Dark Horse

by Marilyn Todd

  'What?'

  'Iss something they can understand, Marcus. Do not angry.'

  'The hell I—'

  'Please listen,' Llagos pleaded. 'Lately there hef been much talk of superstition, bringing big gulf between Roman ways and Cressian traditions. So I use thiss to build bridge. I pretend Leo loved his people so much, he laid down his life for them and that, in return for his sacrifice, Neptune cast his special protection over the island.'

  'Bloody hell, Llagos.' Orbilio hurled a vase filled with roses against the wall and watched until the last of the petals had cascaded down the plaster to join the glittering shards on the floor. 'Then perhaps you wouldn't mind rushing the service?' he asked levelly.

  With a nervous smile, the little priest nodded, but it was Silvia who had the last word. 'One cannot rush a funeral pyre, Marcus, it burns itself out. Now then.' She gave her black skirts a shake. 'How do we look?'

  Llagos had not been exaggerating the effect of his pep talk.

  'Long live the new governor!'

  'Hurrah for Marcus Cornelius Orbilio!'

  'Bloody rum way to be sent off, in my opinion,' Volcar grumbled from his litter. 'Anyone would think this was a victory procession, not a bleeding funeral.'

  But for the islanders, that's precisely what it was. They hadn't swallowed the priest's story about Leo sacrificing himself on the altar on their behalf, but they had learned their lesson. With Jason on the loose, they needed Rome at their back like no time ever before.

  'Long live Orbilio!'

  'Long live our new protector!'

  Ducking posies and garlands, and politely avoiding the attentions of young girls thrust in his path by their hopeful mamas, Orbilio kept his gaze focused on his cousin's bier. The undertakers had rouged Leo's cheeks, rendered pale through loss of blood, and softened out the rictus, drawing attention away from the face by dressing the corpse in scarlet

  trimmed with silver, since gold was not permissible on the voyage to the Underworld. Leo's thick dark curls, the family trademark, were coiled artfully between a wreath of shiny laurel leaves. Frankincense, cinnamon and other rich embalming spices wafted in his wake.

  Qus was one of the eight pallbearers, the only evidence of emotion being the five parallel scars on his forehead which now shone white in their ebony setting.

  The smell of fishing boats hung rank in the air as the procession snaked its way past the harbour. Flax fibre nets had been spread out to dry, willow creels upended, children scrubbed barrels in preparation for preserving oysters and crayfish and squid in brine for the winter. Without a breeze to carry it away, the smoke from the torchbearers' flames rose upwards, like the black feathers of harpies, but Orbilio noticed none of it. It was his cousin's funeral, for gods' sake, he kept reminding himself. You've done enough damage letting him be killed in the way that he had, the least you can do is pay him the courtesy of mourning him properly.

  But all he could think of was a girl with flashing eyes and a tongue like a bullwhip who had disappeared off the face of the earth.

  Search parties had been sent out and he had placed Junius in charge in his absence, knowing that if anyone was going to find Claudia, it was the Gaul. Orbilio tenderly rubbed at his jaw. He couldn't blame the lad for taking a pop. Or for the threats he had made as he stormed off this morning.

  'If she's dead,' Junius had said, wheeling his horse round, 'I will kill you.'

  'Long live the governor!'

  'Hurrah for Marcus Cornelius!'

  A rain of petals showered over his black mourning cloak as he passed the waterside tavern where he had been staying the night Leo was murdered. Would these people still think him a hero if they knew the truth? Dammit, he should never have taken that bloody room. He should have gone straight to the villa, instead of buggering about playing cloak and dagger.

  Outside the tavern, the man in his mid-forties, greying at the temple and with the spatulate artistic fingers that

  Orbilio had envisaged handling fine works of art, watched the first of the two biers pass. Diplomatic, Orbilio decided. And shrewd. Magnus could hardly have joined Leo's cortege with Lydia present; while to pay his respects to Bulis would have been to snub his late patron. He acknowledged the sculptor's tight-lipped nod of sympathy and wondered what exchanges, if any, passed between Magnus and Lydia as she followed her ex-husband's body.

  As the procession wound its way to the Temple of Neptune, a woman with malt-brown hair and green eyes sat defiantly on the steps with her arms wrapped round her knees. Nanai’, he concluded. Wondering whether she was here to mourn or to gloat.

