Before the sun stands thrice more over our heads, a woman shall die.
Garbage. No woman was going to die, get a grip!
Except that before the new light was born in the sky, bad news had come over the water.
Stop it. That creepy, hook-nosed fraud makes it up as he goes along. Cressia's an island, for gods' sake. All news comes over the water. Fifty-fifty chance whether it's good or bad. Shamshi was aware of the passions brewing here in the villa, knew something had to blow soon. Isolation breeds oppression and, just like this throbbing, interminable heat, there's no escape. The tendrils wrap round you, tighter, tighter, drawing you in, drawing you down. A slow, treacly whirlpool, sucking you deeper where no one can hear you scream, because the scream is only inside your head. And the old fraud capitalized on that incestuous whirl of emotions. He'd been present at dinner when Lydia had threatened to blow Leo's marriage plans out of the water, and he'd know all about Nanai's refusal to leave, the landlord's patience running out, Nanai's threats once she could no longer get her own way.
'I make a dangerous enemy,' she had warned Leo, inciting him to retaliate with threats of his own by reminding her how he dealt with his enemies.
Shamshi would know about Silvia, too. How she was trying to blackmail her brother-in-law into marriage, and the threats she had made if he did not play ball. And it was more than likely the Persian knew about the mysterious Clio, as well. Part intelligence gathering, part mumbo-jumbo, but with women at the centre of each of these blazing rows, why not chance your arm with a sinister prediction? Accidents happen. When emotions are heated, people become careless, it's easy to lose concentration. One slip on the clifftop, for instance, and hey presto it's a coin for the ferryman.
Two hours passed that seemed like twenty.
The moon had surely stuck in the sky.
Then — boom. A single drumbeat sounded out across the water. As one, the lights along the deck were extinguished, strong arms hauled up the anchor rope and swoosh, swoosh, swoosh, as the flautist played time for the oars, the little Moth fluttered away. As suddenly as she'd arrived.
'Cowards,' Leo called after her. 'Snivelling cowards, the lot of you!'
He turned to his bailiff.
'Qus,' he said, 'post armed guards along the shore and station lookouts there, there and there. Also, the Medea's vulnerable up on the stocks, so have a contingent keep a close watch on her and, one last thing, I'm taking no chances, post six men round my wife's house.'
'The mistress won't like it.'
'There you go again! Defying me! By Croesus, I don't give a toss what the mistress likes or doesn't like, and you can remind her highness, if she starts yelling, that it's my bloody land and I'll protect it how I please. Those men stay until I give the all-clear, understood? I said, do you understand!'
'Yes, sir. I understand exactly what you mean.'
Leo turned to the rest of the men.
'Tonight,' he announced, 'we celebrate a second victory over the pirates. They're nothing but bullies and thugs, and now we've shown them we're prepared to stand and fight, that we won't be run off this island like rats, they'll find weaker targets to pick on. That's unfortunate for the victims concerned, I realize, but that's an issue which will have to be addressed through the appropriate channels in Rome. Tonight, though, it's wine all round, men! Let us toast that glorious goddess, Victory, until our throats are too hoarse to shout!'
The answering cheers would have deafened the dead.
It was late evening. Bats twittered under the eaves. Moths were drawn to the flames of the torches which burned in the formal gardens, illuminating the paths and the statuary. The tall spikes of angelica glowed like robust parasols and, now that the Soskia had slipped away, the air was no longer cloying, but pleasantly redolent with the scent of late-summer flowers. Laughter rang out as the wine flowed like floodwater in the courtyard beyond, but for Claudia, inside the cocoon of tall cypress hedge, the pale-green heads of the hops seemed to nod as though in penitence as they twined up the pillars, night crickets rasped like a saw and she could not shake off a sense of impending doom. It hung like a canopy over the villa.
Before the sun stands thrice more over our heads, a woman shall die.
A tawny owl hooted, and she reassured herself with the touch of hard steel hidden in the folds of her gown and the stiletto strapped to her calf. She could not see him, but Claudia felt the presence of her bodyguard close at hand. Whoever attacked her two nights before wouldn't find her such a soft target next time.
As she strolled the paths, the statuary drew her attention. Despite Nikias's hyperbole, she had expected to find Magnus's work every bit as lacking as the man who had courted a vulnerable woman then allowed himself to be warned off by the ex. Instead, the symmetry and balance of the statues took her breath away. Take the old man reaching up to pluck a ripe peach from the tree in the corner. Not only had Magnus captured the essence of Volcar, but the angle of his outstretched arm mirrored the spurt of the fountain on the opposite side of the path. Any moment, that young mother and her daughters would finish their frozen dance among the alliums and the vervain which grew round their podium, and the tears from the kneeling stone virgin would drip silently on to the grass. All they needed was the warm breath of Jupiter upon their lips and suddenly marble nymphs would giggle aloud -
'The knack is to manipulate height and texture in harmony with their surroundings.'
Claudia spun round. So much for vigilance! But sitting on a marble bench beneath the plum tree, one leg crossed over his knee as he leaned comfortably against its corrugated bark, the stranger posed no immediate threat. Mid, maybe even late forties, with dark hair greying at the temples there was only one person this man could be.
'Magnus?' The Magnus? 'You're the man who looks into souls?' And toys with vulnerable female emotions?
'At your service, ma'am.' Grey eyes twinkled as he gave a faint nod.
'I thought you'd left Cressia.' Did Lydia know?
A long, artistic finger traced a line along the crisp pleat of his tunic. 'Let's call it unfinished business.'
Oh-oh. Lydia's dowry. Silvia's savings. Claudia began to get the strangest feeling that Magnus's bill might not actually have been settled yet. 'Leo owes you, doesn't he?'
'Leo owes everyone.'
Claudia's gaze took in the statuary, the way he had reflected back every nuance of this fabulous island. The blue of the sky, the turquoise of the sea, the perfect gold of the sands. Magnus had taken the seasons one by one and made them prostrate themselves before his chisel and paintbrush, and it was no coincidence that the statue of the Emperor Augustus, resplendent in purple, stood on a podium under which cyclamen and columbine flourished, and where the blaze of gold leaves in the autumn would match the Emperor's crown. Nikias had it wrong. Magnus didn't create lifelike images of his subjects, he bestowed immortality upon them.
'You're wasted on Cressia,' she said bluntly. 'Talent like yours should be in Rome, for everyone to feast their eyes on.'
'We all sell our skills to the highest bidder in the end,' Magnus murmured. 'It's the nature of the beast.'
'Bollocks. You've created a spiritual paradise here.' Any second now, the father would heed the tug of his son's marble hand on the hem of his tunic and bend down to scoop him up. 'That frieze along the portico depicting the adventures of Odysseus-'
But Claudia was talking to thin air. When she turned back, the bench beneath the plum tree was empty and only the swinging of a bramble along the path testified that Magnus had ever been in the garden tonight. That, plus the physical manifestation of his prodigious talent. She blinked. That rearing stallion by the fountain? Did its mane really flicker? She half expected it to snort and gallop off down the path, its hooves kicking up clouds of dust in its wake. She smiled. Trick of the light. Spluttering torches were all that made these figures dance beneath the waning moon. A dozen or so bitumen-soaked reeds set alight. Nothing more.