Marilyn Todd - Sour Grapes

'I call for silence,' Candace intoned, as she began to light brazier after brazier of incense — no wonder she reeked of the stuff. 'Sit forward, closer please…' Furniture scraped over the mosaic as couches were drawn together. 'And link hands.'

Slipping inside the circle, she picked up the long curved blade that had been placed across a bronze bowl on the table beside a slender bronze rod, then pushed up the flounce of her sleeve to expose the length of her forearm.

'When shades arrive at the edge of the Underworld, they are made to drink from the Pool of Forgetfulness,' she explained in a slow, honeyed monotone. 'All memory of life with us is erased, leaving them free then to sail to the Isle of the Blessed untroubled by grief or by pain.'

She raised the knife. The curved blade glinted in the light.

'Only libations of blood can reawaken their human sensations. My blood, for it is I who must walk the winds that blow over the Elysian Fields, taking care that my feet touch no part of the ground, lest I be thrown into the River of the Damned. Silence, now!'

Slowly she ran the tip of the blade down her forearm. Blood drizzled down her elbow to drip into the little bronze bowl, and once a small pool had collected, she reached for a cloth and pressed it against the cut. When the bleeding had stopped, she picked up the thin bronze rod and tapped its tip on the floor, as though testing its sound.

'The dead inhabit a world of darkness and quiet,' she whispered, extinguishing the oil lamps with her unique combination of solemnity and grace. 'If we want them to return to us, we must recreate an environment where they feel comfortable, though for us, this environment is cold.'

As the light dimmed, the temperature dropped, and Claudia felt a slight rush of air from behind as the door from the atrium opened.

'There you are, m'boy!' Rex bellowed, as the last flame died in the room. 'Thought you were going to miss all the fun.'

'Not a chance,' a baritone drawled, and as he squeezed on to the couch next to Claudia, she smelled sandalwood over the choking incense as a strong hand slipped comfortably into hers.

'Marcus Cornelius Orbilio,' she hissed through the blackness, 'why the hell aren't you in Gaul?'

'That's odd,' he rasped back. 'I thought the whole point of tonight's exercise was to bring hell up to us.'

'Quiet,' Candace snapped, 'or the dead will not walk. Harpist! Play your music, if you will.'

It was a measure of her surprise that Claudia hadn't even noticed a harpist in the room.

Although, come to think of it, she would have preferred a harpoon.

The dagger that had taken the toy-maker's life hung snug inside its scabbard. The knife was not judgmental. Made of steel, it did not differentiate between self-defence and coldblooded murder, the heat of battle or the skinning of coneys, all of which it had known in its time, along with other applications too exhaustive to list. However, the smith who had forged this magnificent weapon had imbued it with a spirit all of its own. This was normal. Since man first hammered out his first killing machine over the fire, he had been blessed by the gods and endowed with an aim straight and true. The dagger was no exception. Providing it performed well — a feat that could only be achieved with the aid of expert honing and care — who, or what, it was used for was irrelevant.

And the weapon had had plenty of use.

Lichas the young toy-maker was not the first person to die at the point of its blade, nor was the hand that had wielded the dagger unpractised. There was no question of this weapon not seeing the light of day ever again.

So it hung, snug, inside its scabbard. And waited.

Far away in the lands to the west, in that shadowy world between the dead and the living, Veive, God of Revenge, lifted another gold-tipped arrow from his quiver and fitted it into his bow.

'Come,' Candace drawled. 'Draw closer, my friends, for it is cold.' The sound of her chafing arms could be heard in the darkness, even over the jangling of her jewellery. 'But I ask you to ignore the chill in the air and to concentrate on the music. Listen only to the strings of the harp. Feel the restful beat of the rhythm.'

The audience duly obeyed.

'The music of the harp is the gateway to the Underworld,' she intoned in her dark velvet voice. 'Through this gateway we will pass together, entering the domain of the dead, walking where no living person has trod. Is there any amongst us who wishes not to enter this world?'

Claudia expected Thalia to back out, but either her brother had a strong grip or she had a genuine interest in staying, because nobody made any effort to move.

'Good,' Candace crooned. 'Because now I will begin the journey that takes me from this warm, physical plane to the cold winds that blow over the Fields of the Blessed.' She cleared her throat and the pitch of her voice deepened. 'O Vanth, Demon of Death, who has eyes on her wings and sees everything, hear me. Accept this gift of my blood — '

The unmistakable sound of liquid splashing on to the floor made Claudia's stomach clench.

' — to enrich the senses of those whom we summon.' Three metallic raps tapped the mosaic, the same taps that she'd tested the bronze rod with earlier.

'O Leinth, who waits at the Gates of the Underworld and drinks of human tears, I call upon you also, that you might turn your featureless face to the stone.'

Three more raps of the bronze rod.

'By the Falcon of the Sun, by the Vultures of the Moon, I bid ye spirits let me enter.'

The knock that was returned didn't come from any slender bronze rod. It reverberated from the ceiling, from the walls, rose up through the floor. Knock. Knock. Knock.

'Enter, sorceress,' a voice echoed from everywhere and nowhere. 'Enter the Dark Kingdom and be welcome.'

At first Claudia was unaware of the smoke. It was only when Darius's dry cough erupted that she realized coils of grey had intruded through the blackness, to be joined by a smell of sulphur, odious and repulsive, that mingled with the incense then was gone.

'I am…' Candace's voice faltered. 'I am crossing the threshold,' she finished weakly, followed by the unambiguous thud of a body collapsing in a dead faint on the floor.

It was as though a winter wind blew down from the Alps. Claudia felt it round her neck, round her ankles, she felt it creep into her marrow, and now the smoke was back, curling, swirling, spiralling horizontally around the room. She could see nothing. Simply blackness and smoke, and the only sound was Darius's intermittent cough and the hypnotic strum of the harp. Time stood still. Nothing happened, then …

'Claudia, my dove,' a male voice chuckled. 'How the devil are you, my sweet?'

The breath caught in her throat. Only one man had ever called her his dove. 'G-Gaius?'

'Don't sound so worried, my pet. I've never left you, not for a minute.'

As if to prove it, she felt a soft brush against her arm.

'I am always watching over you,' he said tenderly, 'have no fear of that, and if it's of any comfort, I am delighted with the way you've handled the business. With the Guild of Wine Merchants snapping at your heels, it was never going to be easy, but I am proud of you, my little angel. I am proud of how you've handled my daughter's affairs and — ' Claudia swore she felt a soft pat on the head '- I'm proud of the way you've taken care of my family.'

The cold intensified. She clasped her hands to stop them from shaking.

'And you, Mama.' A droll chuckle echoed from every corner of the hall. 'I'm proud of you, too. At your age, you minx! Have you two love birds set a date, yet?'

'Well, um, no…' Larentia sounded embarrassed.

'Then you should, Mama! You must! The Ferryman rowed me to Hades before my allotted span. Who's better placed than I to know how important it is to make the most of one's time on earth?'