Sour Grapes
Page 24
‘I never had any intention of killing you. I just wanted to get your attention.’
A slice through the jugular was too fast. She wanted lions and fear and a really slow build-up.
‘Though, as it happens, I can prove you’re not Darius. You see, after we had that cosy little chat in the plaza this morning, I took a ride to the coast. To Cosa, as it happens, and I brought back a souvenir.’
She called out and a pinched-faced woman looking a decade older than her forty-six years slipped into the room.
‘Remember Aurelia, Felix?’ Claudia paused. ‘Remember your first wife? The one you were married to for fifteen years? Because if you don’t, she sure as hell remembers you.’
Twenty-Nine
There was no way she could remain under the same roof as that bastard. The mere thought of it made her sick.
Equally, though, she could not hang around while Fortune juggled her ball of chance over Orbilio. Had to do something. Anything. Fortune was fickle. Fortune had let so much blood spill in the precinct, far too much for one person, yet he was alive. Just. Clutching grimly to a thin thread of life, while the Fates stood poised to snip when given the order. Not yet, not yet! Claudia clenched her fists until the knuckles turned white. Let him grow old. Let his hair turn white and his skin crinkle before you cut that damn thread. Give him… Oh, pray to every Immortal up on Olympus, please grant Marcus his life. Her nails dug gouges in the palms of her hand. Too much tragedy already. Too many deaths. Too many lives ruined. Let it stop. Here. Now. She swung herself back on her horse. Isn’t it enough that I’ve failed? Fine, I’ve exposed Felix for the monster he is, but the bastard’s got away with it and that’s not right. Please, I beg you, don’t make it worse.
She turned the horse towards the gates.
All right, he was unlikely to harm anyone else, while Larentia had at least been spared public humiliation and the State would probably reimburse the five witnesses to keep a lid on the fact that they’d allowed a convicted criminal to return to Mercurium, wreak havoc and walk free. But she’d failed, because Felix escapes justice, and yes the money will help, but will it bring the blacksmith’s children home from Rome? Already it was too late for the brick-maker, his business had already been taken over, and the paper merchant’s storehouse was beyond repair. But, tragic though those stories were, they were nothing compared to the real victims. Lichas, Tages, Vorda and now…and now…
Don’t think about it. Don’t even consider it. He’s alive. Hanging on by the skin of his teeth, but—praise be to Juno—alive.
Once out in the open, she kicked the horse into a gallop. The look of astonishment on Aurelia’s face when confronted with the husband she hadn’t seen for sixteen years had been priceless. Claudia lifted her own face to the wind. Since there was no question now of Felix denying his past, she supposed there was at least a crumb of satisfaction to be gained from that, and she couldn’t in all conscience regret tracking Aurelia down, though heaven knows it hadn’t been hard. She still lived in the same house that she’d shared with Felix in Cosa and which he’d gifted her as a divorce settlement. Neither had she remarried.
‘I’m part of a new generation of women,’ she’d explained, inviting Claudia to join her in grapes, cheese and wine. ‘Women who cherish their independence.’
Reclining on a couch upholstered in clean but faded damask, Claudia studied her hostess. Her hazel eyes were small and unblinking, and seemed even smaller set in a thin, pointed face that had more lines than it should for middle-age. Her hair was streaked silver, dull and dry, a sign of too much time spent indoors, which also explained her pale complexion. A homebody, she thought, with no one to keep home for. The independence Aurelia so desperately cherished had turned her into a recluse. Yet she seemed happy enough to talk about the past—though not curious—openly admitting that she wasn’t wealthy, not by a long chalk, but that money meant nothing to her, since she hadn’t known it before she met Felix, it wasn’t what she married him for, and she’d had little use for it since.
Claudia hadn’t confided the reason she’d wanted Aurelia to return to Mercurium with her, only that it was a matter concerning her ex-husband, and was surprised that Aurelia was happy to make the return journey with her there and then. But as her horse’s hooves ate up the road, she realized her mistake was springing Aurelia on the cold, callous bastard who had divorced her. Claudia had acted on impulse because of Orbilio—doing something was better than nothing—only she’d blown it, through hot-headed recklessness, not thinking it through. She wondered what on earth had given her the idea that Darius would confess? Oh no! There’s my ex-wife, who’ll testify I’m Felix! You’d better lead me straight to the lions!
