Widow's Pique

Nineteen

The folk on the mainland had no truck with building houses out of stone. What was the point, with so much timber at their fingertips and the climate so benign? Instead, they built cosy homesteads out of wood, weaving sacred hazel between the structural supports and thatching their roofs with rain-repellent straw. In true Histrian tradition, pine was used for the flooring, from which one trunk was carved into a bear's head, though sometimes a boar or a wolf, from which rose the pedestal for the family table, usually protected by a shaggy, woollen cloth.

Bowl-shaped ovens covered by a terracotta lid sat on grids over the charcoals. Inside, rich stews of hare, boar or pheasant simmered away in metal pots, or maybe a lamb roasted, with little flour cakes baking alongside. Invariably, part of the family pig would end up hanging over the hearth as a smoked ham, rubbing shoulders with lovely, round, village-churned cheeses. Not much taken with fripperies, Histrian homes would still boast a variety of terracotta plaques nailed to their timbers, sometimes painted, sometimes embossed, sometimes both, and rows of fine red beakers, reflective of the Histrian soil, dangled from hooks on the walls.

It was one such longhouse, belonging to the senior village elder, as it happened, that had been converted into a courthouse for the day. Seated in one of the wicker chairs arranged around the yard, Nosferatu followed the proceedings with indifference.

In the olden days, soothsayers dispensed justice with bundles of willow rods, interpreting the fall of their willows to determine a man's innocence or guilt. Nowadays, the three soothsayers had been replaced by three elders, who would each form an independent opinion then lay their bundles north to south (guilty) or east to west (not) on the ground. It worked on a majority verdict and, for extreme offences, either the King or his representative would preside. Although serious, these crimes were not considered extreme — the way treason, for example, would be, or indeed any other crimes that impacted upon the kingdom as a whole, such as smuggling, tax evasion and fraud — although the elders felt they'd got the best of both worlds today in inviting officialdom to observe proceedings from the sidelines. Especially since the crime had been perpetrated on Roman soil!

On the other hand, they were enormously relieved that the investigator attached to the Security Police had declined to attend. They'd fully expected this member of their distant, absent and arrogant ruling class to come poking his nose where it didn't belong, and the fact that he hadn't was, the elders felt, entirely of the King's making. Who else could have persuaded Rome to let them get on with it?

'Long live the King!' the senior elder shouted. Quickly remembering to add, And long live the Emperor Augustus!' as his gaze alighted on Salome's red locks.

Through the open door of the longhouse, Nosferatu could see beds covered with bright woollen blankets woven by the womenfolk during the long, dark days of winter, and a variety of baskets plaited with multi-coloured withies swung from the ceiling beams. One type was for collecting fruit and berries. Another for winnowing the grain. Yet another for transporting faggots on their backs.

The wicker chair creaked as Nosferatu fought cramp, but people were too engrossed in the trial to notice.

Caught red-handed, the prisoners could only hang their heads in shame as bundle after bundle went down north to south. Their opinions on Amazonia cut no ice with the spectators or the judges. For a farming community, the destruction of another man's harvests and the killing of his livestock was an abomination where neither youth nor drunkenness was accepted as a legitimate excuse, and as their mothers sobbed and their fathers stood white-lipped in silence, sentence was passed upon the arsonists.

'It grieves me to pronounce this particular punishment,' the senior elder said solemnly. 'But the men who stand before us today have been castigated before by this court. They were fined and they were shamed, but clearly they did not learn their lesson, and therefore we, the judges, have no option.'

Silence descended on the yard.

'It is our conclusion that you, sir' — he pointed to the only prisoner who had sneered consistently at the proceedings — 'you are the ringleader in this latest outrage. Your bigoted views have inflamed those with weak characters, influenced their judgement and incited them to commit acts they would previously have held back from. For this, and to set an example that we will not tolerate anarchy, we have no choice but to sentence you to beheading. The execution will take place at midnight. May you make your peace with Perun while you prepare.'

He turned his hard gaze on the others.

'This village does not condone corruption nor will it tolerate the corruptible. I sentence each of you to four years of shunning…'

Shunned? A collective gasp rang through the crowd. Thrown out of the village, their names never spoken, for four years it would be as though they'd ceased to exist!

'Four years of shunning,' the senior elder repeated, 'in the hope that you use this time wisely to reflect and repent.'

And how. With no recourse to justice if things went wrong, and banned from sacrifices that would purify their wretched souls, the perpetrators would also be forced to live with the knowledge that anyone caught speaking to them during this time would be cripplingly fined. That meant their wives, their children, their mothers, their brothers, and, with the loss of their breadwinner, at least two families faced penury, resulting in the women being forced to divorce in favour of a husband who could provide and their children being passed to him for adoption.

Nosferatu blotted out the sobbing. Bastards should have bloody well considered the consequences before they started torching everything in sight, not snivelling afterwards, throwing themselves on the court's mercy and begging forgiveness like a bunch of craven cowards. Weren't giving a lot of thought to the word mercy last night, were they? Personally, Nosferatu would have upped the sentence to six years, not four, and beheaded a couple more prisoners, (a) to set an example and (b) to weed out spineless bullies from Histrian society.

When the time for the New Order came — and it was not that far away — there would be none of this are-we-Histri-are-we-Roman bollocks. The New Order would have a strictly no-vacillating policy, and yes, of course it was regrettable that innocent people died in the struggle, but they were sacrificed out of purpose, not mindless, wanton destruction, and let's face it, for most of the victims, the first they knew of what had happened was when they found themselves knocking on the Gates of the Blessed.

