Marilyn Todd - Widow's Pique

He indicated the rolls of carpets lined up on the deck. Somewhere Claudia could hear a grinding sound and had a feeling it wasn't so much the anchor ropes as her own teeth.

She thought back to the last time she'd seen those rugs, when they were being rolled out over Pula's cobbles. That went a long way to explaining Mazares's behaviour, she supposed. First, Histria's honoured guest charges down the gangplank in what could only be perceived as a snub to the fanfare and rugs. Then she insults no less than the Commander of the Royal Histrian Guard. Rounding it off with a hat-trick, she then humiliates the King's envoy in public.

This was probably not the time to ask if Mazares was a man who bore grudges…

'I think I'll go for option two,' she breezed, adding that she was sure he'd understand, her being just a shy, retiring girl at heart.

'Yes, I'd noticed.'

She glanced across to the prow, where Pavan stood, hands on hips, his grey eyes fixed on the approaching island, and contrasted his steely remoteness with Mazares's easy charm. Was the lazy sparkle in those catkin-green eyes fired by amusement — or, as she very much suspected, scorn? Derision, with a smidgen of the I-know-something-you-don'ts.

'These islands are some of my favourite places,' he said, and for the first time she actually believed what he said.

And why not? Rocky coves and golden beaches unfolded one after the other, and the scents of cypress, fir and juniper wafted on the warm, early-evening air. From the branches of the fragrant pines that swept down to meet the limpid waters, songbirds proclaimed their nesting territories and crickets throbbed among centuries-old olive groves that had provided shade for countless generations of sheep.

Bathed by the blood-red setting sun, it was hard to see where the hilly outcrop that was Rovin left off and the sea began, but the island appeared to be separated from the mainland by a deep, though narrow, channel across which a ferry operated on ropes. Away from Pula, and thus from overt Roman influence, it was easy to imagine Rovin as a throwback to the wooden shanty-towns inhabited by a rough, backward society who had turned their backs on their foreign masters' customs in favour of the old ways. The island was anything but. The closer they approached, the more it became clear that this was a forward-looking, sophisticated, highly developed community with a group of luminaries waiting at the harbourside to greet them.

'So, this is the lovely Claudia!'

An impossibly handsome individual with liquid dark eyes and hair that was every bit as long, dark and glossy as Mazares's leapt aboard instantly to kiss her hand.

'My brother, Kazan,' Mazares introduced, somewhat unnecessarily. The resemblance was unmistakable.

'Delighted.' The brother was in no hurry to release her as he led her down the gangplank. 'Absolutely delighted.'

Kazan's eyes weren't quite so closely set as Mazares's and his hair was straight, rather than curly, a combination that, coupled with his easy smile, gave him an innocent, almost boyish appearance, even though he was probably straddling forty.

'You've no idea how much we've been looking forward to your visit.'

His voice had the same husky pitch as his brother's, but there was something else in it, too. An adulterer's voice, she decided, matched by the adulterer's light in his eyes.

'And I thought Mazares was the charmer of the family,' she declared. 'Is this your wife?'

She smiled at the sporty creature who'd stepped forward in what was no doubt meant to be some form of Histrian curtsy, but whose lithe athleticism turned it into a full-blown gymnas-tical manoeuvre. A well-matched couple, indeed. Kazan, the boy who never grew up, married to a sprightly filly who made sure he never had to. All she needed was a quiver on her shoulder and you had a living, breathing Diana of the Hunt. What bet her thighs could crush the juice right out of a melon?

'Vani? Good heavens, no, Vani's my daughter-in-law,' Kazan laughed, 'She's married to my eldest boy, for her sins! No, my-'

'Why, Lady Claudia!'

A booming voice elbowed the ruddy-cheeked Vani out of the way.

'I do so hope that the next time we welcome you to these shores, it will be as Your Majesty.'

'This is my wife,' Kazan said, rolling his eyes. And will someone please fetch a trowel for her to lay on the flattery?'

'My name's Rosmerta, dear-'

If he was aware of the contemptuous look his wife threw him, it didn't show.

'-and I wish you nothing but happiness and fulfilment during your visit.'

Her Latin was perfect, even though the flat facial features and almond slant to her eyes testified to a heritage on the far side of the Dolomites, but where Kazan was lithe, athletic and shared his brother's dashing dress sense, Rosmerta was something else. Big, of course, can be beautiful, but sadly this adage had bypassed Rosmerta. As tall as her husband, she was at least twice his girth, and in a bid to keep up with the very latest in Roman fashion, a preponderance of pleats and a dearth of flounces simply emphasized her size. Overweight, overdressed and overbearing was bad enough, but who on earth persuaded her that such a ridiculous froth of false blonde curls was becoming?

'These are my sons,' she said, proudly beckoning forward two strapping youths. 'Marek and Mir.'

She didn't specify who was who, nor elaborate on which son was married to Vani, but it didn't really matter, because, having bowed to the newcomer and mumbled a perfunctory greeting, they immediately turned their attentions to where the wine might be stashed on this godforsaken island.

Rosmerta's pinched lips stretched into an indulgent smile, as if to say, Boys! and Claudia thought, Interesting. Two young men made in their father's image, yet it was from their mother that their characters were drawn.

'This is Drilo, our high priest,' Kazan said.

Bearded and strong-featured, Drilo stepped forward. He smelled of the incense and myrrh that was burned in supplication to his strange gods, and amulets of electrum encircled each wrist.

'You honour us, My Lady,' Drilo said, bowing deeply.

Round his oiled, braided hair he wore a band of gold engraved with the same creatures Claudia had seen on the torque around Mazares's neck.

'On the contrary,' she replied, covering his hand gently with hers. 'It is you who honour me.'

She gazed into his penetrating dark-blue eyes and smiled her most beguiling smile.

Let him think she was hooked. Let them all think she was hooked. That she'd been won over by the gifts, by the flattery, by the lure of the big prize at the end, but make no mistake, my cunning, sneaky, double-dealing Histrian friends. You can pay me, because, oh yes, I'll take your money.

It doesn't mean I've been bought.

Marcus Cornelius Orbilio leaned his tall frame against the temple wall and folded his arms across his chest. The sun was setting, but the evening air was quite without chill, despite the gentle breeze that ruffled the hem of his long, patrician tunic. Inside the temple, the priests and scribes were busy cataloguing the day's intake of offerings to Hercules. As patron of commerce as well as leader of the Muses, the gifts covered the broadest spectrum on the religious scale, and from what Orbilio could hear, today's donations included everything from lyres to poetry engraved on bronze tablets right down to humble terracotta goblets and lions carved from sacred wild olive.

Orbilio wasn't interested in the goings-on inside the temple. It was the house along the street that he was watching. It was a fine house, newly built, with red roof tiles and doors of cedarwood, and from the small slits in the walls that faced the road, he could see the bright flickering of lamps, even though the sun had not yet sunk. Reluctantly, he prised himself off the temple wall and sauntered slowly down towards the house, and maybe it was the scent of Hercules's sacred laurel, but there was a bitter taste on the back of his tongue.