by Marilyn Todd
He kicked off his sandals and dived into the hot, scented waters.
The second thing was that the undercurrent from the storm that had wracked the Pelopponese two days before had finally made its way to Rovin. As previously mentioned, the swell was only slight, but, funnelled into the deep channel that separated island from mainland, it was sufficient to dislodge a lot of the debris that had collected in the fire-breathing monster's domain over the past year or so. Raspor's bloated corpse and that of the boat builder were just some of the gruesome objects which were about to float to the surface.
And thirdly . . .
Salome, returning from checking up on little Broda, came across the Lady Rosmerta stumbling along one of the alleys, with blood pouring from a wound on her forehead.
A tile, it appeared, had slipped from a roof and only narrowly avoided a tragedy.
Nosferatu was furious. Mistakes do not happen. Repeat, mistakes do not happen.
They just do not bloody well happen.
Twenty-Two
Night had coiled herself over the landscape, carrying pine-scented vapours into the houses and echoing the soft hoots of owls round the islands. Foxes skulked on the edge of the middens, pipistrelles squeaked on the wing and moths diced with death round the flickering flames of torches set high on the gleaming white walls. Down on the foreshore, feral cats sniffed the slumbering fishing boats as gentle waves gurgled and slurped, and in Claudia's bedroom, a familiar wedge-shaped face pressed itself against hers and began rattling.
'Frrr.'
'I know, poppet.'
She unhooked a claw that had snagged in her gown.
'First Raspor, now Rosmerta, and don't tell me that was an accident.'
'Prrrrrr.'
A mass of warm, silky fur curled round Claudia's neck and gently butted her chin with its head.
'Exactly!'
It was here, beneath this very window, that the little priest had stood wringing his hands.
'Raspor risked everything,' she told Drusilla, 'so that someone objective would listen.'
'Hrrrow.'
'Except someone objective laughed him out of town and her disdain cost him his life.'
Beads of sweat trickled down Claudia's breastbone, soaking
the cotton of her whale-grey gown, and each droplet had the word 'guilt' written all over it.
'I failed him, Drusilla. I failed him and, thanks to me, Rosmerta was this close to becoming another of that bastard's victims.'
She screwed tight her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose, but the dam couldn't prevent something salty and wet dribbling over her cheeks.
'Brrrp?'
Dammit, it was only because of Rosmerta's insufferable vanity that the ferryman wasn't rowing her across the River Styx at this very minute!
'Rrrow.'
'Too true, poppet.'
Claudia scrubbed the tears away with the back of her hand.
'There are some things a killer just can't legislate for.'
In this case, it was that ridiculous froth of Roman-style curls. The wig was so thick it had saved Rosmerta's life!
'But enough is enough,' she said, stroking Drusilla's ears.
Too many people had died, or else, like little Broda, had been scarred from this ruthless campaign. She was no longer prepared to wait while more innocents suffered, simply to gather evidence in exchange for a free pardon.
'It means we'll have to find other ways of getting the Security Police off our back,' she sighed, setting the cat on to a chair. 'But honestly, what choice do I have?'
The only path open to Claudia now was to voice her suspicions loudly and often - and to everyone within earshot. Then pray to every god on Olympus to protect her, because although the 'accidents' would be forced to stop, she suspected this would only be after an attempt on her own life . . .
Outraged that she had been dumped like a sack of stale parsnips, Drusilla promptly exercised her claws on the lushly embroidered upholstery, then, in one fluid movement, bounded over the windowsill. Claudia's heart stopped. The drop - twenty feet - it was far too far for a cat . . .
She ran to the window, her nails gouging the woodwork as her eyes scanned the darkness for a small, lifeless body. But Drusilla was too shrewd to have misjudged her descent. She'd used the fig that grew against the wall as a climbing frame, and her dark fur had already fused with the night. Claudia's heart thumped with relief as she sank against the frame of the window, and now she realized what had sent Drusilla diving into the void. The sound of trumpets and drums would have been picked up by feline ears a lot earlier, as the victory procession wound its way through the town. The noise had sent Drusilla to ground. As Claudia watched the approach of the torchlit snake, she heard angry voices approaching below.