  It was only once the two biers were laid upon their respective pyres that Orbilio gave his full attention to delivering Leo's ovation, but when he stepped back to allow Saunio to deliver Bulis's, he noticed that the crowd comprised two very different groups. For the majority, this was the first Roman funeral they had witnessed and they were here partly to voice their allegiance to Rome, and partly out of curiosity. Why didn't the Romans simply bury their dead with their hands covering their faces like everybody else? But there was another group, a small minority comprising twelve, maybe thirteen people, who stood out from the crowd. The taverner's son, for example. As white as a barn owl. And the wheelwright, whose hands were shaking. These people, Orbilio realized, were scared. Scared of what? he wondered.

  As the funeral attendants set a torch to the pyres, Shamshi rippled his way through to Orbilio's side. 'The organs of the sacrificial beast were sound,' he intoned. 'It augurs well for the souls of the departed.'

  'The sun rose thrice more over our heads,' Orbilio countered, 'but no woman died.'

  The smile that hovered at the corner of the Persian's mouth made his blood curdle. 'Did one not?' he asked softly, before drifting back into the throng and for a man who was watching his livelihood literally go up in smoke, he didn't seem unduly troubled, Orbilio reflected.

  In front of him, the flames crackled and spat and the only

  outpouring of grief came from the artists, as Saunio's Beautiful Young Men clustered round to console the maestro as well as each other, ensuring outsiders could not breach their wall of self-contained mourning. At least they mourned. Qus might have been one of Magnus's sculptures. Nikias always looked like he was scowling. Lydia and Silvia were both visions in black, the one petite and fair, the other dark and statuesque, but not a glance had passed between them. And still Shamshi grinned.

  Leo, Marcus felt, deserved better. Much, much better. But then we reap what we sow and whatever his intentions, however honourable they might have been, the bottom line was that Leo had not put them into practice. As a result, he'd left an aged uncle too bitter to grieve, plus an ex-wife and sister-in-law who couldn't find a tear to shed between them. His astrologer was indifferent, his bailiff detached, and even Nanai’, for whom he'd provided free housing for many years, felt he'd deserved all he'd got. Siring a son had blinded Leo to everything and everyone else. What made it particularly poignant was that he hadn't seen his motives as selfish. Robbing Petrus to pay Paulus came naturally to him. After all, everyone would be repaid in the end, the Villa Arcadia would be the most splendid palace in the whole of the Adriatic and, to cap it all, the rose-grower's daughter would give him a child every year until he lost count. By Leo's reckoning, this was a win-win situation, what's the problem?

  Finally, after an eternity of waiting for messages from search parties that did not come, they approached the final rites of the double cremation. Censers were shaken vigorously, emitting clouds of fragrant grey smoke, handbells rattled, honeycakes thrown on the fire. Once the ashes were purified, a sense of relief fell over the assembly. Nothing stretches time like a body awaiting burial, and now a line had been drawn, allowing people to move on with their lives.

  'You will come back to the villa?' Orbilio asked Lydia.

  'The hell I will.' Her voice was pitched low and did not carry as far as the crowd. 'I want nothing more to do with that man or, and this is nothing personal Marcus,
his kin. Be they

  related by blood or by marriage," she added, just loud enough for Silvia to hear.

  The sun was sinking. Still no news of Claudia. What did Shamshi know, he wondered? He thought about the message that had brought so much trouble to this paradise island. Five words. Give back what is mine.

  If only, if only . . .

  One event sets off another, and so it goes on until a whole train is in motion and becomes unstoppable, out of control. The rage of frustration pulsed through his veins. Impotent. Useless. Hog-tied without any leads. The sun disappeared over the Istrian peaks, and with it withered his hopes.

  All he knew for sure was there was a psychopath on the loose with god knows how many victims on his death roll. And that caught up in this whirlwind of evil was a woman with tumbling curls and dark flashing eyes.

  Who might already be dead.

  Forty Three

  The instant the sun dipped behind the jagged peaks, the beechwoods turned to dark. Shadows appeared, shifting and menacing, and the gorge slipped into silence. These forests were home to all kinds of predator, Claudia reflected: boar, wolf, bear, snake. Just the place to be alone with a cadaver.

