Dark Horse

by Marilyn Todd

  The whistling grew louder. Closer. Unbearable. Hands closed round the bar across the door. She shuffled backwards on her bottom against the stone wall. Pressed her backbone hard against it. Willed the stone to absorb her flesh.

  'Zlat:

  The bar didn't shift. With a grunt, he heaved again. Blood thundered in her ears, her heartbeat jumped out of its rhythm She felt sick. There was a dull thud from where the bar landed on the ground. A squeal of ungreased hinges. I'm going to die Oh, god, I'm going to die. Instinctively, Claudia curled herself into a ball.

  'Sorry about this,' he said, and although the accent was mild, it was Latin he spoke. 'It was the only way I could -

  vlodor zlat!'

  Even under the cloak, she squeezed her eyes shut. Footsteps covered the room in three strides, but miraculously Claudia's arms were sprung free from the rope. Rescue! She heard a primeval whimper and realized it came from her.

  'Da vlodor stapo injio!'

  For a moment, she couldn't believe it. I'm safe, I'm safe

  I'm not going to die. Trembling hands pulled the gag out of her own mouth, but when she tried to push the cloak off, it weighed more than lead-covered ivory and it was left to other hands to pull it off. As the curtain rose, she saw the grey light of dawn streaming in through the rough wooden doorway of what looked like an abandoned shepherd's hut. Stank like it, too. Her eyes picked out the crude tamped earth floor. Rat droppings. Patches of mildew. A pair of boots - oh, shit. A pair of red leather boots.

  The cloak was finally clear of her face. Her gaze locked with that of the pirate.

  'Oh, no,' Jason groaned. 'Not you again.'

  The expression out of the frying skillet into the fire drifted into her head. Here she was, being helped to her feet by the same son of an Amazon who'd chained Bulis in the grain store before generously setting it alight. The same Scythian warrior who doesn't bother employing heralds to deliver his letters, he sends them spear-post instead. The pirate who spitted Leo like a sardine and left him to die in unspeakable agony.

  'Here.'

  The perfect gentleman, he unhooked the goatskin at his belt and pulled out the stopper. Who'd think he drank wine - this wine, probably - out of the gilded skulls of his enemies and used their flayed skins to cover his quiver? Claudia hesitated, and discovered the uncomfortable truth that the need to rehydrate far outweighed pride. The wine was fruity and dry. More importantly, it was strong. With every gulp, her strength returned.

  'This is Geta's fault,' Jason was saying. 'When I told him I wanted a woman from the Villa Ar— Ach, it's a long story. Just accept my apologies.'

  'Absolutely.' I mean, who's to say it wasn't purely men that he butchered? Perhaps, underneath it all, a heart of gold beat inside that white shirt tucked into his pantaloons? Perhaps I'm the Queen ofBloody Sheba. When his people sacrifice to their sun god, they don't do it in the swift humane manner of Roman priests, stunning the animal before cutting its throat cleanly. Scythian sacrifice was as cruel as it was protracted. First they

  tie the horse's front feet together, then they pull on the rope. As the horse stumbles, so a noose is flung round its neck, with a short stick to act as a garrotte. The rope is then twisted, slowly, choking the poor beast to death. Choking. Claudia shivered. And pictured the bruises round Silvia's throat, darker than dragon's blood . . .

  Suddenly Claudia understood why Bulis had been killed in the way that he had. It was a ritual in the Scythian practice of human sacrifice to tie the victim to a tree or ceremonial pole to garrotte them. She handed back the wineskin and hoped he didn't see her hand shake. 'We'll say no more about this little misunderstanding, then.' She edged her way to the door. 'After all, everyone makes mistakes.'

  'If it's any consolation, I'll have Geta's dokion - blood, for this.'

  Claudia didn't doubt it. He'd probably drink it out of the helmsman's skull, too. While the helmsman was still alive.

  Outside, it was pretty obvious that the strapping Geta, he with the stamina of a bear and the life expectancy of a butterfly in frost, hadn't delivered his package to a different region of Cressia. Peaks which had previously been little more than jagged shadows on the horizon suddenly loomed stark and uncompromising before her. Her heart jumped. Only a narrow channel of crystal clear water separated her from the pitted, white karst. Ducking under the lintel, Jason looped his thumb in his cloak and hooked it over his shoulder and Claudia realized that the gold she'd seen glinting at his neck from the cliffs of the villa was in fact a torque engraved to resemble overlaid leaves of willow, while the gold at his waist proved to be links of chain forming a belt. The buckle comprised two interlocking gold serpents. Well, they would be, wouldn't they. There are always serpents in paradise.