Stupid, stupid, stupid, the hooves echoed. Stupid, bloody stupid.
A look on a man’s face once he’d been unmasked wasn’t enough to convict him of murder. All Claudia had done was expose him, which meant she had failed. She’d failed Lichas and Tages, Vorda and Orbilio, and because she’d been too bloody arrogant to confide her suspicions about Darius, Rosenna had done her damnedest to kill the wrong man. A good man. A man who did not deserve to die…
Suddenly the air was too thin. She couldn’t breathe. Panic uncoiled in her breast. Suppose she never saw that slanting smile again? Never heard that wicked chuckle? Suppose that thick, dark mop never fell carelessly over his forehead again, or his eyes never crinkled up at the corners?
There was no sign of activity at the temple. No acolytes filling oil lamps, no sweepers of floors, no purifiers of altars. Even the temple kittens were crashed out in a heap, a tangle of twitching pink paws and white whiskers. She approached the physicians’ quarters with her stomach cramping. No one had been allowed in except temple staff. When she’d left at dawn, they’d been scurrying like rabbits. Now only one or two assistants were gliding silently back and forth, carrying bowls, bandages, pills, and avoiding her eye.
‘Can I see him yet?’ she asked the guard standing with his arms implacably folded outside the entrance to the medical quarters, and her palms were ridiculously damp.
‘The Lord Tarchis says no visitors, milady. Will you wait?’
For ever, my darling. For ever.
‘I’ll wait.’
In the red, flickering labyrinth nothing stirred. The faces on the frescoes kept their same inane grins, the floral ropes round the pillars didn’t slide or shed petals, the irises on the ceiling didn’t wilt. Yet in continuity there was comfort, and the deeper she penetrated this underground cavern, the more comfort she gained. She looked back at the offerings—the plaques, the ribbons—and thought I have nothing to give you, Fufluns. Nothing to offer… Nothing except… Slipping off her sandals, she ran through the labyrinth to the god’s private chamber. The only sounds that intruded were the occasional spit from a torch set high on the walls and the strange, ethereal music that emanated from the depths of the temple. Lyres, flutes and tambour.
‘I have nothing to offer you, god of wine, god of pleasure,’ she whispered, ‘except this.’
Closing the little door quietly behind her, it was as though Fufluns had been expecting her. Oils burned, fragrant and calming, in braziers around the painted walls. Catnip smouldered in the chafing pans, along with something equally sour and unpleasant, but this was not about her. Claudia studied the god. Red, horned, proudly erect. Tarchis called it horse-trading but if trade makes the human world tick, why not the divine—and what else could she exchange for a life? No amount of riches would tip the balance, for if Orbilio, who had enough in the bank to make King Midas jealous, didn’t have sufficient gems and precious metal to save himself, what chance did she have? Suggesting human life wasn’t measured in riches…
‘I give you my dance,’ she told the idol. ‘I give you my past for his future.’
Her glance fell on the silver platter on which a goblet of rich, dark wine sat, and a note.
Drink, sweet bride. Drink of my love while I drink of your beauty. Drink deeply, my love.
As the music swelled, she took a deep breath, unpinned her hair, then began to dance the way she used to dance for the sailors. She had vowed never to do it again. Under no circumstances, she’d said. Yet slowly, erotically, she peeled off her clothes and with each layer that she discarded, she felt lighter. Not simply from the weight of the clothes, but her mind, her head, her thoughts all grew lighter until there was nothing but the dance. The heat increased inside the chamber and, swaying, twining, tossing her hair, she gyrated round the idol as she’d gyrated round the tavern a lifetime ago, exciting the earth god with the thrust of her breasts, the swing of her hips, the tongue pushed through half-parted lips. This was no virgin dancing for Fufluns, but this god embodied all earthly pleasures, and if trembling, shivering, arching and gasping had aroused half of Genoa, surely it would arouse him?