  'Stay here,' Jason had growled, lowering a stiffening Geta against the bole of a spruce. They had reached the valley bottom, a dried-up river bed which only came to life in spring to drain away the snow melt. 'I need to do some reconnaissance.'

  At the time, Claudia was just grateful for the rest. After a night which involved being kidnapped and trussed followed by shipwreck, mountaineering and artillery fire, not even the pack of hounds on her trail could prevent her from sinking into oblivion. A soft scuffle jolted her awake. She couldn't see anything in the blackness, but she sensed movement.

  'Jason?' she whispered. 'Is that you?'

  Amber eyes flashed in the gloom. There was a flicker of white as it turned, and then it was gone. A lynx, she reflected. After several hours in the heat, Geta was starting to attract attention.

  After a while she stopped jumping at every rustle and scratch, each little slither and scrape. Maybe it helped that she was holding the twin-faced battleaxe. Maybe she was just getting used to the wilderness. But next time when she opened her eyes, Jason was stretched out on the ground not four feet away, one knee drawn casually up. She felt the weight of the axe in her hand. With one good swing . . .

  'There's ten, maybe a dozen of them on our tail,' he murmured. He hadn't even opened an eye. 'Four hundred yards behind and closing fast.'

  Claudia pushed her hair out of her eyes. 'I'm not surprised. Without the impediments of corpses and heavy weaponry, we could have made better time ourselves.'

  White teeth flashed in the dark. 'You wouldn't be criticizing the captain's strategy by any chance, lieutenant?'

  'My dear Jason, I would die before I criticized you.' Or if not, shortly afterwards, she suspected. 'I was merely making an observation.'

  The flash of white grew larger. Another predator in the forest licking its chops. 'Good,' he said, 'because it's time we got moving.'

  'In the dark?'

  A soft chuckle rang out as he heaved Geta on to his shoulders and set off along the river bed. 'You're forgetting the occupation of the gentlemen behind us, lieutenant. Why do you think merchant ships won't sail at night? Because of a few paltry currents, the odd shallow channel, a couple of treacherous promontories? I think you'll find the threat man-made, rather than natural.'

  'Then it can't be because they took place at night, those fires along the Liburnian coast.'

  'So you did pack the cannabis.'

  No, but I could sure use some right now. 'Someone once asked me, didn't I think it odd, those fires along the Liburnian coast,' she explained, trotting along behind. 'I assumed it was because they happened at night.'

  'Tut, tut. I would have thought that you, of all people, would have known that darkness is the pirate's friend.' A callused hand patted Geta to illustrate his point. 'Now then. I reckon this is far enough, don't you?'

  On the eastern bank he laid Geta flat behind a spruce, placed the axe and bow and quiver alongside and kicked pine needles over the blade.

  'No reflection,' he stated quietly.

  He is warrior born and bred, he knows what he's doing. He is warrior born and bred, he knows what he's doing. Claudia repeated the phrase another six times and still wasn't convinced. Something just wasn't right here. Her hand slid slowly down her thigh and over her knee.

  'Something the matter with your leg?' he asked.

  'Itch.'

  'Not looking for this, by any chance?' From his belt he drew out a familiar thin blade.

  Claudia's fingers flew to the empty strap at her calf. Shit. There was only one moment when he could have removed the stiletto. While she was asleep back there by the stream bed. And she hadn't felt a bloody thing . . .

  'I was concerned you might have acquired a certain sentimental attachment to it,' he said, placing it neatly beside the buried axe. Slowly he took off the heavy gold torque round his neck. Unhooked the gold chain link belt. Laid them on the ground.

  This is it. This is the moment the sick bastard has chosen. The time and the place.

  She should have known.

  With Bulis, with Leo, even with Silvia, he hadn't taken his victims away to torment at his leisure. He'd made sure there were plenty of people around when he killed them. Just as there were ten, maybe twelve behind him just now. The

  excitement of being caught was as important as the thrill of torture.

  He drew his dagger. Laid that on the ground, too. Along with the scimitar from the belt which tied under his crotch. If he jumped her, she could pull on that belt. Make his eyes water long enough for her to grab hold of a boulder, bring it crashing down on his skull. But she had a horrid feeling jumping wasn't Jason's style.

