'Croesus!' he'd shouted. 'If Lydia gets to hear about us, or the parents of my new bride! Think about the consequences, woman!'
'Considering so much hinges on Silvia's loose mouth, why don't you pack her off to Pula instead?'
Leo had run his hands wearily over his face and suddenly he'd looked ten years older. 'Look, I'm dealing with Silvia,' he'd said heavily. 'She won't be a problem after tomorrow, you have my word on that. But it would still be better all round if you left Cressia.'
'Better for you.'
He'd studied her for a moment or two, then cast a caustic glance round the comfortless cottage. 'I know how you earn your food, Clio.'
'That bastard runt of a priest's been bragging, has he?'
'You imagine Llagos would own up about his cheap thrills? You're forgetting whose land this is. Clio, I know every damn thing that goes on on this estate. If a bird poops, I know about it.'
He'd drawn a deep breath.
'But it doesn't have to be like this. You're not stupid. You know Llagos will start wanting more and more for his money. How low are you prepared to stoop in the name of your goddamned feminine pride? Thirty gold pieces to leave Cressia tomorrow. Nothing if you remain.'
'You bastard.'
'I'm sorry,' he'd said, and shit, for a moment she'd almost believed him. 'I'll bring the money two hours before midnight-'
'Screw you,' she'd spat. 'Keep your bloody money, I'm staying put.'
Even though it left her with no food, no money and worst of all, no hope for the future.
Sitting in the gathering dusk, Clio prayed to Nemesis, goddess of vengeance, to strike that loose-mouthed society bitch, Silvia, dead!
Were it not for her, there'd be no bloody problem. Through the priest, Leo could silence those preposterous vampire rumours, allowing Clio to continue living here, quietly and unobtrusively, until Leo paid her and then… And then she would return to her home town in Liburnia a wealthy woman! (See what the mealy-mouthed bastards had to say about that!)
All those 'ifs', though. All those bloody 'ifs'. Fine for Leo to say he was sorting out the Silvia problem. Clio had a future to consider, and the old proverb drifted back to her: to get a good job done, do it yourself. Dammit, she should never have trusted Leo in the first place. Who knows what else he might cock up on?
Her clifftop musings were diverted by a sudden burst of activity in the town below. Along the wharf, fishermen had been galvanized into life, abandoning their mending of nets, the checking of lines and lobster pots. Arms were waving about. People jumped up and down. The entire damn community was running here, scurrying there, spilling out of the taverns, shuttering their windows and doors. Children were being scooped up, rounded up, told to shut up or else. Barking dogs reared and strained on the leashes which kept them chained to the houses. Chickens scattered. Craftsmen hustled their wares and equipment inside and battened their shopfronts.
All except one man. The stranger.
Clio had seen him this morning, when she was doing her shopping. A head taller than the average islander, there was a presence about this man. She couldn't put her finger on it, but like a panther who'd just eaten its fill, the stranger exuded that same sense of understated menace. He might walk around seemingly uninterested in what went on, but he was poised to react at a moment's notice.
Some said the rebel leader Azan was bearded, others claimed he was clean-shaven. According to who you spoke to, he was Liburnian or Dalmatian, some even said he was Roman, and that was Azan's skilclass="underline" to move unrecognized as he whipped up insurrection. Was the stranger Azan? Clio wouldn't be surprised, and had felt a thrill of superiority that the islanders didn't even realize who it was staying in their fleapit tavern.
Hugging her knees, she watched the cause of the town's pandemonium approach without interest.
Black sails brailed up for lack of wind and powered instead by threescore strapping oarsmen seated two abreast, the Soskia cleaved a persuasive path through the water. Swoosh. Swoosh. Swoosh. Swoosh. You could almost hear the flute which beat time for the oars.
Out here on Cressia, folk didn't need to damp down their houses, the buildings were, almost without exception, built of stone. Stone didn't catch fire, but it could be looted, smashed and destroyed. But the town was safe enough tonight, Clio noted. The pace of the warship did not so much as dip when she hove into view. Swoosh. Swoosh. The galley cruised passed the wide bay and rounded the headland.
Only when she'd reached the cliffs below the Villa Arcadia, did the Moth's wingbeats start to slacken.
By which time Clio knew exactly what she must do to eradicate her problem once and for all.
Twenty-One
The islanders watched the sea turn red. Red, like the blood of the sorceress Medea's brother, whose body she'd so heartlessly dismembered. Red, like the flag of war the pirate warship flew. Red, like the pirate captain's leather boots. They had heard the prediction of Shamshi the Persian, and they feared the worst.
Men barricaded their families indoors and fell to their knees in prayer. Beseeching Mars, god of war, to preserve them in safety and bestow peace and prosperity upon them. Calling upon the goddess Ceres, who protected this gentle month of August, to use all her powers of persuasion to bring concord. Placating Eris, goddess of strife, with offerings of wine that she might turn her attentions elsewhere.
Right around the town, all across the island, the power of prayer was strong. The question is, was it strong enough?
Watching the Soskia drop her anchor stone and ship her oars, Claudia experienced a chilling sense of disquiet. Not because of a possible raid. This was not Jason's intention. He had lit torches the entire length of her deck until the little Moth was lit up as brightly as a midsummer noon. Jason was here to show menace. That he could come and go as he pleased and that Rome couldn't stop him. I, he was saying, am all powerful. Fear me.
The people had every right.
'What are you waiting for?' Leo yelled to the lone figure standing, arms crossed, on the prow. 'Too scared to take me on again?'
'Leave it,' Silvia urged. 'You're only provoking him further.'
'Let's see what you're like pitched against armed men, you bunch of fucking cowards!' Leo shouted down. He had outfitted every man on the estate with a weapon and then lined them up along the cliff in a massive display of strength.
'For heaven's sake, ignore him,' Silvia hissed, but she was wasting her breath. Leo's tail was up, his blood hot. It made no difference at this time of night that the Medea was out of action, he could not have followed in the dark anyway. Instead, he was daring the brigands to come ashore and prove who was the strongest.
'Brinkmanship,' Volcar muttered in Claudia's ear. She swatted his hand away from her waist and thought, he knows. The old man knows it's a performance. He knows, as Leo does, that Jason would not fight head to head.
For two long hours Leo's men stood in silence, gripping their clubs, their swords, their axes, as the lights along the Soskia's deck glittered on the metal shields which lined the rail and her bronze ram glinted double in the placid sea. By torchlight, the torsion-sprung ballista that she carried amidships oozed menace. Capable of shooting a flaming fireball right into the heart of Arcadia, it could equally loose off a volley of lethal iron bolts. But the most menacing weapon of all was the figure who stood motionless out on the prow. What game was he playing down there?
Claudia's nerves stretched to infinity and then beyond, and when a screech-owl screamed from a pine, her heart almost stopped. Was it really only a few hours earlier that she had stood on this same spot, watching a pair of blue butterflies chase one another round the hollyhocks as a flycatcher trilled from its perch in the almond? Then, heliotrope and pinks, yarrow and vervain had scented the late afternoon air like a welcome breeze. Now their heavy perfume pulsed through the heat like a drum. Cloying, nauseating, clinging tighter than ivy.