  She was just debating which way to saunter nonchalantly off, no hard feelings what, when, from the corner of her eye, she saw him stiffen.

  'Zlat!'

  Now Claudia's Scythian might be on a par with her Cappadocian, but she was getting the gist of the lingo. Zlat, for instance. Not one for the kiddies. Nor, probably, was:

  'Litja ba kula!'

  Shielding her eyes with her hand, she followed his gaze to the three ships streaking up the Dalmatian coast. Her heart skipped again, only louder. The navy! The Imperial Navy had rooted him out! Then she realized the ships were much smaller than Augustus's triremes. In fact, they were identical in almost every respect to the Soskia. Including the red flag of war.

  'Mijela da navo Azan.' He frowned. 'That means, those are the ships of Azan.'

  It's Minerva. She hates me, that goddess. She's got it in for me, the bitch.

  'That way.' His fingers clamped round her upper arm. 'Run.'

  'You run.' Claudia dug her heels into the dry, dusty soil. 'I'm staying.'

  'Don't be stupid. The island's uninhabited, no one'll know you're here.'

  'Fishermen pass. I can signal.'

  'This island is sladni. Cursed. Last summer, the shepherd and his flock died of some kind of smicu - what do you call it? Pulmonary infection.' He grimaced. 'Not a pleasant way to go, bleeding from every orifice.'

  Claudia tried not to think about Leo.

  'After that, the inhabitants abandoned the place, so even if someone sees you, they'll take you for the spirit of the plague calling them to their deaths. Now hurry. Please. We're wasting precious time.'

  'You're wasting it.' This is a civilized world we're living in. 'No one believes in shapeshifters and ghouls any more.'

  'On Cressia, the islanders think Clio's a vampire.'

  Clio. Clio. Where had she heard that name before? 'I'm still taking my chances.'

  'Vlodor plut! Don't you understand? If I leave you behind and Azan's men see you, there's no telling what will happen. They're animals, believe me.'

  That's rich, coming from you. 'I can hide,' she said. 'In the hut. And it's not far to the mainland. I can swim it.'

  'Dammit, woman, there's no telling Azan's men won't find

  you anyway. And you might swim like a mermaid, but you'd never beat that coastal current.'

  Which, when you put it that way, really only left Claudia one option.

  She belted behind him down the cliff path to his ship.

  It would not be an exaggeration to say that Claudia had never set foot on a pirate ship before and that if she never, ever repeated the experience it would still be way too soon. But you had to hand it to the crew for the speed they got a hundred and twenty feet of wood shifting.

  At the captain's first yell, they were halfway to the galley before their eyelids had even opened from where they'd been sleeping out on the sand. Every man to his station, the operation to weigh anchor was as smooth as a greased bolt. While sixty oarsmen slithered below the covered deck and the bow officer took up his station, the rest of the crew cast off and made ready for battle, protecting the wales with overlapped shields and checking the ammunition for the ballista amidships.

  'Why did you tell them they're Roman warships?' she asked. You didn't ne
ed to be a linguist to know that 'da navo Augusto' wasn't the same as 'da navo Azan'.

  'Inside the cabin,' Jason growled.

  'But—'

  'And stay there,' he ordered, pushing her into a small wickerwork structure at the stern. (Cabin? Pig pens were cosier.)

  From below, the rowing officer set the beat, first for the drummer, then, once the Soskia was underway, for the flautist. Above, on the pig pen's reinforced roof, the boots of the steersman clumped up and down as he barked orders to the men who worked the galley's giant steering oars. For whatever reason Jason was running from Azan, he was making a bloody good job of it. The Moth flew through the water.

  And Leo thought he could outstrip this sleek, bleak killing machine! The Medea was only a third of the size, only a third of the power. What on earth was going through his mind when he set off after the galley?

  'Tosc!' Jason cried. Faster.