Raspor? Well, there was always an exception to every rule, but Raspor brought that on himself, the little blabbermouth, so in that respect his death was not quite so regrettable — and as for that pansy boat builder! All one can say on that subject is that blackmailers get what they deserve. The Nosferatu of legend might kill for pleasure, but not the person whose shadow little Broda had seen. Which was not to say there wasn't a sense of satisfaction in a job well done!

The judges had moved on to trying the rapists, but since four strapping representatives of the King's Bodyguard had taken a great deal of satisfaction in beating a confession out of them earlier, the trial was little more than a formality. Nosferatu tried to look interested as the rhetoric droned on and on.

Murder was child's play. Anyone can kill another human being, provided they have sufficient strength and guts and motive, but it takes a clever person to get away with it and an exceptionally clever person to get away with several without arousing suspicion.

On face value, for instance, eliminating the royal physician appeared a simple enough task, but you try to make murder appear like an accident. First you have to wheedle his itinerary from some lackey in a way that he won't remember. Then you have to contrive to be in the middle of bloody nowhere without anyone noticing this end. And if that's not difficult enough, you have to win the victim's trust. Not the easiest of tasks, considering he already suspects an attempt to destabilize the throne!

However, with the royal physician happily strolling among his ancestors in the Lands of the Blessed, those suspicions had been eradicated and there was nothing now to stand in the way of the New Order. Histria could rise up — become a force to be reckoned with — a powerful nation — wealthy — respected — strong in its own right. At last, this kingdom was poised to fulfil its true potential.

Where Nosferatu succeeded was in employing a variety of homicidal techniques, then testing the plans from every angle.

One doesn't take risks when killing a king!

Poor Dol. Lovely fellow, charming, honest, fair and moral, devoted to his kingdom, dear chap, but blind to the obvious, i.e. that bridging the divide within his people only prolonged the country's uncertain future. Dol had to go. Eventually, Nosferatu found the perfect solution, and by coincidence it grew wild in the woods. The humble columbine. Remove the top parts, slip them into a tasty titbit or two and, hey presto, shortness of breath. Nothing fatal, just an uncomfortable couple of days, when the patient is encouraged to eat to keep his strength up and obviously needs his appetite tempted, although his physician is surprised at first that the King doesn't recover more quickly. But, as further bouts lay him low, the physician accepts this as a natural course of the illness, and is not surprised that each bout is worse than the previous and lasts longer, weakening the King's lungs further each time.

Nosferatu sighed. Who would suspect a flower so blue and so beautiful set in a floral display could prove so treacherous? And the columbine's beauty is that, as it dries, so it is rendered harmless.

But then for the big part — and again, the various vases of sumptuous flowers disguise their deadly intent. Lilies, larkspur, roses, foxgloves. Ah, yes, the lovely foxglove. Stately and tall, deep-pink, spotted, it is the leaf which does all the damage. Those beautiful, soft, grey downy leaves bring on nausea, breathing problems

… and, tragically, cardiac arrest. The nation mourns, but is not surprised. Dol the Just had a weak chest.

A conclusion which was nothing short of inspirational.

Nosferatu hadn't planned it that way, but surely, by default, weakness of the lungs is hereditary? With the King newly crowned and a kingdom divided, one small child's unlucky inheritance aroused no suspicion, not even in the girl's mother. So it was more tasty titbits, more tightness of the chest, more solicitous bedside visits.

Delmi flashed before Nosferatu's memory. Silky blonde hair, wide innocent eyes, breasts as white and smooth as alabaster. Bitch. Publicly, of course, it was all sunny smiles, happy-happy, not a word of criticism levelled. Alone? Alone, Delmi didn't even try to hide her dislike, and as for holding back with her opinions…! Nosferatu's fists clenched. Slut. I saw you slinking off in the night.

'Your fate is something you have brought upon yourselves,' said the senior elder, as he passed sentence on the rapists, 'for, to let violation pass unpunished is to unleash anarchy. Virginity is sacred in every society, not purely our own, and for you to force yourselves one after the other upon this wretched child…'

Supported by a warrior's sympathetic arm, the little Amazon sobbed uncontrollably and Nosferatu's heart went out to her. The girl hadn't been called to give evidence against her attackers, the judges wanting to save her the ordeal, since they had a confession, but she was adamant that the whole community should understand the depths these kinsmen of theirs had plumbed, and she spared the court no detail. Nosferatu resisted an overwhelming urge to reach out and comfort the child.

As the senior elder excused the little Amazon and expounded on the sanctity of marriage and the damage caused by the violation of decent, respectable women, Nosferatu's thoughts were propelled back to Delmi's infidelity. Oh, but how that sunny disposition failed her, fretting over her baby girl! Time and again, Delmi was brought down as her daughter fell ill, only to have her spirits lift each time the youngster recovered. Nosferatu remembered them clearly. Mother and child, each a spitting image of the other, bowling hoops in the courtyard, spinning tops together, braiding hair, laughing and dancing, singing and skipping. Yet all the while Delmi, that most perfect of mothers, that most faultless of wives, was sneaking from bed to bed…

Drowning the child as she convalesced after yet another debilitating bout had been hard. Many sleepless nights had been lost contemplating the act, even more afterwards, but if the end justifies the means, what choice is there? A new order had to be created. Histria demanded nothing less. And if this meant terminating the stale bloodline and instituting fresh, then, with the girl in her grave, the New Order was brought another step closer.

No one said it was going to be easy.

The trial ground finally to a close. The prisoners were led away, the villagers dispersed and a smile played at the side of Nosferatu's mouth. Actually, there were times when taking life became something of a pleasure. Giving Delmi that hemlock was one.