Widow's Pique

by Marilyn Todd

  'Astonishing,' Pavan rumbled.

  'Ravishing,' Kazan said.

  'Refreshing,' said Vani.

  'Dashing,' chorused Marek and Mir.

  But it was the high priest who voiced the crowd's collective opinion.

  'Inspirational, My Lady. Truly inspired.'

  With one change of costume, he propounded loudly, the Lady Claudia had made public her loyalty to the King. Indeed, so effusive was he in his praise that, by the end of his speech, even she could almost believe that her perception had done her credit!

  The royal emblem was, she had to admit, a lucky choice, but when you stack that against the masked stranger blocking her escape, it paled into insignificance.

  Rovin was a beautiful island set in a paradise sea . . . but it was still her prison.

  Mazares was as dashing and gracious as any man she'd ever met . . . yet he was still her jailer.

  It crossed her mind that Mazares might be keeping her here for her own safety, but if that was the case, Raspor would still be alive. No, he was keeping her because she was the live goat in the pen. Doubtless it was his intention for the King and his new bride to die in some terrible accident, perhaps the ship taking them to Pula would be attacked by pirates, who knows? But come on. Claudia Seferius a goat? He's the one who had to be kidding!

  Daylight had swamped the festivities, revealing just how many spirals of smoke were being carried out to sea on the breeze. Bones and mussel shells littered the pavements, along with battered plates, shattered goblets, and a score of lost or trampled hats, a few broken toys and a baby's painted red rattle. One or two figures slumped in drunken repose, but the party was not due to finish until dusk, and while the sun blazed down upon the token livestock driven through a line of bonfires in ritual purification for the entire herd, Claudia set to plotting a means to escape.

  Brae be nimble, Brae be quick, Brae jump over the candlestick.

  After the sheep, the goats, the pigs and the cattle, it was the turn of the children to hurdle candles in order to burn off evil spirits.

  Brae jump long, Brae jump high, Or Brae fall into a fever and die.

  She blocked their chants out, but still plan after plan was thwarted by geography, logistics and the spectre of the masked Moon God by her side. She had just ruled out setting the whole island ablaze on the grounds that it was too problematic, considering all the buildings had been constructed of stone, when Mazares reached for his Taurus mask, adjusted the balance using the gilded horns, and offered his elbow.

  'It's our turn next.'

  Hurdling a couple of wax candles? No problem. She may have encouraged the whole of Rovin to drink itself stupid, but very little wine had passed her own lips and her co-ordination

  was—

  'We leap the Fire of Life.'

  Too late she noticed that the crowd had moved back from the Zeltane fire, which had been banked up since she last noticed, and Claudia knew she had no choice. She'd nailed her colours to the King's mast, there was no going back, she needed to keep the islanders on her side as much as she could.

  'Don't be scared.'

  'Who s-said I'm s-scared?'

  Croesus, the flames were taller than she was!

  'Ready?'

  The crowd was stamping and cheering them on.

  'No.'

  By the edge of the fire, a veiled nymph dressed entirely in blue tossed bay leaves, verbena, lemon balm and hyssop into the heart of the flames with studied solemnity. Mazares stared at the nymph and her purifying concoction for what seemed like eternity, then dipped his horns, let out a bellow and pawed the ground with his boot. Everyone laughed, and only Claudia heard him say: 'Really? I rather had you pegged as the type who enjoyed getting her feathers singed.'

  He took her hand in his and the grip was firm.

  'When I say run, you run like the wind, and when I say jump, you don't jump high, you jump one-two and make the third jump as long as you can. Trust me.'

  She wanted to say that she might as well put her head in a lion's mouth, but her tongue had stuck to her palate.

  'Run!'

  Hand in hand, they hurtled towards the flames.

  'Jump!'

  One . . . two . . . She had never made such a leap in her life - or found anything more exhilarating.

  'Told you.' Panting, Mazares pulled off the bull mask and grinned. 'And only a handful of burnt feathers to show for it!'

  To take on fire and win . . .

  'Is a charred woodpecker the same as a cooked goose?' she

  asked, but whatever retort he intended to make was overtaken by Marek (or was it Mir?).

