At first, Claudia thought the whistling was part of the birdsong. The dawn chorus had just started up, led by a blackbird solo before the rest of the choir joined in. This whistling was different. It had a tune. A rush of weakness enveloped her. Was that the last sound she'd hear? Not even the liquid trill of a warbler, the harsh chatter of a magpie, but the tune of her killer? Or would the last sound she heard be her own scream?
The whistling grew louder. Closer. Unbearable. Hands closed round the bar across the door. She shuffled backwards on her bottom against the stone wall. Pressed her backbone hard against it. Willed the stone to absorb her flesh.
'Zlat'
The bar didn't shift. With a grunt, he heaved again. Blood thundered in her ears, her heartbeat jumped out of its rhythm She felt sick. There was a dull thud from where the bar landed on the ground. A squeal of ungreased hinges. I'm going to die Oh, god, I'm going to die. Instinctively, Claudia curled herself into a ball.
'Sorry about this,' he said, and although the accent was mild, it was Latin he spoke. 'It was the only way I could — vlodor zlat!'
Even under the cloak, she squeezed her eyes shut. Footsteps covered the room in three strides, but miraculously Claudia's arms were sprung free from the rope. Rescue! She heard a primeval whimper and realized it came from her.
'Da vlodor stapo injio!'
For a moment, she couldn't believe it. I'm safe, I'm safe
I'm not going to die. Trembling hands pulled the gag out of her own mouth, but when she tried to push the cloak off, it weighed more than lead-covered ivory and it was left to other hands to pull it off. As the curtain rose, she saw the grey light of dawn streaming in through the rough wooden doorway of what looked like an abandoned shepherd's hut. Stank like it, too. Her eyes picked out the crude tamped earth floor. Rat droppings. Patches of mildew. A pair of boots — oh, shit. A pair of red leather boots.
The cloak was finally clear of her face. Her gaze locked with that of the pirate.
'Oh, no,' Jason groaned. 'Not you again.'
The expression out of the frying skillet into the fire drifted into her head. Here she was, being helped to her feet by the same son of an Amazon who'd chained Bulis in the grain store before generously setting it alight. The same Scythian warrior who doesn't bother employing heralds to deliver his letters, he sends them spear-post instead. The pirate who spitted Leo like a sardine and left him to die in unspeakable agony.
'Here.'
The perfect gentleman, he unhooked the goatskin at his belt and pulled out the stopper. Who'd think he drank wine — this wine, probably — out of the gilded skulls of his enemies and used their flayed skins to cover his quiver? Claudia hesitated, and discovered the uncomfortable truth that the need to rehydrate far outweighed pride. The wine was fruity and dry. More importantly, it was strong. With every gulp, her strength returned.
'This is Geta's fault,' Jason was saying. 'When I told him I wanted a woman from the Villa Ar- Ach, it's a long story. Just accept my apologies.'
'Absolutely.' I mean, who's to say it wasn't purely men that he butchered? Perhaps, underneath it all, a heart of gold beat inside that white shirt tucked into his pantaloons? Perhaps I'm the Queen ofBloody Sheba. When his people sacrifice to their sun god, they don't do it in the swift humane manner of Roman priests, stunning the animal before cutting its throat cleanly. Scythian sacrifice was as cruel as it was protracted. First they tie the horse's front feet together, then they pull on the rope. As the horse stumbles, so a noose is flung round its neck, with a short stick to act as a garrotte. The rope is then twisted, slowly, choking the poor beast to death. Choking. Claudia shivered. And pictured the bruises round Silvia's throat, darker than dragon's blood…
Suddenly Claudia understood why Bulis had been killed in the way that he had. It was a ritual in the Scythian practice of human sacrifice to tie the victim to a tree or ceremonial pole to garrotte them. She handed back the wineskin and hoped he didn't see her hand shake. 'We'll say no more about this little misunderstanding, then.' She edged her way to the door. 'After all, everyone makes mistakes.'
'If it's any consolation, I'll have Geta's dokion — blood, for this.'
Claudia didn't doubt it. He'd probably drink it out of the helmsman's skull, too. While the helmsman was still alive.
Outside, it was pretty obvious that the strapping Geta, he with the stamina of a bear and the life expectancy of a butterfly in frost, hadn't delivered his package to a different region of Cressia. Peaks which had previously been little more than jagged shadows on the horizon suddenly loomed stark and uncompromising before her. Her heart jumped. Only a narrow channel of crystal clear water separated her from the pitted, white karst. Ducking under the lintel, Jason looped his thumb in his cloak and hooked it over his shoulder and Claudia realized that the gold she'd seen glinting at his neck from the cliffs of the villa was in fact a torque engraved to resemble overlaid leaves of willow, while the gold at his waist proved to be links of chain forming a belt. The buckle comprised two interlocking gold serpents. Well, they would be, wouldn't they. There are always serpents in paradise.
She was just debating which way to saunter nonchalantly off, no hard feelings what, when, from the corner of her eye, she saw him stiffen.
'Zlat!'
Now Claudia's Scythian might be on a par with her Cappadocian, but she was getting the gist of the lingo. Zlat, for instance. Not one for the kiddies. Nor, probably, was:
'Litja ba kula!'
Shielding her eyes with her hand, she followed his gaze to the three ships streaking up the Dalmatian coast. Her heart skipped again, only louder. The navy! The Imperial Navy had rooted him out! Then she realized the ships were much smaller than Augustus's triremes. In fact, they were identical in almost every respect to the Soskia. Including the red flag of war.
'Mijela da navo Azan.' He frowned. 'That means, those are the ships of Azan.'
It's Minerva. She hates me, that goddess. She's got it in for me, the bitch.
'That way.' His fingers clamped round her upper arm. 'Run.'
'You run.' Claudia dug her heels into the dry, dusty soil. 'I'm staying.'
'Don't be stupid. The island's uninhabited, no one'll know you're here.'
'Fishermen pass. I can signal.'
'This island is sladni. Cursed. Last summer, the shepherd and his flock died of some kind of smicu — what do you call it? Pulmonary infection.' He grimaced. 'Not a pleasant way to go, bleeding from every orifice.'
Claudia tried not to think about Leo.
'After that, the inhabitants abandoned the place, so even if someone sees you, they'll take you for the spirit of the plague calling them to their deaths. Now hurry. Please. We're wasting precious time.'
'You're wasting it.' This is a civilized world we're living in. 'No one believes in shapeshifters and ghouls any more.'
'On Cressia, the islanders think Clio's a vampire.'
Clio. Clio. Where had she heard that name before? 'I'm still taking my chances.'
'Vlodor plut! Don't you understand? If I leave you behind and Azan's men see you, there's no telling what will happen. They're animals, believe me.'
That's rich, coming from you. 'I can hide,' she said. 'In the hut. And it's not far to the mainland. I can swim it.'
'Dammit, woman, there's no telling Azan's men won't find you anyway. And you might swim like a mermaid, but you'd never beat that coastal current.'
Which, when you put it that way, really only left Claudia one option.
She belted behind him down the cliff path to his ship.
It would not be an exaggeration to say that Claudia had never set foot on a pirate ship before and that if she never, ever repeated the experience it would still be way too soon. But you had to hand it to the crew for the speed they got a hundred and twenty feet of wood shifting.