Marilyn Todd - Widow's Pique

Forty was a bit old to be considered a lad, wasn't it? Especially when Pavan was the same age.

'A bit of a wastrel, is he, then, this Kazan?' she asked in the sort of girly, gossipy tone that tends to draw taciturn types out.

She suddenly sensed Kazan as the conspirators' weak link. Someone to be flattered and teased, slept with if necessary.

Anything to get out of this place alive.

'More of a dreamer, I'd say.'

Pavan returned to skipping his pebbles.

'The youngest child's always indulged, but being spoiled hasn't spoiled him, if ye get my drift. He's always happy and smiling, everyone likes him, and in turn he's everyone's friend.'

Better and better!

'I suppose when you look at the sourpuss he's married to,' she chirruped, 'you can't blame Kazan for losing himself in his… hobbies.'

Down by the ferry landing, Mazares's easy authority was calming the crowd, and progress on fitting the new ropes was improving because of it. Claudia followed the profile of strong, goateed jaw to tight, narrow trousers, taking in the aureole of glossy curls that fell to his shoulders, the crows' feet at his eyes, that preposterous, swirling, drop-dead-sexy moustache.

'Has he ever married?' she asked Pavan.

'Aye. Once.' He kept his gaze on a shoal of black fish nibbling at the stone harbour wall.

Odd, Claudia mused, how the Histri have adopted so many of our Roman practices. Construction projects, such as this harbour. Bathhouses, drains, libraries and gymnasia. How seamlessly they've fitted into our rule. Yet remain so emotionally distant…

'What happened?'

Several seconds passed before Pavan lifted his steely grey gaze.

'Same thing that happens to us all, ma'am. She died. Now, if ye'll excuse me, I'll lend them a hand with the ferry.'

Claudia watched the general's ponytail bobbing with exertion as he hauled on the ropes, his massive frame towering above the islanders round him. She watched long after the ferry had tested its new connections with a trip to the mainland. She even watched while it fetched back a consignment of wine in oak barrels and game birds hanging from poles for the feast.

Disembowelled by a mastiff? She had instantly scrubbed the King's son off her list, though the difference it made to the death toll was nothing.

It still stood at eight.

Like Greek festivals, Zeltane wasn't due to commence until sundown, and it started with the sacrifice outside the temple of a white ram to Perun. Earlier, in preparation for the celebrations, bonfires had been lit all over the mainland as well as the island, although the types of fire were not restricted. Flames leapt in every hearth in every home, from the grandest to the most humble. Beacons flared, torches spat, sconces flickered and candles guttered, each one symbolizing the sun's rays on earth as, for this one night of the year, night was transformed into day. Bald heads were greased, some had even taken to shaving their long Histrian locks, so they could shine like lanterns during the celebrations. Any glow-worm with sense hid itself deep in the foliage.

Hunters and fishermen in horns and antlers whisked tots up on their shoulders, singing and cavorting as they jollied their way round the plaza. Women in elaborately woven skirts and tasselled scarves chanted happy songs as they garlanded the statues and wreathed flowers in their braids, while the younger girls paraded shyly in chaplets of scented spring blossoms; iris, arabis and pinks. Each celebrant wore at least one amulet depicting mythical creatures that would protect them, although many had taken the spirit of Zeltane a step further by dressing up in full regalia.

Woodpeckers were popular, the men cloaking themselves in green feathers and red hats to emulate the royal totem, and quite a few had come as Perun, painting their faces black, like the god's, to resemble his thunder. Marek and Mir both pretended to be the god of bathing, whitening their hair with flour or chalk and shuffling along like old men, hooting with laughter as they tipped drinks over unsuspecting revellers, forcing them to rush to the bathhouse to clean up.

'My goodness, if the Lady Claudia isn't the spitting image of the goddess Perunika!'

Rosmerta's boom cut through the crackle of the logs, the laughter and the singing, and the hissing of fats dripping from the oxen roasting on spits.

'You will be absolutely perfect, sweeping in after the thunder and leaving a glorious rainbow in your wake.'

'Thank you.'

And thank Mazares. The slimy weasel had neatly ensured that she'd stand out like a sore thumb!

'I see you've come as — oh, remind me again?'

Rosmerta had abandoned high fashion in favour of a closely fitting white garment that highlighted every ounce of corseted flesh. Having also whitened her face with some kind of ash, she'd topped off the ensemble by encasing her head in a white veil as well. Scary enough, without those twiggy things stuck on her cheeks.

'Kikimora,' Rosmerta said proudly.

The twiggy things, then, were supposed to be whiskers. Kikimora, Goddess of the Hearth, was depicted as a cat (for contentment), white (for purity) and invariably a fat cat, because fat equated with plenty. Every household kept a stone or painted wooden sculpture by their fireside.

'Are you content?' Claudia asked.

As befits a man who'd taken two wives, even though one of them wasn't his own, Kazan had turned himself into the Sun God for the festivities and was schmoozing his way round the crowd, a vision in saffron, right down to the garland of honey-scented melliot draped over his torque.

'Why wouldn't I be?'

Rosmerta seemed surprised, though not offended, by the question.

'I'm the daughter of an Illyrian chieftain, I've contracted a good marital alliance, I have two strapping sons, a handsome husband, a position of standing — Lady Claudia, I have everything a woman could possibly ask for.'

An appropriately feline smugness settled on her features, but as she waddled off on feet crammed into too-tight white shoes, Claudia couldn't help but steal a glance to where Vani stood, alone but not lonely, and clothed from head to sandalled foot in black. It was a strange choice for such an athletic girl, to come as Zorya, Goddess of the Night. But even stranger was the legend that Zorya's lover was the Moon God, not the Sun.

A moment of silence descended on the square as Drilo made supplication to the gods by throwing incense in the largest fire, the Zeltane fire, which roared with suitable grandeur in the centre of the temple precinct. Tonight, he intoned, was especially sacred. The new moon cast no celestial light. Day would be created by the flames of the Fire God, guardian of Perun's holy bolts, and for this one night of the year, Svarog the Sun God would not need to depart with the dusk.

The high priest was flanked on his right by Mazares, resplendent in a ceremonial torque of a fiendishly complex design, and pants that were lavishly embroidered but no less tight, and over his Apollo-like locks, he wore the headdress of Taurus the bull, complete with gilded horns. Pavan stood on the priest's left, and because this was a formal occasion, he was in full military regalia, the significance of the strong leather scent that accompanied him now apparent, since leather is more flexible than metal for training. The trademark ponytail had been abandoned in favour of the Histrian war knot, looped and tied just above the right ear, and a heavy, double-handed sword, a cubit long, possibly more, hung at his side. The handle of his short stabbing knife was long, to ensure a sound grip, and fluted, that the blood and sweat might run off. But most chilling was that the dagger was human in shape, the outstretched arms forming the hilt.

A fanfare of trumpets signalled the start of the feast.