  Could the Moth fly any faster? Claudia ventured out on to the bucking deck, grabbing on to the red painted rail to steady herself as she leaned out. The speed was exhilarating and as she put her face to the wind, her hair was swept like a pennant behind her. She forgot about Leo, about scalps and war spears, about Bulis and odd fires along the Liburnian coast. She luxuriated in the tang of pitched timbers, the taste of salt on her lips, the sound of timbers creaking as the Soskia scythed through the sea.

  'I told you to stay inside,' a voice growled.

  'I'm not in anyone's way.'

  'Look around. Can't you see?'

  Ah. Those rumbles among the crew, the glowers, the dark mutterings to their captain were about her, were they?

  'The fleet's gaining and the men think you're the cause of their bad luck,' Jason rasped. 'In fact, the general consensus seems to be that if lead weights were attached to your feet and tossed over the side, that luck would change.'

  He didn't need to shove her this time. Claudia was back in the pig pen before you could say oink.

  'I've told them you're our hostage, more valuable than the treasures inside all the temples of Pula, but right now, the crew's skins mean more to them than booty. Step outside again, and I can't answer for someone taking the law into their own hands.'

  What next with this man? There was no logic Claudia could employ, no rational argument. He'd tried to kidnap her once, on the night of the fire, but when the alarm horn sounded, he'd knocked her out, the quicker to make his escape. By then he had already killed one poor sod, then it was Leo's turn a little later, with an attempt on Silvia's life the same night. Yet, when he saw Claudia trussed up and gagged in the shepherd's hut this morning, he seemed surprised. So much so, he practically tripped over himself to apologize, and now he was cosseting her like a new-born babe. During trials in the basilica in Rome, Claudia had listened to killers claiming not to have remembered committing their crimes, but then they would say that, wouldn't they, when they'd

  been caught red-handed? They had no other defence. But now, seeing Jason, Claudia wondered whether there wasn't substance behind the concept after all. A genuine blanking out of things too horrible to contemplate on a conscious level?

  In which case, it made him even more dangerous. You'd never know what triggered the change, only that it would be swift. Next time, stuff the pros and cons of staying on sladni sodding islands. Eat my dust, you sick Scythian bastard.

  'Geta,' he called. 'Var te stluja da Soskia dur mileja kanal dara?' Can you take the Soskia through that channel over there?

  The shock of red hair shook violently, the general gist of his reply seeming to be along the lines of 'not at this speed, I can't'.

  'Zlat.' Jason walked over and clapped a hand round Geta's shoulders. 'Plu Azan mjbelo,' he said under his breath. Azan's gaining.

  'Azan?' Geta hissed.

  Mijela da navo Azan,' Jason replied softly. 'Bo Augusto.'

  'Zlat!' The helmsman cast a worried glance round the ship, and for the first time, Claudia realized that the others couldn't make head nor tail of the exchanges between the captain and his second-in-command. Interesting. The crew weren't Scythian, then. Inside the pig pen, she stared up at the mast and asked herself, was this a good thing or a bad thing? And did it matter? After all, she only had the one scalp. This way Jason and Geta would at least get half each.

  Then the copper quadran dropped. The crew might not be Scythian, but they were no less Azan's men. The same Azan, who was steaming up behind them, gaining fast. How long before some sharp-eyed sailor noticed those streaming red pennants were not Roman?

  It was zlat right enough.

  Claudia was in it up to her neck.

  Thirty-Nine

  Inside the cabin, Claudia lifted the lid of the carved wooden trunk.

  'Looking for something?' Jason asked.

  If they're gilded, I won't mind so much, but if they're . . . well, fresh . . . 'I want my knives back,' she said.

  'Can you use them?'

  One in each hand, pal. 'I can try.'

  The grin was pure wolf. 'Remind me not to stand within six feet when you're wielding them,' he said. 'Or do you throw them, as well?'

  Perhaps he genuinely didn't remember what he had done. Perhaps he just flipped open the lid of his chest and thought, my goodness, where did all those pretty severed heads come from?

  'I suppose they come in useful at banquets when you've run out of glasses?'

  'You found my cannabis, then.'

  'Cannabis?'

  'It's what you Romans call hemp. You burn the seeds, inhale the smoke and, in your case, hallucinate.'

  This was no time to explain she'd been referring to skulls. 'Why haven't you loosened the sails?' she asked brightly. 'I mean that's what they're for, isn't it? Speed?'