'. . . you could have bloody well told me that this Marcus character was attached to the Security Police!'
'Dammit, Salome, I know what I'm—'
'No, really, Mazares. How hard would it have been, to actually talk to me first?'
His white shirt stood out like a beacon in the blackness as he stepped in front to block her way. With no lamp burning up in Claudia's bedroom, there was no reason for either of them to suppose that their conversation would be overheard and, invisible in her dark-grey cotton robe, Claudia leaned over the windowsill for a better snoop.
'Is that why you entered the foot race this morning?' Mazares asked quietly.
And wasn't it a good thing that I did?' Salome retorted. 'Otherwise I'd never have known your . . . your friend was a—'
Dammit, the clashing of cymbals drowned out the rest of her words and much of his reply, too.
'—god knows, I've warned you enough times, Salome—' clatter, clang, crash '—and believe me, Marcus isn't stupid—' batter, bang, boom.
'—well, you're a fine one to dish out advice about Rome—' now it was the drums and the trumpets again '—and what about Lora, eh? What about her?'
'For heaven's sake, don't you think I've thought about that? Good god, Salome, all I'm asking is that you—'
Claudia would never know what Mazares was asking. At that moment, a mighty cheer rose up from the crowd, calling the victors' names over and over, but in any case, Salome seemed to be in no mood for discussion, storming off just a few minutes later, leaving Mazares tossing exasperated hands in the air. The same hands, Claudia reflected miserably, that had thrown a noose round Raspor's neck and throttled the life out of the priest . . .
The same hands that had killed Broda's uncle, drowned a twelve-year-old child and callously murdered his way to his goal.
Nosferatu.
Demon, ghoul, fiend in human form.
Ah, yes, my friend. Claudia stared into the blackness. But no one said you were immortal.
They were all there, clustered around Rosmerta's bedframe. Drilo, the high priest, in rich flowing robes scented with incense, stood on the far side, his dark blue eyes narrowed in thought. He was flanked by her sons, and although their handsome faces registered concern, one tapped his foot and the other drummed his fingers against the wall. Behind them stood Vani, and Pavan towered impassively in the corner, his arms folded over his massive chest, each corded muscle bulging the fabric of his shirt. There was, of course, one noticeable absence, but the puppet-master needed time to plaster the right expression on his face. No doubt he would be along shortly.
However, it was Kazan who surprised Claudia. For once, the little-boy-lost expression had been overtaken by Kazan the man. By Kazan the husband, Kazan the father, Kazan the head of the household. In turn anxious, devastated and shocked, he paced the room, his face drawn and white as a stranger placed a poultice of mouldy bread over the head wound.
'How is she?' Claudia whispered, but she needn't have bothered.
'I could have died, you know,' Rosmerta boomed. 'I could have been killed with that wretched masonry tile!'
Claudia couldn't help smiling. Some things, she thought, never change. This woman, dammit, was bulletproof.
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'If it hadn't been for Salome, I would have bled to death, too!'
'Not at all,' the young stranger reassured her, bandaging over the poultice. 'Head wounds invariably gush.'
His patient's snort reflected her opinion of that.
'I tell you, Lady Claudia.' Rosmerta even managed a feeble wag of her finger. 'If that girl hadn't been on hand to staunch the blood with a decoction of yarrow and dead nettle, they'd be embalming my corpse at this moment!'
Without the usual preponderance of make-up and flounces, Rosmerta looked like every other piece of mutton who tries to pass herself off as lamb. She looked younger, and for the first time it was actually possible to view Rosmerta as her husband's contemporary, rather than a bossy older sister or (sometimes) even his mother. On the other side of the bed, Marek, or perhaps Mir, opened his mouth in a yawn. Kazan's glower cut it short.
'Well, I hear the Lands of the Blessed get a lot of rain this time of year,' Claudia quipped. 'You're far better off with us here, on Rovin.'
She glanced at the box on the chair by the stranger's side and noticed a grisly array of scalpels, retractors, catheters and probes poking out. Hardly the instruments of a mule doctor, then, but it seemed the curiosity was mutual. It was the first time, she realized, that he'd appreciated the newcomer was Roman, but the minute he noticed, his eyes narrowed in hostility.
