by Marilyn Todd
The sun was sinking, and the galley's crew were hauling up the canvas and setting out the oars. The sky, a brilliant sheet of copper, was mirrored on the surface of the Adriatic, fusing the horizon in a blaze of burnished metal. Gulls wheeled lazily overhead, crying out like ghosts to one another, fish darted like quicksilver through the translucent shallow waters, and the broad-chested, weather-beaten, long-haired tiller turned his massive steering oar towards the shore.
The island of Rovin was exactly as Mazares had described it. Part of an otherwise flat green archipelago, her whiteness rose out of the ocean like Venus rising from the foam, only, instead of being surrounded by cherubs and nymphs, fishing boats clustered at her rocky feet, tilted on one side as though asleep, their nets spread wide to dry beside them.
'There was nothing in that letter about marriage,' Claudia told Drusilla.
Mistress and cat were sitting beneath the galley's stern post - which was carved in the shape of an appropriately firebreathing dragon - eating lobster and scallops and sardines stuffed with herbs.
'Nothing at all.'
'Hrrrr.' Drusilla took time off from a prawn to agree. 'Admittedly, I skipped several large chunks.'
Claudia was nothing if not objective.
'But only because he was such a pompous old windbag.' Dammit, she wished now she'd brought the letter with her,
rather than leave it for her steward to show to her creditors. But the whole point of that exercise was that no one hustles a supplier to royalty for money. Including Arabian moneylenders!
'Nevertheless, I think I would have noticed a marriage proposal nestling among all those titles and dreary "begats by".'
They're cunning, they're sneaky and they're all doubledealers. Weren't they just.
Drusilla's attention was distracted by the boy responsible for disposing of the ship's slops. Ordinarily, he'd toss them over the stern, but today his task was hampered by a growling, arching, cross-eyed monster as ferocious as anything the Argonauts had had to face.
'Hrrowwwww.'
The boy revealed latent leadership qualities by tossing the contents of his buckets over the starboard wale. A stream of curses from four angry oarsmen didn't discourage him. Backing nervously away, he was more than happy with his decision.
'Have you ever heard of anything more preposterous?' Claudia said, stroking Drusilla's hackles flat. 'The King of the Histri asking the widow of a wine merchant for her hand in marriage - and the widow a pariah at that?'
'Prrrr.'
'Absolutely, my poppet. Jupiter would turn celibate first and the sun would set in the east.'
There was a distinct smell of fish in the air and it wasn't coming from Drusilla's sardine!
So, what was the King's game? That letter was genuine enough, so, could it be a simple case of mistaken identity? That a distance of 300 miles, together with a hiccup in Latin translation, resulted in his request being delivered to the wrong Claudia? Yes, and that ham curing nicely over my kitchen chimney will sprout wings and fly over the Forum! No, no, it was the right Claudia who'd been inveigled into Histria's political tug-of-war, stuck in the middle along with the King. But why her?
'It doesn't make any sense.'
As Drusilla scampered off in search of a nice fat rat to sink her fangs into, or failing that, a nice juicy ankle, Claudia stretched, adjusted the pleats of her pale green cotton robe, and considered her plan of action. Because, whatever the King's game, she had no intention of being the ball!
'Will milady deign to walk on them this time?' Mazares said, grinning wolfishly. 'Or does she intend to swim ashore with her maidservant clamped between her teeth just to prove her independence again?'
He indicated the rolls of carpets lined up on the deck. Somewhere Claudia could hear a grinding sound and had a feeling it wasn't so much the anchor ropes as her own teeth.
She thought back to the last time she'd seen those rugs, when they were being rolled out over Pula's cobbles. That went a long way to explaining Mazares's behaviour, she supposed. First, Histria's honoured guest charges down the gangplank in what could only be perceived as a snub to the fanfare and rugs. Then she insults no less than the Commander of the Royal Histrian Guard. Rounding it off with a hat-trick, she then humiliates the King's envoy in public.
This was probably not the time to ask if Mazares was a man who bore grudges . . .
'I think I'll go for option two,' she breezed, adding that she was sure he'd understand, her being just a shy, retiring girl at heart.
'Yes, I'd noticed.'
