by Marilyn Todd
No one said it was going to be easy.
The trial ground finally to a close. The prisoners were led away, the villagers dispersed and a smile played at the side of Nosferatu's mouth. Actually, there were times when taking life became something of a pleasure. Giving Delmi that hemlock was one.
Twenty
'Are ghosts getting prettier . . . ?'
The voice that took Claudia so completely by surprise was deep and seductively slow.
'. . . or am I the luckiest man alive to find myself suddenly alone with the beautiful Claudia?'
Same husky pitch as his brother's and with hair every bit as glossy and dark, Kazan leapt the ditch that encircled the graveyard with muscular ease. Personally, Claudia found it simpler to cross by the bridge. Dawn was breaking, rosy and warm, and the air was filled with the sound of birdsong and the scent of a million wild herbs. Chamomile, thyme, lemon balm. Today was the Festival of Kikimora and, to honour the Cat Goddess, Histrians everywhere would dress in white and pour libations of milk instead of wine. Later, after a procession, hymns and sacrifice, the races and games would begin, and already stewards were hard at work checking the stadium across the way, straightening wobbly markers and hammering in flags. But Claudia hadn't expected company in the graveyard at such an early hour.
'Are you sure we're alone?' she rejoined. 'You Histri go to a lot of trouble constructing your cemeteries, and it makes me wonder why you're so desperate to keep your dead in.' Kazan let out a throaty chuckle.
'These moats and banks are designed to keep the shroud-eaters out, sweet lady, not fence the tenants in, and see those? They're bajuks.'
He pointed out four hideous clay masks nailed to the oak
trees that surrounded the cemetery, whose faces were painted black, and contorted his features into a comical matching grimace.
'The ferocious guardians of our ancestors,' he said, 'who face north, south, east and west to protect our loved ones spring, summer, autumn and winter through earth, wind, fire and water. In fact, everything inside this graveyard comes in fours. Four is the number of the dead.'
Below the masks, black empty robes flapped menacingly in the breeze.
'I trust you don't bury your people in fours.'
'Only because we have trouble finding three volunteers to go in there with them,' he laughed, falling into step as she strolled round the cemetery.
How different from Rome! In Rome, you died, you were cremated and, according to what you could afford, your ashes were either interred in a marble tomb along one of the approach roads, like Claudia's husband (and dammit, she really must find out which road) or they were laid to rest in little pigeonhole arrangements, although the really poor had to settle for having their ashes scattered. In the Histri's eyes, burning was the worst punishment that could be inflicted upon the soul -hence the fate of rapists and murderers. So, for their dead, Kazan explained, four-sided pits were dug in the ground and lined with oak planks, in which the deceased was laid to rest on their own bed, dressed in their best clothes along with their worldly possessions, then the grave covered with an unmarked flat rock. The only difference between rich and poor here was the size of the pit that contained their belongings.
'At the risk of sounding stupid,' she said, 'why are you carrying a bird cage?'
It wasn't that the birds weren't pretty. And she was sure they sang like choirs of angels. But Kazan hadn't struck her as the type of chap who made a habit of lugging caged birds round the countryside.
'Well, there's another thing that separates our two cultures,' he said. 'Look around and, yes, you'll see an abundance of
floral tributes, but to the Histri, birds represent the souls of the dead. These little creatures,' he patted the cage, 'will provide company for the souls who abide here.'
Claudia tried to imagine every soul as a melodious warbler and failed. She'd encountered far too many hawks on her travels to see them changing their feathers after death. Not to mention quite a few bustards. Kazan stopped by one of the larger top stones to unhook the lid of the cage. Instantly, the birds fluttered off into the trees, but his dark eyes remained on their flight long after they'd disappeared.
'Or, rather, one soul in particular,' he said quietly.
'Your mother?'
'Brother,' he corrected. 'Every year on the anniversary of his death, I come back and release a flock of finches.' His tormented expression was quickly replaced by the more familiar grin. 'Although I can't help wondering whether they're not the same finches I net every year. That I keep recycling the same flock, as it were.'