'I'd prefer visits were kept to the immediate family,' he said brusquely, pinning his patient's bandage in place.
A ripple of glances were exchanged round the room, but it was Pavan who stepped forward to answer.
'The Lady Claudia is contracted to marry the King, lad,' he rumbled.
The physician's hostility evaporated at once.
'Good,' he decided. 'Excellent, in fact, because I was just about to go looking for him, before I was summoned up here.'
This time the glances were sharper, longer, and Claudia felt a ripple of alarm run up her backbone.
'Listen, laddie—' Pavan began.
'The thing is,' the doctor said, checking Rosmerta's pulse with one hand, as the other packed instruments back in their box. 'When I was called to examine the body of the royal physician, I discovered—'
Everybody began exclaiming at once.
'Good heavens, man, what are you saying?' (Drilo.)
'The King's physician is dead?' (Kazan.)
'We thought he was a poof run off with his lover.' (Marek.) (Or Mir.)
'Ah!' It finally occurred to the young man that no one had actually told these people that the royal physician had died. 'I - uh - I'm really sorry, but yes. The fact is, his body was found at the bottom of a valley halfway between here and Gora.'
Embarrassment at his gaffe had turned his face and neck as red as a turkey-cock's wattle, and he tried to cover it by rearranging instruments which didn't need rearranging.
'He'd fallen, obviously?' (Vani this time.)
'Well, no, that's the odd thing,' he stammered, clicking the clasp on his instrument chest. 'I can't help feeling the accident had been staged - oh, shit. I shouldn't have said that, should I? Not before I'd talked with the King.'
'No, lad, ye shouldna,' Pavan growled, and his grey eyes rested on Claudia for a very, very long time. 'Look, son, why don't ye and I take a stroll?'
'Well, I really think I ought to stay with—'
'A stroll, lad,' Pavan insisted, laying a huge paw on the young doctor's shoulder and pushing him out of the door. And as for the rest of ye - I reckon we should let the patient rest.'
'Absolutely,' Vani said, patting her mother-in-law's hand.
'But first, I have some thrilling news that I know will make you very happy, Rosmerta.'
She patted her tummy, delight sparkling in her eyes.
'Well done, girl. Jolly well done!' Rosmerta winced as she grabbed Vani's hand, but her joy was plain for all to see. 'I told you rubbing bear's fat on your womb would do the trick.' She sank back on her pillows and sighed happily. 'Just think, Kazan! We're going to be grandparents at last! Isn't this just so exciting?'
'Indeed.' Kazan's smile was as broad and proud as his wife's, but his was without surprise. 'I'm so happy for you, Vani, I really am.'
'You must organize a parade,' Rosmerta told Kazan. 'Several! We will need to show the little one off, and when it comes to the Naming Ceremony, I don't think a public feast in Pula would be amiss, either. You'll need to start looking round now for a goldsmith to craft the amulet . . .'
Dear me, the baby wasn't born and Rosmerta was taking over, and if she was like this on her sickbed, what on earth would she be like when she was up and running? Vani, who clearly had her own ideas about her child's future, rolled her eyes in the direction of the baby's father, and Kazan responded with a tight, understanding smile.
'. . . our grandchild will have nothing but the best, Kazan, and you must start looking around for a nurse, too. When I'm back on my feet, naturally I will take over the—'
It was difficult to know how far to indulge her, in view of so recent an injury, but high priests must have some in-built knowledge of these things, because, with a flourish of his long robes, Drilo stepped forward and bowed deeply before the mother-to-be.
'Congratulations, my dear, may the gods bless you and keep your child free from harm.'
He laid a gentle kiss on the back of her hand.
'I will draw up the baby's horoscope and pronounce the auspices at once, if you can let me know the midwife's calculation for the birth.'
'Three days after the autumn equinox, My Lord.'
'Perfect.' His oiled braids nodded solemnly. 'A season of bounty and plenty, my dear, of fruitfulness and thanksgiving. You and your husband must be truly overjoyed.'
But when they looked round, the boys had already gone.
