Marilyn Todd - Widow's Pique

'Ah.'

Imagination didn't need to stretch far to picture the chauvinistic Histri's reaction to their widowed princess labouring in a commune of women!

'In tribal law, just like Roman law, women belong to the men,' Salome continued. 'Lora had become the prince's chattel upon marriage and in her mind the unrest is down to the simple question of the Histri wanting her back.'

'Do they?'

'Of course. Nothing's changed in that respect, but this farm is Roman and they wouldn't dare launch an aggressive action, though you must have noticed by now that the Histri are a boneheaded bunch. Nothing I say makes a scrap of difference to that woman's viewpoint, although — ' she dabbled her hand in the fountain — 'having said that, she was mighty glad to see you."

'You could have fooled me.'

'Lora's young, and I can't say her manners have improved since she's been here, hence her outburst. I can promise you that won't happen again, but it's troubled her from the day of the funeral that she might be forced into marriage with the King. It wouldn't be the first time this has happened in this country and, as you know, youth always hides fear with aggression.'

Claudia thought of all the scandals that had wracked Rome and decided that none compared to this tiny kingdom. Square foot for square foot, the city just couldn't compete!

'You see, my dear, even the present incumbent of the throne was forced to marry his dead brother's widow.'

'Brae's wife?'

'Exactly. Delmi was the eldest daughter of the King of the Ispydes, a wealthy tribe who, as you know, are outside the Empire but who are nevertheless allies and an important link on the amber road which runs through here to the Baltic.'

She went on to explain. Delmi had been married to Brae for just over three years when the prince died of a fever, but such was her family's power and influence that Histria dare not break the political alliance. Bereft as he was at the loss of his heir, Dol had no choice but to decree that his second son marry Brae's widow, even though the boy was only fifteen at the time.

'Did he mind?'

And more to the point, how did poor Delmi feel, being passed from pillar to post?

Salome shrugged her elegant shoulders. 'The King has always put his country before himself

'There's something I still don't understand,' Claudia said. 'You say Lora believes herself to be the cause of all your rape and pillage, yet she's still here.'

If there was one quality the aristocracy were born with, it was obligation. Duty was the first word they uttered.

'I repeat, boneheaded.' Salome grinned. 'Ultimately, though, it's her choice whether she stays or goes, my doors are open to everyone and, believe me, there's more than enough work to go round!'

The two young widows set off on a slow tour of Amazonia, taking in everything from the spotted pig, snorting happily around her brand-new sty and showing imminent signs of producing piglethood, to the shed where wheat was threshed, to the flock of tiny, dark-brown sheep with arching horns, whose fleeces were in the process of being plucked, not shorn, using special antler combs. Again, the riot of colour on this farm took Claudia's breath away. Yellow lupins, pale blue flax, fields of bright green wheat, but…

'No bonfires, I notice.'

Was that a falter in Salome's step, or just a stone beneath her shoe?

'We don't celebrate Zeltane here, since it's purely a Histrian event.'

Claudia's thoughts drifted to Rome, to where the Festival of Flora was being celebrated over seven days, in which theatres and amphitheatres put on non-stop shows. And every one featuring fire and light… As they looped back towards the farmhouse, goats with shaggy, raggy coats came skipping from the milking shed, bees buzzed round their woven wicker skeps and cattle raised purely for hides lowed softly in the meadow.

'How about May Day?'

Salome's green eyes danced. 'I told you, my dear, I observe all our Roman festivals. As a matter of fact, we are holding our May Banquet tonight. You'll join us, I trust?'

How smoothly her lies unfolded. Claudia studied the sprig of myrtle in Salome's hair, a herb strictly forbidden on May Day, and said nothing would please her more.

'But you must have joined the celebrations out on Rovin?'

'Regrettably not.' Salome stopped to test the bar on a gate. 'Between sowing the millet and fumigating the byres, we're planting and pruning round the clock, cutting the vetches, heaven knows the weeding is endless, and of course we're still breaking in our new bullock, so rather than embarrass myself by falling asleep before the first sacrifice, I find it simpler to collapse into bed.'

Claudia returned her smile, and remembered the nymph in blue tossing purifying herbs into the Fire of Life. The nymph had been heavily veiled, but there was no mistaking that single, loose strand of hair. It was long, and shining — and unmistakably red. Mazares had noticed the wayward strand, too. He had stood there and watched her, his expression quite blank, then he'd taken Claudia's hand and the grip had been firm.

Harbouring the King's widowed daughter-in-law would certainly account for the frisson that rippled between Mazares and Salome the night they bumped into each other. But there was something else. Something deeper. Darker. Of words unspoken, of secrets not told …

Back on the terrace, Claudia stared out at the glittering Adriatic.

Take one clear, calm sea bordered by golden beaches and rocky coves. Add an island of white stone standing sentry over an evergreen archipelago. Mix in one or two blue lagoons, a smattering of coral, a handful of dolphins, and bake under a cloudless sky. Finally, top with two handsome people, who are both charismatic and kind, and you have the recipe for perfection.

Set on the west coast of the Histrian peninsula, by rights this ought to be the Garden of the Hesperides, peopled by gentle, hard-working folk and protected by the invisible walls of imperial rule. Yet Claudia had never felt so alone and so vulnerable.

Or felt the breath of danger so close on her neck.

Orbilio stared at the parchments laid out before him on the inlaid writing desk, each scroll anchored top and bottom with a weighted wooden rod. To the left of the reports was heaped a pile of statistics compiled assiduously by His Imperial Majesty's bean counters and scribes, and, on the right, a stack of wax tablets containing Orbilio's own calculations, which, for once, didn't differ greatly from official figures.

Damn.

His stylus beat a lethargic tattoo on the desk as he stretched his long legs out beneath the table and leaned back in his chair. He had volunteered for this assignment. He had convinced his superiors that to act on evidence that consisted of little more than tittle-tattle, innuendo, jealousy and spite might well lay the Security Police open to charges of incompetence (or worse) if the charges eventually proved false.

His boss, oily little bastard that he was, saw credit either way in taking his advice and holding back, and Orbilio glanced at the report lying uppermost on the pile, a copy of the original sent to none other than the Emperor himself. Whether Augustus had time to read it, given the amount of guff that came his way, was moot, but the point is, the charge had been raised in sufficiently high places that, if proven, it would shower laurels upon the Head of the Security Police and if not, would still be interpreted as another fine example of his conscientiousness. Naturally, it went without saying that Orbilio's name wasn't mentioned: there's no room for two in the stratosphere of glory. Straightening out the parchment, he read the report through again, his eyes automatically picking out the parts that mattered.

Allegations have come to my attention concerning a serious and concerted attempt to destabilize the Empire… fraud on a totally unacceptable scale… undermines the fundamental principles of.. which, if true, will overturn every value dear to… ultimately challenging the whole economy…