  Suddenly she was cold. Very cold. Paralysed with the cold. 'I don't want to die,' she found herself bleating.

  'Nobody wants to die, Claudia.'

  A red boot gently covered the metal with a thin layer of pine needles. No reflection, she thought dully. No reflection, because in his warped mind, no one can see what he's doing. Not even him.

  'Now then,' he whispered. 'I think it's high time we used our heads, don't you?'

  Relief surged through her limbs, making them shake. 'Absolutely,' she said. Silly bitch! Fancy thinking it was some kind

  of ritual! 'I knew you'd come round to my way of thinking,' she said.

  'Excuse me?'

  'Ditching Geta and the weapons, and putting our brains into action instead of our muscles.'

  'Actually, that's not what I meant.' Jason picked up the sack at Claudia's feet and leisurely began to untie the string. 'I meant, it's time to bring these heads into play.'

  In the brightly lit courtyard, scented by lavender oil and garlands of roses and herbs, Orbilio stared at the fisherman standing with his thumbs looped into his belt. 'Are you sure?'

  Thick, brown and heavily scored, the fisherman's skin was like leather and only the muscles which bulged out of his cheap linen shirt testified to his age being somewhere on the good side of thirty. The fisherman cast a quizzical glance at the priest, who translated.

  'He say there iss no mistaking what he hef seen. Three -' he verified the number with the fisherman, who nodded vigorously '- three pirate warships anchored off coast of Dalmatia, also the wreck of the Soskia. Many bodies, he say. Not pretty.'

  Orbilio made rapid calculations. Half a day to send a message to the garrison on the Istrian mainland at Pula. Half a day for them to send word to the nearest trireme. Half a day before that trireme made it up to Dalmatia. Bugger. 'Does he know what happened?' he asked.

  Liagos put the question to the fisherman, but the fisherman shook his head. The first thing he knew of trouble was the stream of flotsam swept down on the current. He had picked up some of the items. Clothing. Rope. A cask of ale. But as soon as he turned the headland and saw Azan's ships, he turned tail and ran.

&nb
sp; 'What was he doing out there in the first place?' Orbilio asked. It was a long way from Cressia.

  'His sister marry a hunter from Dalmatian mainland. He go to trade lobster and crab for boar meat from forest,' the priest explained. 'Iss great delicacy, since no boar left on Cressia now.' He grinned. 'He make much money and much friends when he visit his sister.'

  Orbilio didn't smile. 'But the wreck was definitely that of the

  Soskia?'

  'Soskia, ja,' the fisherman said, and told Llagos how outlines of red painted moths on the galley's splintered oars had testified to the broken vessel's identity.

  Marcus began to pace the courtyard, where moths of a different kind were fluttering round the torches set on the walls. 'I don't understand it,' he said. 'Jason?'

  'Maybe whirlpool suck her in,' Llagos suggested. 'Many whirlpools in ocean.'

  'But not there, or your fishing friend would have known about it.' As would Jason.

  'Maybe freak current.'

  Maybe, Marcus thought. In which case, the damage would have been severe - but not fatal for a seasoned warship. 'I'd like to see the stuff he picked out of the water,' he said.

  The fisherman's face darkened at the priest's translation.

  'Tell him,' Orbilio said patiently, 'that he can keep everything he found. I just want to look.'

  The leather skin relaxed, and the three men, one tall, one short, one somewhere in between, wound their way down the cliff path. On the jetty, Qus and Junius were already waiting. Their search of the villa, the estate, the town, the island had yielded nothing.

  'The only unusual thing,' Qus said, stepping forward and saluting, 'was a goatherd, who claimed he saw a man with red hair in a rowing boat just before sunset. But then -' he shrugged his massive shoulders '- the boy's a musician, a dreamer, a poet who lives in his head.'

  Witnesses, as Orbilio knew only too well from experience, could be sublimely imaginative. Nevertheless, he filed this little gem in the ledgers of his mind and ignored Junius's murderous glower as he clambered into the boat. A sad catch, he thought, holding a torch above the sorry assortment. Shirts of a cloth he would not wipe his boots with. Frayed lines. A red painted moth on part of an oar, a souvenir to hang on the wall of the fisherman's cottage. In the stern lay a cask of rough ale, a collection of rings and torques stripped off the corpses. Dead men's boots. Dead men's belts—