Round and round she swirled, caressing her skin with teasing sensuality, until the faces on the wall merged with the face of the idol, winged horses appeared, angels, blue-feathered demons, and now all the faces she had ever met crowded round her, applauding, cheering, egging her on. Her mother was there, her father, her husband. Orbilio, Felix, even his pinch-faced ex-wife. It was like a drug. The more she danced, the hotter she grew, and the hotter she grew, the lighter she became, until nothing mattered but the pulse of the rhythm…
Drugs.
She halted abruptly and the room kept on spinning. Drugs were at the centre of everything. Drugs were control, and control… Sweet Janus! Faces! She grabbed a chafing bowl with one hand while the other rammed two fingers down her own throat. Dear god, she had it all wrong. Yes, Felix was Darius, who’d tossed sewage down a well, set fire to the warehouse and led Larentia on with his courting. But Felix wasn’t scared. Even with a knife pressed to his throat, he hadn’t been scared—because Felix had no reason to be.
The drugged wine came up in a flood. Winged horses and demons galloped away. The faces receded into the mist. Barely pausing for breath, Claudia stuck her fingers down her throat a second time.
When a man’s been sentenced to ten years’ hard labour for a crime he didn’t commit, then loses everything he loves in the process, you might think nothing can touch him. But Darius did care. He cared about Amanda’s reliance on her imaginary friend. He cared about a stranger’s creaking cart, and the strain on his oxen. He cared enough about Larentia to force the man who’d sent her flying to come back and apologize. So if that man still had feelings after all he’d been through, yet wasn’t scared of a knife at his throat—and worse, didn’t turn it on his attacker once he’d disarmed her—it was because that man had faced every terror he had ever needed to face.
Felix, goddammit, hadn’t stolen the State gold at all.
Retching, sweating, Claudia spat out of the last dregs of the drugged wine and wiped her face with her discarded veil.
Control.
She’d known all along it was about control…
With her palms flat on the floor as she gulped for breath, she asked herself the obvious question. If the six men who testified at his trial believed they’d seen Felix taking heavy sacks from the clerk and the gold was found in his saddle bags, who set him up?
She already knew the answer.
Those hazel eyes appeared smaller because of the jealousy and resentment that drove her. The same emotions that had pinched her face and made her old before her time—and the reason she was so happy to talk about the past was so she could relive her triumph. Suddenly Claudia understood the astonishment in Aurelia’s eyes when she came face to face with her ex-husband. The bitch thought he was dead. She believed she had killed him by crushing his spirit in punishment for casting her off, but, as always, she had underestimated her man.
From the outset Aurelia was determined to make Felix hers, by feigning pregnancy to trap him in marriage. He’d grow to love her, she told herself, but instead it had the opposite effect. Once he realized he’d been tricked, he turned cold, throwing his passion and energy into oysters. Oysters! Not even another woman! Just some cold little molluscs down in the south, leaving Aurelia with nothing but her pride and a large, empty house. No wonder money meant nothing to her. Felix made her wealthy, but money did not buy his love. She consoled herself that at least she was still his wife.
And then, wham! Out of the blue he falls in love. Not a mistress. Not another business venture. It’s the real deal this time and she knows it. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and having spent fifteen years exhausting every possible means to hang on to her husband, Felix was taking the only thing she had. He was giving his name to somebody else.
He had to pay.
How clever to pretend she didn’t mind! While the divorce went through, Aurelia smiled, and oh, how hard she must have smiled. Why not, she would have said. She was young, pretty, this was an opportunity for them both to start over. While all the time in her heart she was wishing him dead! When Mariana fell pregnant so quickly, that bitterness must have known no bounds. Claudia didn’t know the details—how could she?—but she could imagine, and as she staggered to her feet inside the god’s chamber, the tavern-keeper’s words echoed back.