  'There's insufficient wind for canvas,' he said, extracting her knives from the side of his trunk, 'and even if there was, the Soskia would most likely capsize at this speed - Litja ba kula!'

  Claudia was definitely getting the hang of this lingo. Litja ba kula. Son of a bitch. 'You certainly are,' she murmured sweetly.

  'Sails.' He looked down at her, and for the first time she noticed that his eyes were grey. Grey and shining with excitement. The way a wolf's shines, when it sees a new-born lamb alone on the hillside. 'Sails, yes of course. Thank you.'

  Wacko, sicko, thicko, psycho, think of him what you will but your life's in this maniac's hands. 'You're very welcome.'

  Out on deck Jason began yelling instructions to the crew in their own language. The sail master protested, but he was overridden. Within seconds men were swarming up the rigging like monkeys, unhooking ropes at the top, hauling on ratlines at the bottom. To Geta, though, Jason muttered something else. Quietly. And Claudia didn't much care for the helmsman's grim answering nod.

  They were hugging the coast so tightly, any minute it seemed one of those white tongues would lash out and engulf the ship. Not like Cressia. There the cliffs plunged steeply, but they were wooded and gentle. No less comforting to a ship's ribs, of course, but at least there was something to grab hold of. The Soskia is not going to crash! Repeat after me, this ship is not going to crash.

  The foresail came down with a thud, bellying out over the vicious bronze ram and blasting the ship forward like a horse at full gallop. The change brought the rowing master scurrying up the ladder from the oar deck, waving his hands at the jib and shouting protests, egged on by the sail master. The captain turned his back on them both. As they rushed round to confront him, the mainsail exploded with a roar louder than thunder, hurling Claudia against the wall of the cabin. She was picking herself up when Jason ducked inside.

  'Now is when it starts to get dangerous,' he said.

  And here's me thinking it was a picnic. 'You mean oars and canvas will only work providing Azan doesn't follow suit?'

  'I'm not looking to outrun him,' the Scythian said quietly. 'The Soskia's fast, but Azan's ships appear to have the edge.'

  'Then what's the point of the sail?'

  'These are your knives,' he said. '
Don't baulk at using them.'

  'Oh, I won't.'

  'I mean on yourself.' He pursed his lips. 'The only reason the crew haven't realized they're being chased by their own comrades is because I've kept them too busy to check. Since I told them they're Roman ships, they accept that they're Roman ships, but any second, someone is going to take a longer, closer look.'

  'And?'

  'Then I'm dead, so's Geta and, if you have any sense between those beautiful dark eyes of yours, so will you be.' He pressed the stiletto into her hand. 'May your gods give you the strength not to hesitate.'

  There was a clattering sound in the cabin. Claudia had a suspicion it was her teeth. 'What's with the sails, then? Another distraction?'

  'Sort of,' he said. 'Canvas with oars will destabilize the ship, certainly. More than sufficiently to keep the crew's minds off their pursuers. But also,' he jerked his thumb in the direction of the cliffs, 'there are those.'

  She glanced at the pitiless white rocks flitting past in a blur. 'I can see why that might sustain a person's interest.'

  'Geta's a crack helmsman,' Jason said. 'He won't hit any rocks before he's supposed to.'

  Her blood ran cold. 'You—' Oh, come on. Even Jason wasn't insane enough to— 'You're not seriously going to wreck this ship?'

  'Geta knows where to aim for, and with Targitaos to protect us there's a slim chance that you, me and Geta can make it out of this alive. When the time comes, do exactly what I tell you - and tosc.'

  'How slim a chance?'

  'Look at this coast. Hospitable it is not. But you said you can swim and that's an advantage these men don't have.'

  The ship bucked again, pitching her straight into his chest. It was solid, like cannoning into a wall, and his white shirt smelled faintly of cinnamon. Like Roman men, Jason shaved off the hairs on his chest, but not out of fashion or vanity. He shaved to display every nuance of the curved horns, flaring nostrils and thick muscular haunches of his clan totem, the bull. Man and bull. Man and bull. The Minotaur. Half man,

  half beast, all bad. As Claudia disengaged herself from the solid warm wall, the ship slewed sideways, generating a collective groan from the oar deck. There were sixty men on the benches down there. Sixty rats trapped in a cage. And the rat catcher was locking the door.