  'Hey! Mazares! Isn't it time you showed the pretty birdie your own wooden pecker?'

  Pavan lifted a hand that would have swept him backwards off his feet, but Rosmerta stepped in front of her son.

  'You will apologize at once for your vulgarity,' she boomed, her white face distorted with anger.

  As he voiced his abject contrition, Claudia wondered whether Kazan wasn't the weak link after all, because he'd said nothing. Nothing at all.

  'Good boy.'

  Rosmerta glanced first to Claudia, then Mazares to establish that no harm had been done and, satisfied, said: 'Now then, who's going to escort me through this year's Fire of Life? Kazan?'

  They made an incongruous couple, the Cat and the Sun God, and it struck Claudia how odd it was that, on his own, Kazan radiated confidence and strength, yet beside his wife he appeared weaker and somewhat diminished. Perspective, she mused. By her very size and nature, Rosmerta dominated every scene and Claudia's thoughts flittered back to her own wedding day. Also a marriage of convenience, but whereas Kazan and Rosmerta's was a political alliance, at least she and Gaius had thrashed out a pact for themselves. Did Kazan have any inkling of what he was taking on, when he accepted the Illyrian chieftain's daughter? Were there any hints in the young Rosmerta of the sourness and resentment that lay ahead? Or were those traits born of her husband's relentless profligacy? Neither Cat nor Sun God, Claudia concluded, deserved the other - and she meant it in the kindest sense.

  In several places, makeshift bridges had been constructed across the Fires of Life to convey the sick, frail and elderly without risk, though for the majority of Zeltane's celebrants, the leaping was an important part of the ritual, with young couples jostling to race towards the flames. The masked stranger, she noticed, was among them. Hand in hand, he leapt

  with Vani, their muscular legs scissoring effortlessly across the flames. Vani, dressed as Goddess of the Night. Whose lover was none other than the Moon himself . . .

  To the sound of pan-pipes, drums and flutes, the food and wine just kept on coming, with a seemingly endless succession of earthenware pots being pulled out of the logs in which this season's lambs had been slow-roasted during the night. Out in the plaza, a human chain linked hands to weave in and out of the crackling bales, swaying and singing as they danced, their shadows casting a parallel ballet.

  'Why do you suppose there are no Romans at this banquet?' the masked stranger murmured.

  If Perun was truly God of Justice, he'd have him sweating like a pig under the weight of so much metal, the heat turning it into an oven inside, he'd make it cut into his flesh and rub his skin raw, leaving a rash.

  'Remind me to lend you a ruby,' she breezed. 'If you hold it next to your eye, all things become magnified. An excellent aid for short sight.'

  'Apart from you, then.'

  Easy. The Histri were underhand, they were sneaky, they were all double-dealers. Even without the conspiracy angle, they'd managed to convince Rome that they were perfectly capable of governing themselves without intervention. Doubtless they were right, and although Gora probably bristled with imperial flunkies, such was the propaganda they'd been drip fed for so long that it wouldn't have occurred to any Roman to be on the invitation list for local festivals.

  'I have no idea,' she replied, helping herself to a piece of succulent lamb. 'Why don't we ask Mazares?'
>
  The rumble under the mask was reminiscent of the sound Drusilla made when she heard a strange noise in the night. Two minutes passed, in which the Moon God tapped his fingernail on the table.

  'I don't suppose you'd care to dance with me, would you?'

  He supposed right.

  * * *

  It was only as the sun began to sink again and the exhausted revellers collapsed to watch the Zeltana - the play in which Winter (dressed in grey) battled Summer (all in green) - which ended in a comic turn, with Summer setting fire to Winter's tail and Winter running down the island howling at the top of his voice - that Claudia wondered whether she hadn't been looking at this problem the wrong way round.

  Clearly, there was no way she could steal away from this island ... so why try? Why not let them think she'd escaped and lie low until the heat had died down? She couldn't be sure it was 'them' and not 'him', just as she couldn't be sure Mazares was spearheading this campaign, but who else had the patience, drive and grit to execute a plan that would take years to come to fruition? As a soldier, Pavan certainly had the ability and tactical knowledge, but no general worth his salt would sit back for that long. Were Pavan the lone orches-trator, he'd have acted swiftly and decisively, and would undoubtedly have come unstuck long ago. Kazan was too selfcentred, Drilo too self-important, Marek and Mir too immature and self-absorbed.

