Widow's Pique (24 page)

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 am 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.

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

rushing waters and the river beds glistened with silver and bronze.

After prayers had been sung to Kikimora, including one eardrum-piercer by a group of children whose faces had been painted to resemble cats, it was time for the competitors to take their oaths beneath the sacred oak tree, holding a flint arrowhead in each outstretched hand as they swore on Perun's thunderbolts that they'd play fair.

'Too jolly right!' Rosmerta muttered in Claudia's ear, as she shook the drips off her pudgy hands after sacrificing an amulet to the waters. 'This society can't afford to tolerate cheating, that's why the fines are so hefty, and if the rogues don't cough up, tough. The onus falls on their family.' Rosmerta grinned. 'That fear alone keeps them honest.'

Can't afford to tolerate cheating? How did that square with Kazan and Vani, then, because, overweight, overdressed and overbearing she might be, but Rosmerta was no fool.

As the athletes drew lots for their starting positions, Drilo the High Priest beckoned Claudia over.

'Place of honour, my dear,' he said, patting the seat between Mazares and himself.

It was interesting that on Mazares's left sat a certain patrician investigator. You'd think, wouldn't you, that when you're trapped on an island in the middle of nowhere, the arrival of the Security Police would have been reassuring? Instead, Orbilio didn't believe a single word of what Claudia told him, despite the evidence to back up her story - and that was Mazares for you. He'd used friendship and charm to suck Marcus Cornelius into becoming a pawn in his conspiracy, and the only thing she could hope for now was that Orbilio hadn't passed her opinions on to Mazares.

'Thank you.'

Claudia smiled deep into Drilo's penetrating blue eyes, inhaling the heady scents of incense and myrrh that emanated from his strong, bearded features. White robes didn't suit him half as much as the rich colours he usually wore, but they accentuated the gold headband round his braided, oiled curls,

and the amulets of electrum that encircled each wrist. There would, she decided, be no half measures with Drilo.

The first race of the day was the women's, and Claudia wasn't the only person to be taken by surprise when several Amazons stepped up to the starting slabs and slotted their toes into the grooves.

'I don't believe it!' Mazares shook his head in despair. 'That bloody woman is going to be the death of me,' he said, fixing his astonished gaze on Salome, who was standing shoulder to shoulder with Vani on the starting line.