'Orbilio, this is no time to be writing love letters,' Claudia announced, marching into his room. 'I have a job for you. Come.'
'Actually, I was writing up my dispatches,' he said, tapping the parchment. And frankly, if you think your ridiculous wild goose chase takes precedence over His Imperial Majesty's business - and the case I am working on threatens to affect our entire economy and undermine the very foundations of the Empire - then you are absolutely, one hundred per cent right.'
Look at him, she thought. Funny, solicitous, charming, urbane. Anyone would think we were friends.
'I presume this is the same bee buzzing round in your bonnet about a coup to destabilize Histria?' he asked cheerfully, lengthening his stride to keep up. 'Because, if so, I ought to tell you now, before you go making a complete and utter fool of yourself—'
'Marcus, please.' Claudia stopped and held up her hands. 'When I want your opinion, I'll give it to you.'
'I feared as much.'
All I require tonight is a witness.'
'Whatever you say, Your Royal Highness.'
'Snide doesn't suit you, Orbilio, any more than black fingers. No chance of it being gangrene, I suppose?'
'Sadly, Your Ladyship, ink isn't terminal, at least not as far as I'm aware, but who knows? It might yet prove to be the ultimate in untraceable murder weapons.'
'When poets tell you the pen is mightier than the sword, you really shouldn't take them literally, you know.'
'You don't think it would catch on in terms of warfare?'
'I didn't say that. Hurling rude letters at one another is what
they do in the Senate, why not carry it one stage further and take them into battle? Scrolls are a lot lighter to wield than a sword, and they never need sharpening - ah, so that's where the quarry's been hiding.'
Mazares was, in fact, in the courtyard and was anything but in hiding. The garden was illuminated by scores of torches in cressets, and fragranced by aromatic resins burning in braziers, and Claudia paused in the archway on the pretext of adjusting her sandal. In practice, it was to watch as he scooped a bedraggled kitten out of the fountain into which it had fallen. She watched as he wiped its coat dry on his shirt and as he didn't even flinch when the
tiny ingrate shot over his shoulder and down his back, using its little sharp claws to gain purchase. Ah, but there was something about him tonight. Something different. The crow's feet round his eyes were more pronounced, she noticed, his face unusually lined, and there was a stiffness about all of his movements.
A man, she thought, in the grip of emotion.
A man clinging to his temper by a mere thread.
Oh, Nosferatu. A smile twisted one side of her mouth. How the net is closing in on you . . .
'Well, if it isn't two of my favouritest friends,' he said, and she thought, dammit, that man could talk the Ferryman into rowing him to Atlantis instead of Hades and still not pay for the fare. 'Come and join me.'
Ushering them to a table spread with sweetmeats and cakes, he proceeded to pour wine as though it was someone else's sister-in-law who had been brained with a roof tile. Someone else's sister-in-law who had narrowly escaped death. Claudia sipped. The wine was full-bodied and rich, and could match any vintage of hers. Bugger.
'Mazares.'
She folded her hands on the table and noticed that pinpricks of red had begun to show through his white shirt. So Nosferatu bleeds, does he?
'Mazares, I was chatting to your brother in the cemetery
earlier this morning. It appears he was releasing a flock of finches in your brother's memory.'
'He does that every year,' Mazares replied evenly.
'So I gather.'
She glanced at Orbilio, who was suddenly finding something of great interest on his boot. She kicked him on the ankle under the table, which gave him something else to think about, as well as gaining his attention.
'Well, the thing is, Mazares, it occurred to me, I suppose seeing those hideous masks above the black empty robes flapping against the tree trunks, that you do seem to have a history of tragedy in your family.'
His skin had a strange pallor tonight, too. That row with Salome had cut deep - oh, and right on top of his victim escaping, the poor little moustachioed lamb . . .
'Yes,' he agreed. 'Death does tend to shadow me.'
Actually, chum, it's the other way round. But this was not the time to mention Raspor, Rosmerta, the royal physician, the King, the King's son, his daughter, his brother, his wife and Uncle Tom Cobley and all. Confine it to his immediate family for now. God knows, there was still enough to go round!