She tossed back a light riposte, something to do with reincarnation, she thought, but her mind wasn't on jokes. Because if Kazan's brother was buried here, then so, by default, was Mazares's . . .
'Since we don't believe in desecrating the top stones with engravings,' Kazan was saying, taking her arm and moving on, 'we resort to other ways to identify the departed.'
He indicated the menagerie of carved creatures that nestled close to the graves.
'The larger beasts denote clan, like those bears, lynx and stags, while the smaller mammals -' he pointed to dormice, pine martens and hedgehogs - 'are the family emblems. The birds, of course, are the true souls of the individual and these denote status within the household.'
An eagle signified patriarch, a dove was the mother, a kite for the first son, an owl for the second and so on and so on.
'The custom harks back to the days when Histria was part of the great Kingdom of Illyria,' he added. 'The days when Jason and the Argonauts sailed these seas in search of the
Golden Fleece and a storm blew Odysseus's ship on to the island of Circe the Enchantress, who promptly turned his crew into swine. See?'
He pointed to a carved boar.
'One clan even claims descent. After she turned them back into humans, of course!'
'I thought you said four was the number for the dead?' Claudia asked. Large mammal, small mammal and bird made three.
'You're not looking hard enough,' Kazan laughed, brushing his hand across the chaplets and wreaths that covered his brother's top stone.
It was only when the butterflies didn't fly off that Claudia realized it was far too early in the day for them to be feeding and that these were, in fact, painted carvings, which had been placed artfully among the blooms. Another example of Histrian sneakiness, but this time the sentiment was at least admirable. As dawn cast her pink cloak over the cemetery, she found an inexplicable lump in her throat at the tranquillity of this enclosure, at the exquisite detail to be found in the carvings and in the loving attention that had been given to the floral tributes laid on the graves. Through the oak trees, she noticed the first trickle of white-clad figures making their way to the stadium, obviously wanting to bag themselves a good seat.
'The butterflies are indicators of age,' Kazan said, clearly in no hurry to join the early birds. 'Holly blues represent one year, brimstones a decade and swallowtails count for fifty.'
Claudia decided to put to the test what seemed like a very clever system for uneducated people. She found the largest top stone in the graveyard and studied the carvings impaled on stakes alongside it. The eagle proclaimed the deceased as the head of the household, a swallowtail and two blues put him at fifty-two when he died. But, of course, she had no idea whose family carried the squirrel totem, much less whose clan belonged to the dragon. But wait. Why were there five groups beside this particular grave? She peered closer and saw that two of the carvings were birds. The eagle, and a woodpecker,
unmistakable with its long, pecking bill. Two people in the same grave? Or .. . ?
'Dol?'
'Indeed,' Kazan replied, a sparkle lighting his liquid-brown eyes. 'His Royal Majesty rests here in full military armour, together with his rings, cloak pins, ceremonial torque and his amulets, plus his scissors and knives, a quiver of arrows, his finest yew bow, his shield, his axe, an assortment of gold salvers, three silver finger bowls, ten pells of parchment plus, I a
m reliably informed, the sword and helmet of a Dacian warrior, although officially, you understand, such an ambush never took place.'
It was when Kazan smiled like that, with the same selfdeprecating grin as his brother's, that the family resemblance really struck home. Even with eyes wider apart than Mazares's and straight hair that he restrained in a soft leather headband, there was no mistaking the blood that ran through the men's veins, and although Kazan's good looks exuded boyish innocence, how much of that was actually heredity, she wondered? Her eyes rested on the gold torque round his neck, engraved with creatures she was beginning to recognize now - dragons, bajuks and serpent-tailed giants - and wondered how close the brothers might be in other ways, too.
Drum beats rolled in the distance, signalling the start of the procession, but through the trees, though on the opposite side of the cemetery to the stadium, she noticed Marek and Mir leading their mastiffs on leads. Unlike Kazan, they weren't dressed in festival white, but wore the short kilts of the hunter, and in their hands they carried spears.
