture them roaming the forests of Histria, howling mournfully into the night. Making a rapid calculation on a scale of one to ten at just how tasty these brutes might find her, she put the figure at nine-and-three-quarters.

'Elki! Saber!'

Tails wagging, the dogs lunged straight for Mazares, pressing their muzzles into his hands before rolling over on to their backs for a belly rub.

'Well, this is a surprise,' Mazares said.

Friends, she decided, who'd been parted too long. Three wolves together. A pack…

Further crates were being lowered on to the quayside, though no one seemed in a hurry to flip these particular latches. Packed with muscle and bigger, even, than the Molossan hounds, their squat, broad muzzles curled in snarls and their wide-set eyes bulged out in hate.

'Why don't you free the mastiffs?' she asked Pavan.

Not that she was ungrateful.

'It seems cruel to keep one lot of pets cooped up in their cages while the others romp free in the open.'

'Them?' Pavan sneered. 'They're not Mazares's. They belong to Kazan and his sons, and they're not pets. They're hunting hounds, vicious brutes, and my advice is to steer well clear of them.'

His grey eyes narrowed.

'It was a mastiff like that which killed the King's son. Disembowelled him, when he was out chasing a stag.'

Watching Mazares's white shirt cut through the crowds, his Molossan hounds loping joyfully alongside, Claudia reduced the death toll to seven.

Pavan picked up a handful of pebbles and began skipping them over the water. 'Aye, I suppose an outsider might find one or two of our customs take a bit of getting used to.'

Really? Worshipping in sites made holy by nature, such as in caves, beside springs, or in sacred groves, wasn't so different from Roman devotions. The grandiose temples were simply a way to say thank you. Or was Pavan referring to the Histrian ritual of burying the dead along with all their possessions, and in cemeteries ringed by ditches, rather than cremated and interring them in tombs like the Romans?

'Oh, I don't know,' she breezed back. 'Some practices cross all cultural divides.'

She nodded towards the couple kissing with such ardent concentration in a fishing boat, that they were completely unaware that a combination of passion and current was fetching them ever closer to the shore.

'Or is adultery taken for granted in this particular kingdom?'

Because there was no mistaking Kazan's boyish good looks — or Vani's apple-cheeked athleticism. Diana of the Hunt, still. But chased instead of chaste.

The general made a noise in the back of his throat.

'Hunting, fishing and women — but you have to hand it to the lad, he's bloody good at all three.'

Forty was a bit old to be considered a lad, wasn't it? Especially when Pavan was the same age.

'A bit of a wastrel, is he, then, this Kazan?' she asked in the sort of girly, gossipy tone that tends to draw taciturn types out.

She suddenly sensed Kazan as the conspirators' weak link. Someone to be flattered and teased, slept with if necessary.

Anything to get out of this place alive.

'More of a dreamer, I'd say.'

Pavan returned to skipping his pebbles.

'The youngest child's always indulged, but being spoiled hasn't spoiled him, if ye get my drift. He's always happy and smiling, everyone likes him, and in turn he's everyone's friend.'

Better and better!

'I suppose when you look at the sourpuss he's married to,' she chirruped, 'you can't blame Kazan for losing himself in his… hobbies.'

Down by the ferry landing, Mazares's easy authority was calming the crowd, and progress on fitting the new ropes was improving because of it. Claudia followed the profile of strong, goateed jaw to tight, narrow trousers, taking in the aureole of glossy curls that fell to his shoulders, the crows' feet at his eyes, that preposterous, swirling, drop-dead-sexy moustache.

'Has he ever married?' she asked Pavan.

'Aye. Once.' He kept his gaze on a shoal of black fish nibbling at the stone harbour wall.

Odd, Claudia mused, how the Histri have adopted so many of our Roman practices. Construction projects, such as this harbour. Bathhouses, drains, libraries and gymnasia. How seamlessly they've fitted into our rule. Yet remain so emotionally distant…

'What happened?'

Several seconds passed before Pavan lifted his steely grey gaze.

'Same thing that happens to us all, ma'am. She died. Now, if ye'll excuse me, I'll lend them a hand with the ferry.'

Claudia watched the general's ponytail bobbing with exertion as he hauled on the ropes, his massive frame towering above the islanders round him. She watched long after the ferry had tested its new connections with a trip to the mainland. She even watched while it fetched back a consignment of wine in oak barrels and game birds hanging from poles for the feast.

Disembowelled by a mastiff? She had instantly scrubbed the King's son off her list, though the difference it made to the death toll was nothing.

It still stood at eight.