She glanced across to the prow, where Pavan stood, hands on hips, his grey eyes fixed on the approaching island, and contrasted his steely remoteness with Mazares's easy charm. Was the lazy sparkle in those catkin-green eyes fired by amusement - or, as she very much suspected, scorn? Derision, with a smidgen of the I-know-something-you-don'ts.
'These islands are some of my favourite places,' he said, and for the first time she actually believed what he said.
And why not? Rocky coves and golden beaches unfolded one after the other, and the scents of cypress, fir and juniper
wafted on the warm, early-evening air. From the branches of the fragrant pines that swept down to meet the limpid waters, songbirds proclaimed their nesting territories and crickets throbbed among centuries-old olive groves that had provided shade for countless generations of sheep.
Bathed by the blood-red setting sun, it was hard to see where the hilly outcrop that was Rovin left off and the sea began, but the island appeared to be separated from the mainland by a deep, though narrow, channel across which a ferry operated on ropes. Away from Pula, and thus from overt Roman influence, it was easy to imagine Rovin as a throwback to the wooden shanty-towns inhabited by a rough, backward society who had turned their backs on their foreign masters' customs in favour of the old ways. The island was anything but. The closer they approached, the more it became clear that this was a forward-looking, sophisticated, highly developed community with a group of luminaries waiting at the harbourside to greet them.
'So, this is the lovely Claudia!'
An impossibly handsome individual with liquid dark eyes and hair that was every bit as long, dark and glossy as Mazares's leapt aboard instantly to kiss her hand.
'My brother, Kazan,' Mazares introduced, somewhat unnecessarily. The resemblance was unmistakable.
'Delighted.' The brother was in no hurry to release her as he led her down the gangplank. 'Absolutely delighted.'
Kazan's eyes weren't quite so closely set as Mazares's and his hair was straight, rather than curly, a combination that, coupled with his easy smile, gave him an innocent, almost boyish appearance, even though he was probably straddling forty.
'You've no idea how much we've been looking forward to your visit.'
His voice had the same husky pitch as his brother's, but there was something else in it, too. An adulterer's voice, she decided, matched by the adulterer's light in his eyes.
'And I thought Mazares was the charmer of the family,' she declared. 'Is this your wife?'
She smiled at the sporty creature who'd stepped forward in what was no doubt meant to be some form of Histrian curtsy, but whose lithe athleticism turned it into a full-blown gymnas-tical manoeuvre. A well-matched couple, indeed. Kazan, the boy who never grew up, married to a sprightly filly who made sure he never had to. All she needed was a quiver on her shoulder and you had a living, breathing Diana of the Hunt. What bet her thighs could crush the juice right out of a melon?
'Vani? Good heavens, no, Vani's my daughter-in-law,' Kazan laughed, 'She's married to my eldest boy, for her sins! No, my—'
'Why, Lady Claudia!'
A booming voice elbowed the ruddy-cheeked Vani out of the way.
'I do so hope that the next time we welcome you to these shores, it will be as Your Majesty.'
'This is my wife,' Kazan said, rolling his eyes. And will someone please fetch a trowel for her to lay on the flattery?'
'My name's Rosmerta,
dear—'
If he was aware of the contemptuous look his wife threw him, it didn't show.
'—and I wish you nothing but happiness and fulfilment during your visit.'
Her Latin was perfect, even though the flat facial features and almond slant to her eyes testified to a heritage on the far side of the Dolomites, but where Kazan was lithe, athletic and shared his brother's dashing dress sense, Rosmerta was something else. Big, of course, can be beautiful, but sadly this adage had bypassed Rosmerta. As tall as her husband, she was at least twice his girth, and in a bid to keep up with the very latest in Roman fashion, a preponderance of pleats and a dearth of flounces simply emphasized her size. Overweight, overdressed and overbearing was bad enough, but who on earth persuaded her that such a ridiculous froth of false blonde curls was becoming?
'These are my sons,' she said, proudly beckoning forward two strapping youths. 'Marek and Mir.'
She didn't specify who was who, nor elaborate on which son was married to Vani, but it didn't really matter, because, having bowed to the newcomer and mumbled a perfunctory greeting, they immediately turned their attentions to where the wine might be stashed on this godforsaken island.