  She watched as archers fired volley upon volley of flaming arrows at the setting sun in a last-ditch attempt to keep the light alive, and thought, yes indeed. Smoke and mirrors, that was all it was . . . yet it was enough to reverse nature for the duration of the Zeltane Festival. Why not make smoke and mirrors work for her?

  All she needed was the right spot in which to go to ground.

  Sixteen

  'My dear, what a wonderful surprise!'

  The tints in Salome's hair glistened like rubies beneath the blazing sun.

  'And you've saved me a trip to Rovin, as well.'

  Leading Claudia away from her armed escort, she took her to a cool shed packed with a fragrant display of oleanders, pinks, larkspur and hibiscus, orange blossom, lilies and orchids, all arranged with breathtaking artistry.

  'The day after Zeltane and in celebration of the Earth Goddess Maija, Histrian women pack flowers into the baskets that they've spent all winter weaving, which they then give away. This tradition is known as the Goodwill Basket and the idea is to distribute luck and good fortune to those who need it the most.'

  There were scabious and verbena, sweet periwinkle, heads of fluffy, white peonies . . .

  'Tobias's handiwork?'

  'That's the beauty of the men who choose to stay on,' Salome said. 'They stay, because they fall in love with this land.'

  The thought of the scowling Tobias in love was hard to imagine. Lean and wiry, with a head of thick, springy hair, he struck Claudia as a young man tormented by demons, not angels. But who knows? Perhaps he exorcized them in horticultural perfection?

  'Teamwork,' Salome explained. 'Tobias produces these beautiful blooms, Lora fashions them into works of art.'

  Lora: the girl with the cascade of waves that fell to her waist, who helped Salome in the treatment room. The same Lora who'd thought to add a remedy for the battered wife's bruises to the preparations she'd been asked to make up. Who'd tickled the chin of a playful grey kitten and stroked a snoozing tomcat. And whose elfin face set like cement when Salome said, Lora, this is Claudia, who's come all the way from Rome to consider the King's proposal of marriage . . .

  'It's a generous gesture,' Claudia said. 'Perhaps the locals will think better of you after this.'

  'Bigots are like leopards, they don't change their spots,' Salome replied. 'But in any case, I can't afford to give them the opportunity. Money's far too tight to simply give away such an expensive crop. No, my dear, these are for you to distribute.'

  'Me?'

  'Mazares thought you might like to continue the May Day tradition of sending Goodwill Baskets to those who might need them . . .'

  'Jarna, for instance?'

  Salome smiled. 'You're learning!'

  She fixed a chaplet of tight pink rosebuds, pale blue nigella and some feathery white flowers over Claudia's hair, slipped a sprig of myrtle into her own foxy mane, then pursed her lips.

  'Just a suggestion, my dear - and this is entirely up to you, of course - but now that you're aware of the custom, have you considered presenting one of these baskets to Mazares?'

  'What a splendid idea. Which one contains the poison ivy?'

  She diffused her barb with a smile and selected a sumptuous arrangement of yellows and golds with a splash of purple iris thrown in.

  'I hope he paid you the full market price,' she added, changing her mind in favour of a display of dazzling blues.

  'Better than that. He sent us a pig.'

  'Did you say pig?'

  'Plump and spotted, not a bit like the crusty old boars you find in the hills, this one's gentle and funny, an absolute darling, and just what I've always wanted. Come along, I'll introduce you.'

  'I must be losing my sex appeal,' Claudia grumbled. 'In the past, people introduced me to eligible bachelors.'

  'Isn't that the same thing?' Salome giggled.

  'It is in Mazares's case,' Lora rasped, stomping in with another basket of blooms under her arm. 'He paid with a pig, because he is a pig.'

  'Lora, please.' Salome looked as though she'd been kicked.

  'What? I can't speak my mind now? You said it yourself, only a few men can handle the concept of equality and Mazares is not one of them.' Elfin features rounded on Claudia. 'A point you might want to consider, since you'll be marrying King Chauv—'

  'That's quite enough, Lora.'

