Not that everyone would be keen to leave paradise. Drusilla for one, would be howling her head off down there in the cove' calling Junius all sorts of names that no cat of her aristocratic pedigree should know, much less use, and his arms would be scratched to ribbons. But then Drusilla had no qualms about reminding people that being crammed in a crate wasn't top of her list of pleasures. Tough. In the eight years they'd been together, Claudia and the cat, bitter pills had become part of their joint daily diet. This was simply one more in a long line that she'd have to swallow where the end results outweighed discomfort.
With a pang of affection, Claudia's mind cast back to the days when they were both skinny bags of bones starving in the gutter of a rough northern dockyard. Young and alone, robbed and raped, Claudia would not have cared if she died. Then a small mewing sound pricked at her awareness, and from then on, neither she nor the cat had looked back. Now look at her. From the days of dancing for sailors in boisterous taverns, she was mistress of a town house in Rome, a sprawl of Etruscan vineyards, had slaves at her beck and call, food in her belly. She was answerable to no one and nothing.
Squinting as she picked her way along the stony path in the dark, Claudia smiled. Of the three problems hanging over her head, one at least was secure. Thanks to Leo's revolutionary techniques, Seferius vineyards were set to make their first decent profit since her husband had died. (Listen, she never said she was good at the business. Only that she was not prepared to let it go cheap.)
Which only left Hylas the Greek to contend with, and the Security Police who had compiled such a persuasive case for the prosecution. Goddammit, if she couldn't kill these two birds with one stone, then her name wasn't Claudia Seferius! There had to be some way she could win Hylas over that didn't entail two broken legs, and once she'd found it — bribes, blackmail, she wasn't proud — Orbilio would have no case to present. Now then. Let's start with the bribes. What kind of present would appeal to a successful Greek horse breeder?
The hand that clamped round her waist came out of nowhere.
Before the sun stands thrice more over our heads, a woman shall die.
As she opened her mouth to scream for her bodyguard, a gag was stuffed into her mouth.
'Mmmf! Mm-mm-mmf.' (LET ME GO, YOU BASTARD.)
She kicked backwards, wriggled, squirmed in a bear hug that was terrifyingly familiar.
Before the sun stands thrice more over our heads, a woman shall die — and the sun had risen two times already.
'Mm-mmf! Mm-mm-mmf.' (LET ME GO, YOU FAT BASTARD.) 'Mm-mm-mmf!'
The bear hug relaxed. Strong arms released her. Claudia started to run. But her attacker hadn't intended to let his victim go free. Just long enough to throw a cloak over her head. A cloak which smelled of cinnamon.
Thirty-Five
Control.
Power lay in control, and power was absolute.
To have a creature helpless and at your mercy, to toy wit it, play with it, hold its life in your hands, the knowledge that you have its destiny in your dominion — this was the ultimate validation of power.
Human souls.
Not blood. Not death. Not destruction. Not even authority over life.
The ability to manipulate a person's soul. Subdue it. Tame it. Force it to bow before the almighty presence. The more souls it could vanquish, the more it could subjugate and make quiescent, the faster omnipotence was attained.
The demon licked its lips and relished the slow hours ahead of it.
Thirty-Six
'Marcus!' Even through her badly bruised tonsils, Silvia's censorious tones echoed across the library. 'Marcus, good heavens, man, you're drunk!'
'Thassa coincidence.' He grinned up at all three of her. 'So am I.'
He lifted the jug to his lips and drank deeply. Under a footstool upholstered in scarlet, a long-stemmed glass lay on its side where he'd rolled it away long ago. Too small. Too bloody small. Needed to do the job faster.
'Absholutely bloody steaming.'
All this time. All this time, he and Claudia…
He upended the jug and finished off even the dregs. That easy familiarity. The jokes. The looks. The passion…
'Poor darling.' The triple haze that was Silvia glided across the floor towards him, her rigidity softening with each dainty step. 'We had no idea you were so deeply attached to your cousin.'
'Snot Leo.' When he shook his head there were six of her. 'Snot why I'm drunk.' He tried to stand up, but his foot kept slipping on the polished mosaic. 'Class, Silvia. Issa problem, see, being patrician. Can't just run away. Patricians have — whassa word? Obligations. That's what patricians have. Obli-sodding-gations.'
'Marcus, please.' Tragic blue eyes turned downwards. 'I've been totally honest with you about my past mistakes and it's terribly unfair of you to drag them up in this way.'
'Wasn't,' he said, belching softly. 'Never crossed his mind, frankly.'
'Then what on earth has driven you to drink your brains out, you poor love?'
'Marriage.'
'Ah.' She crouched down beside him and, as she wiped his fringe out of his eyes, a drift of honey-coloured hair floated gently in and out of focus in front of him. The drift smelled of white lavender. 'I do understand, you know, darling. It's an awfully big step-'
'Can't take steps,' he said sadly. 'Can't even stand up.'
She smiled. 'With me by your side, you can do anything.' Silvia drew a deep breath and ran a crisp pleat slowly up and down between her fingers. 'You were badly burned last time, but you won't regret marrying me-'
'Birthright,' he pronounced grandly. 'Denying children their birthright issanother big problem.'
'Don't let's go into that now. It's late. Let's get you to bed instead.'
'You, Silvia, are a very beautiful woman.' In fact, all three of them were exquisite. Wasp waist, pert breasts, a carnality that belied her glacial exterior. 'But sex is outta the question.' He held the wine jug to his left eye, closed the right and stared into the blackness. 'Seferius,' he announced.
'Sadly, dear, it's only that cheap stuff from over the water in Istria that you've been knocking back. Not Seferius vintage.'
'Want her.'
'I really don't think you should drink any more tonight.' Silvia prised his fingers away from the jug's handles.
'Can't have her.'
'Absolutely not, darling. More wine will only make you throw up, and then you'll be in no condition to conduct Leo's funeral tomorrow.'
'Funeral. Hell. I forgot.' Orbilio rolled on to all fours. 'How's Lydia coping?'
Silvia sniffed. 'We would prefer it if you didn't mention that bitch, if you don't mind. Now let's call for a slave to help you to bed.'
'Claudia.'
'Common she might be, but Claudia isn't a slave, you silly goose. Can you manage there?' she asked, as his hands closed over a cypress-wood chest filled with the works of Homer and Plato.
'Need to talk to her,' he said, testing the grip before hauling himself upright. 'Have to explain.'
'Well, it will have to wait, I'm afraid.'
He lurched from chest to chest round the library until he reached the door. 'Morning will do, I susuppose.'
'It'll have to wait a lot longer than that,' Silvia said. 'She's gone. Cat, luggage, the lot, just like that,' she added, snapping her fingers. 'Didn't even have the courtesy to kiss us goodbye.'
'Uh-uh.' The room started spinning. 'She wouldn't leave without the Gaul.'
'The rumours are true, then? It's what we suspected, of course, her and the boy, and who can blame her. Attractive young widow, all that sexual energy has to go somewhere.'