Dark Horse (6 page)

'If proof were needed, just look how uninterested he is in his nightwatchmen.'

'Hrrrrr,' Drusilla growled.

'My sentiments entirely. All those big burly men staggering about holding their heads?'

Any normal master would have assumed they were drunk and beaten them for falling asleep at their posts. Not Leo. He 
knew
their sleep had been induced by something more sinister. But make no mistake, Leo was angry. Very angry. Witness the stiff back, clenched fists - body language which suggested that, although he hadn't been caught on the hop, this Leo was not a happy lion.

As dawn began to throw her pink veil across the hills to the east, Claudia's eyes narrowed to slits.

Just what the hell kind of game was Leo playing here?

And what was the
real
reason he'd invited her to the Villa Arcadia?

Bucket by leather bucket, water from Leo's newly constructed bath house subdued the flames and, with it, quickly quenched the danger. Now only a single plume of black oily smoke punched its way through the hole in the roof. Testimony, just like the empty oil jar which lay beneath the stilts, that the fire had not started accidentally.

'For gods' sake, someone silence those bloody dogs!' Leo yelled. 'And you lot in the chain. Stop slacking, the fire isn't doused yet.'

Maybe not, but the crisis had undoubtedly passed and the sooty fire fighters, coughing from the smoke, saw no reason to keep up the back-breaking pace. The line of buckets settled into an easy, more manageable rhythm and gradually the barking of the estate dogs subsided, until all that could be heard was the twitterings of Saunio's coven of pretty boys bemoaning the state of their hair, their hands, the damage to their delicate skin.

In a pale-lemon-yellow gown, Claudia joined the throng in the courtyard. 'Good gracious, what on earth have I slept through?' she trilled.

A dash of white face powder, a judicious grouping of curls and the lump was almost invisible. To one side of the path, a pot of deep-pink spotted lilies lay in shards, the blooms trampled to mush. An unlikely weapon, Claudia thought. But effective. 'Are you all right?'

Under the grime she just about made out the earnest features of Corinth's famous son peering deep into her eyes. For what, though? Genuine concern for her welfare? Or to see whether she recognized him from earlier?

'I'm managing to keep a lid on the panic'

Trust no one. It was a good rule to live by. One which had served her right the way through from the slums. Nikias didn't look the sort to swan around clonking women over the head, much less the type to go brawling. But if still waters ran deep, then Nikias was an ocean, and who knows what secrets the ocean holds?

Taciturn as ever, the Corinthian gave a tight-lipped nod before slipping back to take his place in the chain.

'Dear child, you could have
died,'
whispered a soft, sibilant voice in her ear.

Claudia jumped. That was the second time in the early hours of this morning someone had crept up on her. A habit she was keen to break. But soot or no soot, nothing could disguise Shamshi's features. The hooked Arab nose. The distinctive circular mop of hair on top of a head otherwise shaved from temple to nape. That weird, lisping voice.

'Our host has been
most
irresponsible,' he murmured, 'not checking your room had been evacuated.' He sniffed. 'In his place,
I
would have posted servants to make
sure
your slaves wouldn't ignore any alarm.'

Claudia imagined the alarm would have had skeletons banging their heads on their gravestones, such was the startle factor of that particular blast.

'Had I been in any danger, Shamshi, you would have been the first to know.' She declined to take the bait about her bodyguard failing in his duties. 'After all,' she smiled, 'you're the one who sees the future, remember?'

The Persian did not return her smile. 'I am an augur, not an astrologer,' he lisped. 'I study entrails, observe birds, watch for portents, interpret dreams. The signs I have been shown don't foretell death, dear child. Only -' he paused for effect -    
'disaster
.'

Must be a hoot at children's parties, Claudia thought, as he turned away, his trousers flapping round his bony knees. Was Shamshi one of the men tussling on the steps? Thanks to the smoke, she couldn't tell, but there was a man she could well imagine wielding pots of lilies. It was the thought of those skeletal fingers touching her comatose body that didn't bear thinking about!

