Marilyn Todd - Sour Grapes

So far, three out of five needed no husband to initiate them into the art of the bedchamber. These were practised seducers who knew exactly what they were doing.

'Lady Claudia!' Timi bridled with indignation. 'It is the girls' very innocence that arouses Fufluns to the state of excitement where He can no longer contain His seed and in spilling it, makes the earth fertile. I personally verify my pupils' virginity!'

'If they're not pure, they don't dance?'

'Virginity is the gift they bring to the earth god,' she snapped. 'Without it, they dishonour Him.'

'But there are no half measures here,' Claudia pointed out. 'The girls are either completely inhibited or… um… they're not.'

Timi flattened her hackles. 'That is the god's own will,' she stated. 'I must admit, I have been extremely surprised by some of my brides. Their movements are more… how can I say… suggestive than any choreography I've taught them.'

She let Claudia into a secret. That it was her quest to enlighten her pupils that, although they lived in a male-dominated society, there was no reason for men to have it all their own way. There was fun to be had for women too in the bedchamber, and, although she didn't tell Tarchis, she emphasized the pleasures of receiving, rather than giving.

'But they're not,' Claudia said. 'What those girls are enacting out there — in fact, exactly what your little fire moon is doing with that tinder stick at the moment — is pleasing her man.'

'My point precisely,' Timi said, smiling. 'We can impart our personal viewpoints till the cows come home, but when the time comes to dance, it is the god's will inside the pupil's, not a mortal's. It is Fufluns who shows His virgins the way.'

Maybe so, Claudia thought. But it wasn't Fufluns who showed Vorda how to tie a rock round her waist. And it wasn't Fufluns who stuck a knife into Lichas!

I can see you working out how Candace did it, what Darius's game is, what's behind the run of bad luck and why Lars married Eunice before the moon combs her lovely red hair.

Perhaps it was seeing Supersnoop over there, leaning nonchalantly against a pillar with his arms folded over his chest, that made Orbilio's words echo in Claudia's head. But either way, she had done it. She'd worked out how Candace summoned the spirits, what Darius's game was, how he was behind the run of bad luck, why Lars married Eunice, and now here was the moon combing her lovely red hair.

Except Claudia hadn't been able to connect Felix to Lichas… or Tages… or Vorda — and without hard evidence the bastard would walk.

Frankly, she had a better chance of solving that political crisis in Mauritania.

The flames of the torches flickered on the temple walls, and the candles round the idol shimmered like sun on the ocean. As the wine flowed freely and the music grew wilder, the harvest moon skipped into the circle and as Flavia offered herself to the earth god, no one noticed a young woman with flaming red hair pass through the crowd.

Or the knife in her hand.

The patrician she sought was leaning with his back against one of the salmon-pink pillars. He had his arms folded over his chest and was concentrating hard on the dance. Rosenna waited until he raised his hands to applaud.

Then aimed her blade straight for his heart.

The day dawned warm, soft and golden, bathing the landscape in the same glow that had suffused it for centuries. Subtle and gentle, tranquil and pure, the sun promised springtime and growth and renewal. For the people of this land, the people who had, for the same centuries, farmed its fields, fished its rivers and hunted its woods, the dawn was a time of contentment. Exhausted from revelry, satiated from wine and secure in their time-honoured identity, they slipped away from the temple. Thousands dwindled into hundreds, hundreds became scores, scores filtered away into nothingness until only the smell of incense and stale wine remained in the precinct.

That, and a pool of dark blood.

Kneeling over it, Claudia stared at the sticky puddle. Shouldn't it be blue, she wondered dully? Shouldn't it at least have been blue? Rocking on her knees, she could not leave this place. The Etruscans believed in Guardians of the Graves who stood over the tombs and protected the soul for eternity. But what of blood? Who guarded the blood to stop blowflies from feasting? To stop rats licking it up? To prevent ghouls from stealing his lifeblood away?

Life.

She tried to say the word aloud, but nothing could get past the rock in her throat, and you'd think it would hurt, but it didn't. Everything was numb. Leaden. Completely without feeling, and for some reason she couldn't see properly, her mind wouldn't work, nor would her legs or her arms. And there was rain falling now. Rain from a clear blue sky, that bounced down to leave crown-shaped imprints in the blood. Oblivious to the tears that coursed down her cheeks, Claudia rocked herself back and forth. So much of it. Like her mother's, it was the quantity that always surprised her. How much blood one stupid body contains…

Marcus.

But she daren't speak his name aloud. If she did… if she did …

When she closed her eyes all she could hear was the wild, wild music, and all she could see were the dancers. Every one whirling, swirling, blurring into one by the lights of the flickering candles.

Flavia.

This time Claudia didn't even try to say the word aloud. She would never speak it again. She hated the name. Hated her. Hated, you hear? Because while she was waiting, watching that little bitch run through her dance, Rosenna was sticking her No, don't. Don't think about that. Forget Rosenna. Forget Flavia. Forget everything. Forget, forget…

Please Jupiter, let me forget.

The mare galloped through the arched gateway and up the long drive to the villa, foam flecking its mouth from where it had been ridden so hard. In the courtyard, Claudia jumped down but there was no groom rushing forward to take care of the horse. Twenty-four hours of non-stop revelry had taken their toll, and whether bailiff’s house or dormitory, stable yard or guest room, snoring emanated from each open window. Even the dogs were too tired to snuffle and lay slumped on their sides in the yard or draped over doorways, paws and noses twitching in sleep.

She flung open the atrium doors, but nothing moved in this ghost villa, save a butterfly searching for a way out and even those wings were silent. She paused at the fountain and sluiced cool water over her face. The reflection that peered back came straight from Hell. A gargoyle tormented by demons.

The temple physicians were good. They had to be, didn’t they? Yes, of course they were. Competent. Professionals. They had all the skills, the equipment, the medicines, the technology. Life-savers weren’t they, these doctors? Well, obviously. They wouldn’t have bundled him into their infirmary so quickly if they didn’t know what they were doing. Or would they? Who consulted the physics of Fufluns? Impotent men? Barren women? Drunks to be cured of the shakes? Beside the bust of Apollo, she reeled, grabbing the shrine to the household gods for support.

What support?

She tossed her head and squared her shoulders. What did the gods care? If they cared, they wouldn’t have let that stupid temple acolyte throw a bucket of water over the flagstones and wash away Marcus's blood. Oh, she'd flown at the idiot, scratching his face, his arms, clawing his neck, but too late. Too late. The blood — so much blood — that ought to have been blue was already gone. All traces of him washed down the steps.

Now somebody… oh yes somebody… had to pay.

'Get up, you bastard!'

Darius pulled at the coverlet, but it was already in a heap on the floor.