Dark Horse

by Marilyn Todd

  Twenty-Two

  When Apollo reined his fiery chariot over the eastern horizon the following morning, the air over Cressia was calm and warm, heavy with the scent of the oregano which grew wild on the hillsides. Birds sang, but their arias were brief. Territories had long since been established and there was little energy to spare with fast-growing chicks demanding so much food.

  In the hills, foxes slunk home to their dens, stone martens suckled their second litter and rabbits sniffed warily as they emerged from their burrows.

  Out on the water, still pink from the dawn, fishermen dropped polished pebbles into the sea - offerings to Neptune, for protecting them from the pirate. Garlands of campion and storksbills bobbed from where their womenfolk had already cast their thanksgivings earlier.

  Further out still, the cascades of water caused by a lone dolphin arcing in and out of the limpid sea were turned to silver in the burgeoning sunshine.

  The fruit on the pomegranate trees which shaded the Villa Arcadia swelled and ripened in the summer heat. The figs grew luscious and sweet.

  Wings warmed by the sun, brown argus butterflies, painted ladies, commas and graylings formed a mobile chequerboard as they danced over blooms in search of nectar. Bees droned. Lizards crawled out of their cracks in the wall.

  After the celebrations which had lasted until the wee small hours, Leo's slaves had permission to sleep in. A cockerel crowed in the distance. Horses in the stable block shuffled and snickered, and one stamped its hooves. Scorpions scuttled beneath stones.

  Floating on her mattress of swansdown beneath a counterpane scented with camomile as the eye of the day slowly opened, Claudia Seferius dreamed. She dreamed of epic sea voyages in search of adventure, of golden fleeces and giant one-eyed cannibals, encounters with sorceresses, sea monsters and the deadly song of the Sirens, and beside her, in the crook of her arm, the ribcage of her blue-eyed, cross-eyed, dark Egyptian cat rose and fell in unison with her breathing.

  Another hour passed, and no one and nothing in Arcadia stirred.

  In fact, another hour would drift by before the first slave shuffled bleary-eyed along the portico and noticed the Scythian spear embedded in the aromatic cedarwood of the atrium door. But in that hour, fieldworkers and artisans, household slaves and children, even the dogs, slumbered on. In good time, they would wake, stretch, clean their teeth. Some would turn and make love to their wives. They knew nothing about the spate of messages which had been delivered, three times in total, courtesy of a Scythian spear, so they weren't afraid. The pirates had gone, and in any case what was the spear but a harmless piece of polished cypress with a few ribbons and rattles and barbaric carvings?

  And since only Qus knew about the spears, they would not know that on previous occasions there had been a message attached, saying: Give back what is mine.

  There was no piece of lettered parchment on the lance when it was discovered on this beautiful, calm summer's morning.

  What was impaled in its place was a body.

  Shamshi the Persian had made a prediction. Before the sun stands thrice more over our heads, a woman shall die. Shamshi the Persian was wrong. It wasn't a woman who'd been speared through the gut and left to die on the atrium door.

  It was Leo.

  Twenty-Three

  Words could not describe the effect on the island.

  It was like the aftershock of an earthquake. So terrible, so devastating, that it could only find expression in silence. People were paralysed physically as well as emotionally. Incapable of moving. Of speaking. Even of thinking.

  If Jason could sneak back under the noses of a score of armed guards and slaughter the most powerful man on a hundred and twenty square miles of island, what hope for the rest of them?

  They had always been on their guard against pirates, but the barbarism of the killing stunned everyone. That Leo had been murdered was horrendous. That he had been impaled made the crime as horrific as anything they had ever heard of.

  In the past, the people of Cressia made no secret of their dislike of their overlord. They'd resented his high-handed Roman ways, the way he strutted around as though he owned every inch of the island, dispensing justice when a crime had been committed, ensuring taxes were paid to the Collector once a year. Every time they saw one of his slaves in their bright-yellow livery and watched how many sacks were unloaded from the trade ships for just one villa, and every time they counted the timbers shipped to him from the mainland, the bales of bright cloth, amphorae of wine, the barrels full of lemons from Africa, Damascan plums, Egyptian melons or ridiculously priced spices from India, the islanders' resentment grew fiercer. It reinforced their own poverty, the usurping of traditional Cressian ways. In Leo's wealth and ostentatiousness, their noses were rubbed into the footprint of Rome.