Extricating himself from the working party at last, Saunio, strutting like a plump pigeon, despatched a squad of BYMs to locate Bulis.

'If I find out that wretched boy has buggered off to town again, I'm adding three months to his apprenticeship,' he spluttered. 'I won't tolerate slackness in my team. Not from any one of you, you hear?' The remainder of the BYMs nodded grimly.

Dawn had turned the Adriatic rosy red, giving definition to what the islanders called Sorcerer's Mountain. This was the high peak on the Istrian mainland, where snow clung to the crevices even in summer. More sinisterly, in superstitious Cressian eyes, was the cap of white cloud which engulfed the peak most of the year. What other explanation than a smokescreen for the sorcerer to work his evil magic? Thus every morning, when they arose, the islanders made the ritual gesture against enchantment. Which was precisely what they were doing now. Slaves from the household, slaves from the fields, slaves who toiled in the outhouses and the workshops, all held up their right hands, the two middle fingers held down by their thumbs, and made the sign of the horns to protect them.

'Quick, sir,' Qus called out, 'look at this!'

Alerted by his tone, all notions of ritual gestures were abandoned in favour of looking at Leo's muscle-bound bailiff standing in the blackened grain house door. Necks craned forward as Leo bounded up the stone steps two at a time in response. Avidly the crowd watched as Qus passed his master a moistened linen handkerchief to cover his mouth and nose against the smoke. Both men had to duck to pass beneath the smouldering lintel. Where the ground sloped away behind the building, the soil was scarred by runnels of oily black sludge, the after-effects of extinguishing the inferno. The timbers resembled crocodile hide.

As the crowd waited for the men to emerge, the first bubble of birdsong began to rise. Within seconds, wheatears, whinchats and whitethroats were singing their hearts out from spiky perches out in the scrub, tits and redstarts warbled from the pines and a hoopoe crooned in the distance. Undeterred by

the acrid air, swallows twittered under the eaves of the villa, dipping and diving as they fetched flies for their ravenous young. Several minutes passed before Leo finally reappeared from the grain store. His expression was grim.

'I'm telling you this,' he announced in a low voice, 'because I don't want any false rumours bandied about. Qus has . . .' He paused, swallowed, started again. 'Qus has discovered the charred remains of a body inside the granary.'

A collective gasp rose from the crowd.

Oh, no, Claudia prayed. Not Volcar. Oh, please, not old Uncle Volcar.

'Bulis!' cried Saunio. 'I knew it, I knew it. It's my boy Bulis, isn't it?'

Leo didn't reply for a moment, then slowly he opened his fist. In his palm lay a blackened signet ring. 'It is,' he said, 'if your apprentice wore this.'

It went without saying that there would be no other way of identifying the remains.

Saunio's voice cracked. 'Gold?' he asked. 'Set with one single pearl?'

Leo rubbed the ring on his tunic. For a brief second, his eye held Saunio's, then he gave a bleak nod. The artist covered his face with his hands. The BYMs fluttered round once more to comfort their patron as well as each other.

'That's not all,' Leo said. 'The corpse - I, mean, Bulis -' he paused, and Claudia felt something cold slither around in her stomach. 'Bulis,' he said, 'was found chained to a pillar.'

Cooled by white marble and shaded by honeycomb screens, the great soaring atrium oozed peace and tranquillity. Fresh flowers scented the Senator's hall - roses, lilies and pinks. A fountain splashed prettily, birds with bright plumage trilled from their cage in the corner and servants glided silently in and out, while the strumming of a lyre filtered through from a room at the back.

Working for the Security Police, Orbilio had almost forgotten, until recently, what it was like, the indolent lifestyle into which he had been born. A lifestyle of seaside villas like this, where families could just up sticks and retreat for the summer, while his own time was passed scouring crime scenes and meeting informers in strange, secret places or trawling drinking dens and whorehouses in search of those creatures of the night who could help him unravel his latest investigation and bring the perpetrator to book.

'Marcus? Marcus, can it really be you?'