‘Always rode the same sorrel mare, did our Felix…wore a gold headband to keep his curls out of his eyes… What did set him out from the crowd was that, unlike most free men, Felix didn’t favour white tunics. Bright blue was his colour. Wanted folk to see he’d risen up through the ranks, and though he’d been promoted to equestrian status like your late husband, Felix only tended to wear his purple-striped tunic on state occasions.
It wasn’t hard to picture the barren, rejected Aurelia hiring herself an actor. Dressing him up in blue tunic, headband and wig and sneaking his mare out of the stables. Arranging for him to string the treasury clerk along, then transferring the gold to Felix’s saddlebags after staging the handover in a public enough place to ensure sufficient men of impeccable standing and character were around to witness his treachery.
Because Felix had to stand trial for treason.
Revenge for his own filthy betrayal.
Claudia reached for her tunic and belted it tight. Which meant, she thought, pushing tendrils of damp hair back from her face, Felix hadn’t killed Lichas at all. Nor Tages. Felix wasn’t a killer, and it wasn’t Felix who’d sent thirteen-year-old Vorda to her death. It was Fufluns. She leaned against the idol to catch her breath. How did you do it, you bastard? The room’s locked, Timi’s outside standing guard like a dragon. How did you get in here?
She hurled the chafing pans on to the floor. That’s why the little moons were so worldly. Alone and unchaperoned, they came in here, shut the door, then drank the drugged wine, which made them light-headed, and inhaled catnip and other concoctions, which induced hallucinations. And while they were confused and befuddled, you painted your skin red, put on a pair of ram’s horns and then you bloody well raped them. Worse, you told them it was the god’s will. She reeled at the very arrogance of a man raping these children time and again, whilst brainwashing the girls into believing it was their fault. It was the purpose of their dance, wasn’t it? To arouse the god’s passion? They had succeeded and so—her stomach lurched—pleasuring Fufluns was their reward!
She remembered the pride on some of the little moons’ faces, girls now destined to grow up wild and promiscuous, but with no knowledge of why they’d been scarred. And she remembered, too, the awkwardness and despair that ran through the others. Girls like Vorda, who hated the honour they’d been bestowed, and would grow up frigid and frightened of men.
Something congealed under Claudia’s ribcage. If he’d
touched Flavia—so much as laid a hand on the girl…
Oh, Vorda! No wonder you were crying, you poor darling. Kol the goatherd saw you. He saw you scrubbing your skin until it was raw, ashamed and sickened and scared. It wasn’t the dye you wanted to wash out of your shawl. It was contact with your rapist’s skin.
With exaggerated care, Claudia felt her way once again round the walls. She imagined little Vorda skipping in here, Timi’s star pupil, possibly even her successor. How proud and excited she must have been. Her big day’s approaching. She drinks. The wine is better than anything her family can afford. The virgin bride drinks deeply for Fufluns. As she dances, her mind becomes fuddled. Her vision blurs. She loses her balance. Emerging from the smoke and the darkness is a figure. Red, proud and fiercely erect. He removes her tunic. Takes off her underclothes. Shows her how aroused she has made him. What a privilege to awaken the god’s passion. Feel what an honour it is. She’s repulsed, but he’s Fufluns. He’s a god. He’s the idol-made-man. She cannot deny him. He takes her.
But how? How when there are no openings in this wall? No catches, no levers, no locks sticking out—and he could not have been waiting inside the chamber, or Timi would know. How the bloody hell could this pervert perpetrate his evil, when there was no other entrance?
Suddenly Claudia knew. She knew how he’d got in, how he’d got out—just as she knew the name of the red monster who preyed on small girls.
She wondered why she wasn’t surprised.
Thirty
Plucking a brand from the wall, Claudia picked her way down the stone steps. The plinth had moved easily, once she realized how the bastard had done it. The lever wasn’t on any wall. It was by the floor, and like the pipes that had been installed in the villa, the mechanism that moved the statue aside had been expensive in the extreme. It had also been exceptionally well greased. Not a creak, not a groan, yet as she turned the handle, cogs moved the heavy stone plinth aside as though it was made out of cork.