'Because although there iss always much superstition on island, when things go bad, peoples revert to the old ways to see them through crisis.'
'To which the priest of Neptune turns a blind eye?'
'No, no,' he said, 'I help them. To ask peoples to change when they are suffering iss not good. So I work with them, alongside them, let them see we are brothers shouldering our burdens together. But at the same time I show them the new ways, let them decide for themselves which is best. Also,' he winked, 'thiss way, I always know what iss going on this island!'
Cunning old bugger.
'But now cerymony is finished, you muss please excuse me. There iss problem in town. Iss escalating, and though I am not sure how to deal with it yet, I muss go with the peoples this afternoon to the hills.' He pulled a face. 'The old ways hef a lot to answer for, sometimes!'
Orbilio was still standing on the portico, staring unblinkingly up at the frieze of Odysseus, deep furrows etched in his forehead. Saunio and Nikias were engrossed in discussing the merits of haematite crystals versus Spanish cinnabar, Volcar was whispering something into the ear of a kitchenmaid, making her blush to the roots of her hair, and she could be mistaken, but Claudia thought she caught sight of Magnus hovering at the edge of the crowd talking to Qus. Beside her, Silvia and Lydia remained stiff and unspeaking. A sisterly show of solidarity, but that's all. A show.
When she glanced back, the portico was deserted, and now Qus and whoever he'd been talking to had disappeared. She edged her way through the tremulous crowd, who were alternately sobbing and praying, scared of what might happen next. So far, though, Orbilio had made no move to address them and allay their fears.
What the hell was going on here?
Twenty-Nine
Alone in her isolated cottage on the hilltop, Clio strained to listen.
'Come out, I know you're there.'
The heat throbbed like a pulse, creating mirages on the stone path and shimmering the far horizon. Cicadas rasped in the harsh, dry grass, vultures wheeled and a snake slithered under a boulder.
'You don't scare me,' she shouted.
Maybe she was over-reacting. Suppose it was just that runt of a priest, hoping for a free peep show? Children, perhaps? She listened for sniggers, for Llagos's ragged, aroused breathing. Despite the searing heat, Clio's teeth were chattering.
There was only one door to the cottage.
'Don't think I don't know what you're trying to do,' she called to the shrubs beyond the clearing.
Legends linger. Like precious date palms, they were nourished and fed, giving every attention to make sure they stayed alive here on Cressia. Centuries back she suspected some recluse had settled up here, perhaps a healing woman, and perhaps this woman had a daughter, and so on. Gradually, with the passage of time, generations of solitary dwellers had rolled into one creating a legend of immortality endowed with all kinds of mystical powers. Circe!
A goat bleated far in the distance, and four or five small birds twittered over her roof and were gone. Clio shivered and hugged her arms to her body. Why, oh, why couldn't the islanders have seen her as a reincarnation of the enchantress? Embraced her as Circe, four maybe five hundred years old, to be left offerings to win her favour and left in peace to work her magic powers. Instead, they interpreted Clio's long black hair as a cloak of evil. Her clear, unwrinkled skin as the result of a bloodlust. Made her a scapegoat for the island's misfortunes. Drought last year? Blame the witch. Olive blight three seasons ago? Plague of thistles? Bad harvest? Even though she could not see them, she felt the islanders' malevolence outside her cottage.
'How many of you cowards does it take to frighten a woman? Four? Five? Twenty-five?'
Her worst fears had been realized in the night.
The carpenter's eight-year-old son had succumbed to the same wasting disease that had claimed the fisherman's wife. Leo's murder was the final straw the ultimate affliction on the islanders' fortunes, having the security of Rome whisked from under their feet. Someone must pay.
And once the witch was dead, the evil spell would be broken.
From the single window, she could see higher piles of whitethorn, more heaps of intestines, rotting, stinking in the midday heat. But the islanders' hex had proved ineffective. The 'vampire' had still managed to carry off two more victims. And all the while, the crickets rasped.
'You iss alone now, pretty one.'
The disembodied voice made Clio jump. 'Who's there?'
'No ones to protect you, iss there?' called another.
'Becoss Leo is dead,' a third piped up.
'Dead as your wicked black soul,' the first voice sneered.
Enough! Clio slammed the door, bolting it loudly behind her. That second voice! That was Llagos the priest! With shaking hands she slammed the shutters closed, plunging the cottage into Stygian blackness. Now even the temple was beyond refuge! If only she'd taken Leo's thirty gold pieces. She'd be on that little freighter sailing to Pula.
The prediction of Leo's astrologer was common knowledge across the island. Before the sun stands thrice more over our heads, a woman shall die.
Her breath was ragged, her body wracked with convulsions she could not control. Sweet Janus. She was alone up here in this isolated cottage. Alone. And trapped. With no one to turn to — and a prophecy that needed fulfilling.
Tonight, she thought. That's when they'll come for me. Tonight.
Clio sank to her knees. She had never prayed before in her life, but this was as good a time as any to start.
Thirty
Silvia made her move immediately after the purification ceremony had been disbanded and the last of the sacrificial roast thrown to the dogs. Claudia wasn't surprised. Any woman who had managed to curl her hair, disguise the bruises and adorn her elegant frame in a soft peach-coloured cotton robe within an hour of nearly drowning in the River Styx wasn't going to let the grass grow beneath her finely tooled purple sandals.
'Marcus.' Her voice was still low and croaky as she caught him in the courtyard. 'Might we have a word? In private?'
Waste of time, kid. Orbilio's defences may have hit rock bottom, but he's way too sharp to fall for the old big-blue-eyes-and-the-toss-of-the-ringlet routine. He knows your history, sweetheart. Nevertheless, there was no chance of sneaking away from the Security Police in broad daylight, and even though she had another call to make before she left, Claudia was curious. She gave them ten minutes before taking a nonchalant stroll which, surprise surprise, just happened to be via Silvia's bedroom. Because you can bet your bottom denarius that any social pariah worth her salt intent on snaring a wealthy, successful, good-looking meal ticket will kick-start her campaign in a place brimming with pillows and a soft double mattress! First it would be the scarf dropping to the floor to reveal the bruises, poor me. Then I feel faint, I must lie down. And finally it would be the my poor throat, I can't speak, come and lie here beside me while I whisper what I have to say.
In your dreams, girlie.
The door was a quarter open and, by bending down to adjust the thong on her sandal, Claudia had a clear view of the Ice
Queen, if not her quarry. Sure enough, the scarf was already a soft pool of peach on the tail of a mosaic lion. She heard the gentle glug-glug-glug of pouring wine. The murmur of two people conversing in undertones.
Undertones?
Silvia she could understand. Never mind play-acting, her throat really would be painful after that ordeal. But why should Orbilio whisper? Then she remembered how delighted Silvia had been to see him when she came to. The tenderness with which he had brushed that wayward strand of hair from her face and covered her revealing nightgown with the counterpane. Surely…? Nah. Not Orbilio. What would he see in that icy fish? She contrasted her own unruly dark curls with Silvia's obedient ringlets. The way Silvia glided under her pleats like a swan, while Claudia's gown billowed behind like a sail and her hands flapped when she talked, whereas the dainty patrician kept hers folded in front of her, and And And let's face it. Lots of men find flat chests appealing.