'I'm afraid that, to my sons, local events such as these games are a waste of their time,' their father explained, perhaps in response to Claudia's raised eyebrows, perhaps justifying it to himself. 'Rosmerta goes blue in the face telling them how they ought to compete in the spirit of politics, but the very mention of that word bores the boys rigid, and no matter how much their mother bends their ears, they won't budge.'
'Have you tried fatherly persuasion?'
'Me?' An impish grin twisted his lips. 'I leave that kind of stuff to Rosmerta, she's far better at it, and anyway, after the executions yesterday, can you blame the lads for preferring the smell of a good spoor to roasted man meat?'
It wasn't often that Claudia Seferius was stuck for words, but this seemed to be one of those moments.
'Anyway,' he chortled, 'it would be a bit rich, wouldn't it? Me telling them to hang around . . .'
He pulled his white robe at one shoulder to reveal the hunting tunic beneath.
'Last year, Mazares roped me in for the boxing contest followed by three bouts of wrestling, and I swear the bruises lasted a month. This time I've made a bet with my sons that it'll be me drawing the first blood in those woods! Me that brings home the tusker! And though they usually do that -sneak off to get a start on their old man, I mean - and I'm sure that one day they'll beat me, you can take it from me -' he turned to Claudia and winked - 'that day won't be today.'
'I'm guessing politics holds the same appeal for you as for Marek and Mir?'
'Less.'
Damn.
'You see, I happen to believe that it's every man's right to be happy, and if you look at the King, see how he's sacrificed his own happiness in the name of duty, you can see why I steer clear.'
Unfortunately, he appeared completely genuine.
'You'll never find me married to any job, Claudia.'
'For a man who wasn't born to run this country, your King seems to be making a pretty good stab at it.'
'Brilliant, if the truth be told, but ask yourself, what freedom does the poor sod have? I think back to the days of our misspent youth, when we'd take off into the high alpine forests whenever we liked, or set off sailing the wide, open seas, but he can't do any of those things now, poor old bugger. Me, I reckon if a man is content within himself,' he continued, 'and I mean truly content, then that happiness
radiates out and spreads to everyone it comes into contact with.'
'Would that radius include Rosmerta?'
'Impudent minx!'
Kazan tapped her lightly on the tip of her nose as he laughed.
'But yes, as it happens, it does include Rosmerta. She and I have everything we need from this marriage, and by that, frankly, I mean separate lives. It wouldn't suit me having a wife who clings like a wet loincloth, or a sickly woman I'd feel guilty about leaving when I take off on long hunting trips, and certainly not one who'd make scenes over my occasional philandering.'
'Only occasional . . . ?'
'Vani's a good girl.'
Kazan replaced one of the graveside carvings that had toppled sideways.
'And I'm very fond of her, as you know, but - well, this might sound odd - but I care for her more as a father-in-law than a lover. Can you understand that?'
Protective, even though they're having an affair? Yes, Claudia could identify with that sentiment. Might not agree with it. But she could see how someone like Kazan might think it could work.
'Besides,' he breezed, 'Vani needs kids.'
'You're all heart.'
'Well, obviously, I'd rather they were her husband's,' he said, with a roll of his seducer's eyes. 'But don't beat me up about this, Claudia. I'm not the one pushing for bouncing grandchildren. It's Vani who wants them and -' a look of deep affection flooded his face - 'can't you just see her, whirling them round in the air, romping and rolling over the meadows, teaching the little ankle-biters to swim?'
Selfish and shallow to his drop-dead-handsome core. Pavan was right, though. There was something endearing about this boy who wouldn't - perhaps couldn't - grow up, because, for all his blinkered, self-serving persona, Kazan was quite without ego. And yet . . . And yet . . .
'Is that how you felt about Broda's mother?' Claudia asked.
He stiffened. 'Come again?'
'Playing the artless ingenu doesn't suit you, Kazan.'
Raven-black hair, just like her father's, same liquid, dark eyes. Claudia remembered the child's reaction when she'd enquired after her father. The shutters had immediately come down over her eight-year-old haunted eyes.