Rosmerta's pinched lips stretched into an indulgent smile, as if to say, Boys! and Claudia thought, Interesting. Two young men made in their father's image, yet it was from their mother that their characters were drawn.
'This is Drilo, our high priest,' Kazan said.
Bearded and strong-featured, Drilo stepped forward. He smelled of the incense and myrrh that was burned in supplication to his strange gods, and amulets of electrum encircled each wrist.
'You honour us, My Lady,' Drilo said, bowing deeply.
Round his oiled, braided hair he wore a band of gold engraved with the same creatures Claudia had seen on the torque around Mazares's neck.
'On the contrary,' she replied, covering his hand gently with hers. 'It is you who honour me.'
She gazed into his penetrating dark-blue eyes and smiled her most beguiling smile.
Let him think she was hooked. Let them all think she was hooked. That she'd been won over by the gifts, by the flattery, by the lure of the big prize at the end, but make no mistake, my cunning, sneaky, double-dealing Histrian friends. You can pay me, because, oh yes, I'll take your money.
It doesn't mean I've been bought.
Six
Marcus Cornelius Orbilio leaned his tall frame against the temple wall and folded his arms across his chest. The sun was setting, but the evening air was quite without chill, despite the gentle breeze that ruffled the hem of his long, patrician tunic. Inside the temple, the priests and scribes were busy cataloguing the day's intake of offerings to Hercules. As patron of commerce as well as leader of the Muses, the gifts covered the broadest spectrum on the religious scale, and from what Orbilio could hear, today's donations included everything from lyres to poetry engraved on bronze tablets right down to humble terracotta goblets and lions carved from sacred wild olive.
Orbilio wasn't interested in the goings-on inside the temple. It was the house along the street that he was watching. It was a fine house, newly built, with red roof tiles and doors of cedarwood, and from the small slits in the walls that faced the road, he could see the bright flickering of lamps, even though the sun had not yet sunk. Reluctantly, he prised himself off the temple wall and sauntered slowly down towards the house, and maybe it was the scent of Hercules's sacred laurel, but there was a bitter taste on the back of his tongue.
He lifted the gleaming bronze panther-head knocker and let it fall. The door opened at once and a naked black girl, her skin oiled and fragrant, bade him welcome. Once inside, the opulence of the mansion exploded from every angle. Pillars of glistening pure-white Parian marble. Fountains with three, and sometimes four, cascades. Exquisite mosaics on the floors,
the most superb artistry on the soaring walls. Gilded ceilings emphasized the luxury.
Having removed his sandals and bathed his feet in rosewater, the servant girl handed him a glass of vintage Falernian then offered him a plate of sweetmeats. He took a candied cherry stuffed with almond paste, mainly because he didn't want to offend her, rather than because he was hungry, thanked her with a silver coin and moved on. Rare Arabian resins burned in braziers on the walls. Musicians played on flutes and pipes and drums, acrobats in Eastern dress performed a tumbling act and sword dancers from the Orient leapt across their deadly curving blades with practised ease. The very sort of entertainment, Orbilio reflected, that he was used to seeing at family banquets. Before his family stopped inviting him!
'Is there anything I can do for you?' a voice breathed in his ear.
He cast his glance around the beauties draped across the richly upholstered couches, at the revealing slits in their diaphanous garments and the feathered fans in soft bejewelled hands that made subtle beckoning gestures to the male visitors. Then his eyes lifted to the artfully rouged cheeks, the red pouting lips, the kohled eyes, and he drew a deep breath.
'Another glass of wine would be nice.'
'Of course.'
The voice sounded vaguely disappointed, but the wine appeared almost at once. He resisted the urge to toss it down in a single swallow and forced himself to sip slowly from the green glass goblet as he passed from atrium to dining hall and out into the garden.
'Follow me,' a gorgeous creature whispered, 'and I'll show you paradise.'
'I don't doubt it,' he replied, disentangling his arm and wondering how much the transparent linen fabric shot with gold would cost. 'Give me an hour, though.'