  Salome's tone didn't change, but the steel was unmistakable. The girl shrugged one finely plucked eyebrow, laid down her basket then swept out of the shed. In the silence that followed, dust motes danced in the sunshine and bees, spoilt for choice, buzzed industriously round the fragrant displays.

  'I apologize for Lora's outburst,' Salome said at last, 'but there's something you need to understand.'

  Outside, an army of young girls milked goats and churned cheeses, spun wool and chopped vegetables, while others drew game birds or plucked poultry, and an old woman ground mustard grains with a pestle and mortar. Salome paused to give orders regarding the preparation of dyes and the sharpening of ploughshares before leading her visitor to a seat on the terrace at the back of the house. Shaded by cool, fragrant pines, a fountain gurgled contentedly, butterflies fluttered between urns of valerian and small birds twittered in the canopy above. Across the way, a bed

  of commercial lilies wafted their scent on the gentle warm breeze.

  'Lora labours under the misapprehension that it's because of her that the King's taken against what I do here. It isn't, or, more accurately, it's only part of the problem, but the trouble is -' the Syrian fixed her green eyes on a gap through the trees to where the sun glistened like diamonds on the sea in the distance '- Lora was married to the King's son, his only heir, you remember. After her husband was killed in the hunt, she came here.'

  'Ah.'

  Imagination didn't need to stretch far to picture the chauvinistic Histri's reaction to their widowed princess labouring in a commune of women!

  'In tribal law, just like Roman law, women belong to the men,' Salome continued. 'Lora had become the prince's chattel upon marriage and in her mind the unrest is down to the simple question of the Histri wanting her back.'

  'Do they?'

  'Of course. Nothing's changed in that respect, but this farm is Roman and they wouldn't dare launch an aggressive action, though you must have noticed by now that the Histri are a boneheaded bunch. Nothing I say makes a scrap of difference to that woman's viewpoint, although -' she dabbled her hand in the fountain - 'having said that, she was mighty glad to see you."

  'You could have fooled me.'

  'Lora's young, and I can't say her manners have improved sinc
e she's been here, hence her outburst. I can promise you that won't happen again, but it's troubled her from the day of the funeral that she might be forced into marriage with the King. It wouldn't be the first time this has happened in this country and, as you know, youth always hides fear with aggression.'

  Claudia thought of all the scandals that had wracked Rome and decided that none compared to this tiny kingdom. Square foot for square foot, the city just couldn't compete!

  'You see, my dear, even the present incumbent of the throne was forced to marry his dead brother's widow.'

  'Brae's wife?'

  'Exactly. Delmi was the eldest daughter of the King of the Ispydes, a wealthy tribe who, as you know, are outside the Empire but who are nevertheless allies and an important link on the amber road which runs through here to the Baltic.'

  She went on to explain. Delmi had been married to Brae for just over three years when the prince died of a fever, but such was her family's power and influence that Histria dare not break the political alliance. Bereft as he was at the loss of his heir, Dol had no choice but to decree that his second son marry Brae's widow, even though the boy was only fifteen at the time.

  'Did he mind?'

  And more to the point, how did poor Delmi feel, being passed from pillar to post?

  Salome shrugged her elegant shoulders. 'The King has always put his country before himself

  'There's something I still don't understand,' Claudia said. 'You say Lora believes herself to be the cause of all your rape and pillage, yet she's still here.'

  If there was one quality the aristocracy were born with, it was obligation. Duty was the first word they uttered.

  'I repeat, boneheaded.' Salome grinned. 'Ultimately, though, it's her choice whether she stays or goes, my doors are open to everyone and, believe me, there's more than enough work to go round!'

  The two young widows set off on a slow tour of Amazonia, taking in everything from the spotted pig, snorting happily around her brand-new sty and showing imminent signs of producing piglethood, to the shed where wheat was threshed, to the flock of tiny, dark-brown sheep with arching horns, whose fleeces were in the process of being plucked, not shorn, using special antler combs. Again, the riot of colour on this farm took Claudia's breath away. Yellow lupins, pale blue flax, fields of bright green wheat, but . . .