  Oh, but what would they give to have Leo throwing his

  weight around once again! To return to the safety and security of Rome at their back. The islanders were too shocked to weep at their misfortune, but already they realized they'd taken Leo for granted, and without his protection, their chickens had come home to roost.

  At the Villa Arcadia, the end result was the same, even if the process was different. Here, spunk from the slaves had drained away slowly, like water from a cracked bowl. A slave is a chattel, an object to be bought and sold at the auction block, at least, that's the theory. In practice, most rich men's slaves lived better than freemen. They were guaranteed food in their bellies, good food at that. They were housed and clothed well, their children educated and taught a trade. They earned money from the work that they did, and this bought them fancy clothes, jewels, concubines and, best of all, they did not have to pay tax. Even the lowliest labourer lived well. Prudent slaves put their salaries aside to save for businesses of their own - usually a shop - and they often owned slaves of their own. It wasn't a bad life, considering, and many chose to remain enslaved rather than purchase their freedom. They lived better that way. Got fat quicker.

  Providing their master was alive to look after them.

  Now Leo was dead, brutally murdered, who would protect them when the pirates came back? Even in the unlikely event that Rome came to their aid in time, families would surely be broken up as the estate was sold off. Where would they go? Who would buy them? Would their new masters beat them?

  In killing Leo, hundreds of other lives had also been wrecked.

  And still the birds sang and the butterflies danced, and a lone dolphin made silvery arcs in the water.

  Twenty-Four

  The heart of the demon rejoiced. It could feel it physically I swelling with happiness, pulsating with energy against its chest wall.

  A tide of destruction had been unleashed.

  Let there be more.

  Let there be no end to the carnage.

  Twenty-Five

  In a bedroom darkened to near blackness by closed shutters for privacy, Claudia sniffed back the tears. Leo had his faults - more than most - but no man deserved to die in such a manner. Whatever score Jason wanted to settle, that was simply too high a price.

  You bastard! You cold-blooded, calculating, evil-minded bastard. She saw Jason standing in that rosy-pink dawn three days ago on the prow of his warship. That insolent bow. The slow mime of the handclap. The gold which had glinted at hi neck and his belt in the sun. You didn't even have the decency to kill Leo quickly, you callous son-of-a-bitch.

  But he'd made a mistake, killing a high-ranking Roman Leo's barbaric murder would bring the whole damn Roma Navy up here - there would be no place for Jason to hide Informers would be richly rewarded, retribution on those who backed Azan would be grim, and reprisals for those who sheltered the Moth did not bear thinking about. There would be no port or cove left for the rebels to put in to, and Claudia had no pity for Jason once they'd been run to ground Captured alive (the Emperor would make sure of that), he'd be dragged back to Rome, paraded in chains round the street and sentenced to a humiliating, protracted death in the arena 'And I s
hall be in the front row, cheering for Leo,' she said aloud.

  'Hrrrow,' Drusilla agreed.

  It was so unfair. She scrubbed away the tears that streamed down her face with her sleeve. 'The only way Leo gets to see his beautifully refurbished atrium is with a coin under hi tongue for the ferryman.'

  'Mrrrrr.'

  pity his family, too. He'd be in his urn long before the news reached halfway to Rome. His sisters and brothers, his cousins and nephews, friends and colleagues would gather instead in the Forum to hear a sombre ovation in his honour. Like the families of soldiers killed in war, they would have to hold the feast without holding the funeral. Grieving would be harder because of it.

  Fumbling in the drear darkness, Claudia stuffed a protesting Drusilla into her cage.

  'Meeee-out!'

  'Sorry, poppet.' She rammed the latch home to make her point and hurriedly tossed underclothes into her trunk. 'We need to get clear of the risk zone. Pronto.'

  'Worried Jason'll come back?' a voice asked from the doorway.