Mingling among the brothel's clientele (foreign merchants mostly, for who else could afford the exorbitant rates?), Orbilio listened to the babble of laughter and this time he didn't ration
his drink, but knocked back what was left in his goblet and grimaced. Beneath the joking and the banter, the teasing and the tempting, there ran an undercurrent of desperation and heartache. These were not mosaics that his boots were treading on. He was trampling the remnants of a thousand broken dreams. Crushing the relics of a million shattered promises. For prostitution, even on this exalted level, still exacts a price . . .
And what price am I paying, he wondered? When he joined the Security Police, he genuinely believed he could make a difference. What was the point, he'd argue, in following the family tradition to become a lawyer, when he could be out there, fighting hand to hand on the battlefield in the war between Good and Evil?
He was young then.
An idealist fresh out of the army, and all too painfully he'd discovered that the lines between Good and Evil are frequently blurred. That the enemy isn't always the enemy, and that Good isn't always an advantage - or necessarily right. Furthermore, as the only investigator in the Security Police with blue blood in his veins, he was never fully accepted by the other members of the team, his lower-born boss resented him, and the very nature of his work ostracized him from patrician society. (At least polite patrician society, he qualified wryly, spotting a retired senator sandwiched between two simpering beauties.)
But it was worth it. Half the time he spent traipsing the same old streets, interrogating the same old suspects - little men with big egos or else hotheads with half-baked ideals -and usually all he managed to unearth for his pains was a mixture of bravado and bullshit. Also, the public seemed to be under the impression that once the Empire had rid itself of a few conspirators, that was the end of the matter. It wasn't. Subversion's a weed. A vicious, pernicious, perennial weed, and no matter how often you cut off its blooms or yanked at its stems, the roots of sedition were too deep to dig out. So why did he bother? Why keep beating round the same old dusty bushes?
Simple. If he didn't, the anarchists and assassins would prevail, and imagine if the law of the sword was permitted to win. The seas and the highways would become unsafe to travel; trade would collapse; the Empire would tear itself apart like rabid dogs. It wouldn't happen overnight, of course. Such a downfall would take years. Generations,
perhaps. But Rome had seen enough of her own sons' blood spilled. Augustus had single-handedly crushed a hundred years of bitter infighting to give the Empire peace and stability, endowing his people with a prosperity and a pride that they had not known before. It was worth the lack of acceptance to keep that flame alive, but there were times - God knows there were times -when Orbilio could use a little human comfort.
He continued to work through the fragrant crush, conscious of fingers sliding against his thigh or brushing his hip. Expert fingers, enticing, inviting; gateways to relief and oblivion.
In the fountain by the rose arbour, a slant-eyed dancing girl, naked apart from a black velvet mask, twisted and writhed to a tune played on a lyre by a blind musician, her long wet hair slapping against her oiled skin with rhythmic provocativeness. He moved on.
'They call me Rapture.' A jangle of bracelets rattled in his ear before a fusion of fine lemon cotton and forget-me-not scent blocked his path.
'I can see why,' Orbilio replied, running his eyes over the transparent flounced gown, the delicate embroidery, the finely tooled kid-skin slippers. 'Unfortunately, Rapture, I've arranged to meet with someone else.'
'Pity.' Black-rimmed eyes at a level with his flickered with practised coquettishness. 'Maybe next time . . . ?'
'Definitely,' he lied, watching Rapture sashay seductively down the path.
Too tall, he thought, far too tall, and his heart lurched for the woman who only came up to here on him. The woman who was not forced by law to wear the dyed yellow wig of the prostitute, but one with hair piled high in tempestuous curls and eyes that flashed like twin forest fires - and a tongue
that burned twice as hot! A half-smile twisted his lips. To tame Claudia was to tame the whirlwind while riding white lightning with both hands tied behind his back, but, by Croesus, he was up for a challenge.
Watching the last rays of the sun disappear behind the building, he wondered what she was doing. Was she, like him, sipping wine as the light slowly faded? Was she feasting on oysters and prawns, while musicians serenaded her under an open sky? And what was she wearing? That midnight-blue arrangement pinned with gold clips on her shoulders that accentuated her breasts? Or a fiery red number that reflected the wearer's own passion? More to the point, did she have any idea what she was getting herself into? Histria, for gods' sake, and she—