I have to go now, she'd said dully.
Claudia had talked her out of leaving by teaching the girl hopscotch, but the message was clear. She wasn't prepared to discuss her father, and for an eight-year-old, that meant only one thing. She'd been forbidden to.
'All right, Broda's mine, I admit it,' Kazan said. 'But she was an accident, if you like. Her mother and I - well, it was just an affair, Claudia. Long, hot summer. Pretty boat builder's sister. Both of us with time on our hands . . . come on, you know how it is.'
Actually, no.
'I support them, of course I do, but - well, let's say I'd appreciate you respecting the confidence.'
'If you mean you don't want Rosmerta finding out, I suspect you're eight years too late.'
Hell, if an outsider can see the resemblance, it wouldn't have escaped Rosmerta's sharp eye.
'So? My wife and I sleep in separate wings of the house.'
Kazan shrugged.
'I've performed my patriotic duty, Claudia, I've sired two sons, and to be honest with you, if I never sleep next to her ugly, snoring face again it's too soon. I have no problem finding pleasure elsewhere.'
Claudia didn't doubt that.
And how does Rosmerta feel, do you think?' she asked sweetly. 'Or haven't you thought that it's just a teeny bit of a coincidence that it was exactly eight years ago she began piling on weight? Took to wearing the very latest in Roman fashions?'
'That was Pula, for heaven's sake!'
Kazan was rattled, and about bloody time.
'Dammit, the minute that city started to boom, that woman was all over the trade boats, raking over exotic delicacies, digging out the best foreign fabrics!'
'So, either way, it's acceptable?'
'Sorry?' He frowned. 'Don't think I quite follow.'
'Then let me spell it out for you, Kazan.'
Claudia resisted the urge to slap the smugness off his handsome face.
'Whether your wife overeats out of comfort or because she's addicted to gourmet foods, that's all right, and the fact that she chooses to dress like a teenager doesn't concern you either, because if it's in a bid to make her attractive it won't work, and if it's to improve her social standing, she's on a loser there as well, because status doesn't concern you. Just hunting, fishing and, remind me again, oh yes, women.'
'Well, I wouldn't put it quite like that,' he blustered. 'I mean, you're making
me out to sound a bit of a scoundrel.'
'Really? Well, maybe it's me who's out of kilter,' she snapped. 'Maybe fathering a child on another woman is the perfect way to cement a failing marriage.'
'Claudia, please.' His voice was filled with anguish. 'I'm not the bastard you make me out to be . . .'
'Probably not,' she conceded, 'but your daughter is.' And it's Broda who's caught in the middle of all this. Broda who saw Nosferatu at work. Broda who heard people whispering her father's name, and went wandering the streets to learn more.
To be honest, Nosferatu didn't give a toss about Broda.
Twenty-One
Marek and Mir had it all wrong, Claudia thought. They could take off into the forests any old time, chasing after their wild boar and stags. The games were only held once a year, with the winners feted with olive crowns and ribbons and given a Victory Banquet in their honour. The very act of participation was considered a mark of distinction, and whereas Kazan had baled out from laziness and bitter experience, she suspected that his sons cocked their snooks at the games out of fear.
Fear that, when competing naked and oiled like the rest of the male athletes, their youthful paunches would not compare well.
Fear that, when pitted against men who had been training for weeks, their skills would be shown to be lacking.
Had Marek and Mir been truly unconcerned about the games, she reflected, they would not be sneaking away during the drum roll that summoned people for the start of the procession.
The stadium lay in the bowl of a ring of low hills, at the confluence of the two rivers that fed the fertile red plain that in turn swept down to the Adriatic half a mile distant. In true Histrian tradition, the joining of these waters was marked with an ancient oakwood shrine, overflowing with gifts and donations to the cat goddess, from offerings of food to ornate, painted terracotta plaques. In addition, the spirits of the rivers were appeased with chaplets of wildflowers, though those who could afford it consigned more precious objects to the