  Thank Jupiter for bodyguards! Hardly his job, but with the maids poleaxed from shock, Junius would just have to pitch in with the packing. Claudia wedged a pair of sandals down the side of the chest and said,

  'Not Jason, you clod. Orbilio.' Get in there, dammit. She pressed down on her gowns, stuffed the last two on top, but would the wretched lid close?

  'Would that be so much of a problem?'

  'Junius, I am not in the mood for stupid questions.' How the hell were her cosmetic jars supposed to fit into that tiny space? 'Supersnoop will win enough glory bringing Jason and the rebels to book, they'll erect a statue to him in the Forum.' May the pigeons have a field day with it. 'He doesn't need to add my little dodge to his heroic collection.'

  'Which little dodge might that be exactly?'

  How come I've got a blue slipper left over? 'Junius, come and sit on the lid of this trunk, will you?'

  Damn. The doorway was devoid of bodyguards. Claudia sat on the lid herself and bounced up and down until it closed.

  'No, really.' Now the voice came from the corner. 'Are we talking about the tax dodge on your wine exports to Spain? That spot of smuggling earlier this year? Or slipping narcotics to the hot favourites in provincial derbies?'

  When she stood up, the lid sprang up too. 'For goodness'

  sake, Junius, stop buggering about and put your Gaulish butt where it matters. On this trunk.'

  But Junius wasn't in the corner, either. Squinting in the blackness, she could just about make out his shadow by the windows, then suddenly she was blinded as the shutters were flung open and sunlight dazzled her eyes. And now, of course, she realized her mistake. The hair was too dark, far too wavy, and the figure wore a long patrician tunic.

  'Sorry, Leo, I thought you were my bodygu—'

  Leo? Oh. Shit. His ghost was still walking.

  'Father Mars, protect me from the undead.'

  Beans. I need beans. Beans are used to drive away ghosts. There was fruit in the silver bowl - cherries and apricots, peaches and figs - but what calibre of servants forget to include black beans in the arrangement?

  'Deliver me from the vengeance of this poor wretched soul in torment.'

  The words tumbled into one, but still the ferryman didn't row Leo away. Had someone forgotten to slip him the down payment?

  'Mighty Pluto, god of the underworld, take this stubborn shade to his ancestors. Quickly, if you don't mind.'

  What was this, another aristocratic perk, that noble spirits were allowed to remain earthbound longer than anyone else's? Exorcism! That's it, I'll exorcise the bloody thing. Claudia made the sign she'd seen a priest use during an exorcism in Rome, thumb and first two fingers raised stiff, the fourth and little finger turned down. Unfortunately, it had been a Phrygian priest making the blessing for a Phrygian ghost; clearly there was a language barrier here. She tried making the sign with both hands, which set the spirit's shoulders heaving, as though it found something amusing.

  'Beans!' she told it.

  'Beans yourself,' it said.

  'Help me,' she implored Pluto. 'How do you drive ghosts back to Hades?'

  'In a one-hearse chariot?' the apparition suggested.

  One-hearse? Oh, terrific. Not a ghost. Ghosts you can deal with, of course. All you need is a handful of beans, the right

  words andpfft, off they trot. Hauntings by the Security Police, on the other hand, are much harder to exorcise. Far from being four hundred harmless miles away, Marcus Cornelius, that ace champion of the truth, was here on the island of Cressia.

  'Just what the hell game are you playing, Orbilio?'

  it's lovely to see you again, too.' He helped himself to an apricot from the fruit bowl, 'I brought you a present.' He tossed across a cheap clay mug, the type sold by the hundred the day after the races, engraved with the names of the winners. The name on the mug was Calypso. Very droll.

  'Answer the question.'

  'My cousin's been murdered, remember?'

  'You could not possibly have known that when you left Rome.'

  'True.' With the toe of his boot, he flipped open the latch of Drusilla's cage. A dark blur shot out of the room without so much as a thank you. 'But it doesn't alter the fact that Leo was killed. Slowly and very unpleasantly. Or that, if I'd been at the villa instead of in town, I would have prevented his murder.'