He spun round, his eyes widening in surprise and delight. 'Margarita!' He had forgotten the Senator had remarried.

'There was a time,' she said, linking her arm through his and drawing him towards the back of the house, 'when you were less formal. Called me Darling, Lover, Cherub—'

'That was a long time ago,' he reminded her as sternly as he could muster. 'You're a respectable wife and mother now, Margarita.'

'I was a wife and mother then, too,' she flipped back, 'and I'll kindly thank you not to call me respectable. Give me a kiss.'

He leaned down to plant a chaste kiss on her cheek, but Margarita clasped his face in her bejewelled hands and drew

him down hard on her lips. He wondered how long it would be before he'd be allowed up for air.

'I'm investigating a series of burglaries which has been targeting wealthy establishments since Saturnalia,' he explained, once she'd finally released him. 'I gather your own house was a recent victim?'

Robbery was hardly his usual line of enquiry, but after eight months of getting nowhere and with the upper classes growing restless, Orbilio's boss had begun to feel the wind of change blowing underneath his high-backed office chair. Sort it out fast, the breeze was telling him, or there'll be someone else's butt on this cushioned upholstery. Orbilio didn't resent the routine enquiry. It made a change from rapes and murder, allowed him to investigate the horse doping business himself instead of delegating to others, and also, thanks to the intricacies of aristocratic lineage, many of the families involved happened to be his own relatives. Which gave him a perfect opportunity to catch up.

'The bastards took all my lovely jewels, darling. Come in here, and I'll tell you all about it over a jug of chilled wine. It's vintage Ligean, of course. You'll adore it.'

Margarita led him into a small chamber overlooking the sea, where shutters offered shade, coolness, silence - and total privacy. Lavender oil burned in a brazier, heroic scenes plastered the walls and a large, white cat snoozed in a basket. Orbilio noted that the wine and glasses were already in place on the table. Not for him. For anyone, he realized sadly.

In the three, maybe four years since he had last seen her, Margarita had lost weight. Gone was the voluptuous bosom, the dimpled cheeks, the unforced laugh which had attracted him so deeply when he was at a low ebb after his wife had walked out. Now, seeing the lines scoring her eyes, the dyed hair, the increased reliance on cosmetic aids, Marcus felt a pang of something he couldn't identify.

'Absolutely scrummy,' she said, pouring the wine. 'Colour of honeydew with just a hint of freshly mown hay and greengages in the bouquet.' She linked her arm through his and chinked glasses.

'When you say "all" your jewellery . . . ?' Orbilio said, smiling, as his gaze took in the rich array of gold pendants, emerald earrings, silver tiara and bracelets, as well as pearl-studded hair combs.

'These little gewgaws are what I was wearing at the banquet the night we were robbed. They're all I'm left with, unless -' with one deft movement, she undipped her left shoulder brooch - 'you want to search the premises more thoroughly?'

'Margarita, please.' His voice was hoarse. 'Cover yourself up, before someone comes in.'

'No one will come in,' she assured him, but his eyes told her that fear of disturbance wasn't the reason for the rebuff.

Marcus drained his wine in one swallow. Some things never change, he reflected, although he had forgotten, until now, how Margarita had favoured quick-release clothing. How she'd never bothered with underwear.

'Sex should always be spelt with three Fs,' was her motto. 'Frequent, fast and frivolous, darling.'

Now he understood the lines round her mouth, the hollows under what had, not so long ago, been bright eyes. He had hoped that remarriage to the Senator would have made her happy, let her find whatever she'd been seeking from life, and he watched impassively as she drew the fine embroidered linen over her naked breast and pinned back the brooch without a flicker of embarrassment in her hazel brown eyes.

'You don't know what you're missing,' she said, but he knew exactly. Casual sex, as Margarita was finding to her cost, is not the answer. It leaves a person aching and incomplete, wanting more from life than a succession of bleak hydraulic manoeuvres.

'I'm sorry,' he said, and he meant it. 'My philandering days are behind me.'