  Claudia doubted Jupiter himself could have prevented the killing. More likely Orbilio would have got himself butchered, too. Aloud, she said, 'You were in town?'

  'Gossip,' he said, 'is best picked up locally.' He carefully deposited the apricot stone in the middle of the window still then flicked it with his thumb and forefinger as hard as he could. There was a ping as it connected with a flowerpot in the yard. 'You'd be surprised what I picked up in that tavern.'

  'The clap?'

  He laughed. 'For the life of me, I don't know why you don't marry me and be done with, Claudia Seferius.'

  'You think so little of me that you'd have me chained to a pompous, self-opinionated bore?'

  'A pompous, self-opinionated, good-looking bore.' He let the wall take his weight. She'd almost forgotten those green flecks that danced in his eyes.

  'When did you land?' she asked, because a nasty feeling was starting to congeal in the pit of her stomach.

  'Day before yesterday.'

  The feeling solidified into a ball. Before a new light is born

  in the sky, bad news will come over the water. Of course Shamshi had been looking at her - her! - when he made his pronouncement at dinner. He'd been as surprised as the rest of them when he saw that pirate ship in the bay.

  'Then you'll know about Jason?'

  'Oh, yes.' Orbilio prodded Claudia's mattress. 'I know all about our strapping son of an Amazon.'

  'Son of a something, anyway.'

  As he bounced up and down testing the feathers, she caught a whiff of sandalwood, with just the faintest hint of a rosemary rinse in his clothes. She recognized the combination. It was the indisputable scent of the trapper. But he smelled, too, of rough tavern wine, of salt spray from the air, and there were smuts on his fine linen tunic. Make no mistake. The death of his cousin had hit Orbilio hard. Grief was etched deep in the lines of his face, his eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. But even through his raw emotional state, danger pulsed through him.

  He leaned across and extracted the stopper of her alabaster perfume pot on the table next to the bed. 'Nice,' he said, sniffing.

  She snatched the phial out of his hand and replaced the bung. In her haste to pack, she'd almost left it behind. Now she stuffed it in her leather travelling bag, already full to overflowing, and thought about the ship making ready to sail in the harbour. This was the freighter Leo had intended to put his sister-in-law on. Only a puny fifty-footer, but the point was, it had a vacancy for a female passenger, plus luggage.

  Marcus flopped back on the mattress, stretched out his long legs and folded his hands under his head. 'Don't y
ou think it's odd, these fires along the Liburnian coast?'

  What is odd, my friend, is thinking about burned-out warehouses when Leo's just been skewered like a scallop. Odd is staying in a tavern incognito, instead of announcing your arrival to your cousin. Odd is appearing on the scene within a few hours of the tragedy. And odd is not seeing the Roman Navy lined up in the Gulf when you obviously know all about Azan's rebellion.

  'Define odd,' she said.

  His eyes traced the painted rose garlands which scrambled

  over the cornice. 'Leo's domestic situation, for a start,' he replied. 'Wife shoved out, sister moves in, husband set to marry a girl who's little more than a child. A little on the unusual side, don't you think?'

  'Isn't that par for the course for your lot?'

  Whether, engrossed as he was in testing the softness of the pillows, Orbilio missed the jibe against his class or whether he deliberately chose to ignore it Claudia wasn't sure. His eyes closed, and for a count of thirty his chest rose and fell. She did not fall into the trap of believing he'd fallen asleep.

  Her hand closed over the strap of her trunk.

  'What do you make of the fair Silvia?' he asked.

  Damn. 'Charming girl. Love her to bits.'

  A muscle twitched at the side of his mouth. 'And Nikias?'

  Safer ground here. 'Nikias does with portraits what a Greek musician can do with a lyre.' Makes you weep with the depth of emotion.

  'What about the dolphin?'

  'Sorry, never met it. Can't give an objective opinion.'

  'So you wouldn't know how the Medea came to be listing in the water?'

  'Woodworm?'

  The twitch broadened to reveal a row of white, even teeth. 'The trouble with casting Nikias in the role as saboteur,' he said, eyes still closed, 'is that the Corinthian can't swim. Whereas your bodyguard, apparently, cleaves the sea like an otter.'