Widow's Pique

'I'm guessing politics holds the same appeal for you as for Marek and Mir?'

'Less.'

Damn.

'You see, I happen to believe that it's every man's right to be happy, and if you look at the King, see how he's sacrificed his own happiness in the name of duty, you can see why I steer clear.'

Unfortunately, he appeared completely genuine.

'You'll never find me married to any job, Claudia.'

'For a man who wasn't born to run this country, your King seems to be making a pretty good stab at it.'

'Brilliant, if the truth be told, but ask yourself, what freedom does the poor sod have? I think back to the days of our misspent youth, when we'd take off into the high alpine forests whenever we liked, or set off sailing the wide, open seas, but he can't do any of those things now, poor old bugger. Me, I reckon if a man is content within himself,' he continued, 'and I mean truly content, then that happiness radiates out and spreads to everyone it comes into contact with.'

'Would that radius include Rosmerta?'

'Impudent minx!'

Kazan tapped her lightly on the tip of her nose as he laughed.

'But yes, as it happens, it does include Rosmerta. She and I have everything we need from this marriage, and by that, frankly, I mean separate lives. It wouldn't suit me having a wife who clings like a wet loincloth, or a sickly woman I'd feel guilty about leaving when I take off on long hunting trips, and certainly not one who'd make scenes over my occasional philandering.'

'Only occasional…?'

'Vani's a good girl.'

Kazan replaced one of the graveside carvings that had toppled sideways.

'And I'm very fond of her, as you know, but — well, this might sound odd — but I care for her more as a father-in-law than a lover. Can you understand that?'

Protective, even though they're having an affair? Yes, Claudia could identify with that sentiment. Might not agree with it. But she could see how someone like Kazan might think it could work.

'Besides,' he breezed, 'Vani needs kids.'

'You're all heart.'

'Well, obviously, I'd rather they were her husband's,' he said, with a roll of his seducer's eyes. 'But don't beat me up about this, Claudia. I'm not the one pushing for bouncing grandchildren. It's Vani who wants them and — ' a look of deep affection flooded his face — 'can't you just see her, whirling them round in the air, romping and rolling over the meadows, teaching the little ankle-biters to swim?'

Selfish and shallow to his drop-dead-handsome core. Pavan was right, though. There was something endearing about this boy who wouldn't — perhaps couldn't — grow up, because, for all his blinkered, self-serving persona, Kazan was quite without ego. And yet… And yet…

'Is that how you felt about Broda's mother?' Claudia asked.

He stiffened. 'Come again?'

'Playing the artless ingenu doesn't suit you, Kazan.'

Raven-black hair, just like her father's, same liquid, dark eyes. Claudia remembered the child's reaction when she'd enquired after her father. The shutters had immediately come down over her eight-year-old haunted eyes.

I have to go now, she'd said dully.

Claudia had talked her out of leaving by teaching the girl hopscotch, but the message was clear. She wasn't prepared to discuss her father, and for an eight-year-old, that meant only one thing. She'd been forbidden to.

'All right, Broda's mine, I admit it,' Kazan said. 'But she was an accident, if you like. Her mother and I — well, it was just an affair, Claudia. Long, hot summer. Pretty boat builder's sister. Both of us with time on our hands… come on, you know how it is.'

Actually, no.

'I support them, of course I do, but — well, let's say I'd appreciate you respecting the confidence.'

'If you mean you don't want Rosmerta finding out, I suspect you're eight years too late.'

Hell, if an outsider can see the resemblance, it wouldn't have escaped Rosmerta's sharp eye.

'So? My wife and I sleep in separate wings of the house.'

Kazan shrugged.

'I've performed my patriotic duty, Claudia, I've sired two sons, and to be honest with you, if I never sleep next to her ugly, snoring face again it's too soon. I have no problem finding pleasure elsewhere.'

Claudia didn't doubt that.

And how does Rosmerta feel, do you think?' she asked sweetly. 'Or haven't you thought that it's just a teeny bit of a coincidence that it was exactly eight years ago she began piling on weight? Took to wearing the very latest in Roman fashions?'

'That was Pula, for heaven's sake!'

Kazan was rattled, and about bloody time.

'Dammit, the minute that city started to boom, that woman was all over the trade boats, raking over exotic delicacies, digging out the best foreign fabrics!'

'So, either way, it's acceptable?'

'Sorry?' He frowned. 'Don't think I quite follow.'

'Then let me spell it out for you, Kazan.'

Claudia resisted the urge to slap the smugness off his handsome face.

'Whether your wife overeats out of comfort or because she's addicted to gourmet foods, that's all right, and the fact that she chooses to dress like a teenager doesn't concern you either, because if it's in a bid to make her attractive it won't work, and if it's to improve her social standing, she's on a loser there as well, because status doesn't concern you. Just hunting, fishing and, remind me again, oh yes, women.'

'Well, I wouldn't put it quite like that,' he blustered. 'I mean, you're making me out to sound a bit of a scoundrel.'

'Really? Well, maybe it's me who's out of kilter,' she snapped. 'Maybe fathering a child on another woman is the perfect way to cement a failing marriage.'

'Claudia, please.' His voice was filled with anguish. 'I'm not the bastard you make me out to be…'

'Probably not,' she conceded, 'but your daughter is.' And it's Broda who's caught in the middle of all this. Broda who saw Nosferatu at work. Broda who heard people whispering her father's name, and went wandering the streets to learn more.

To be honest, Nosferatu didn't give a toss about Broda.

Twenty-One

Marek and Mir had it all wrong, Claudia thought. They could take off into the forests any old time, chasing after their wild boar and stags. The games were only held once a year, with the winners feted with olive crowns and ribbons and given a Victory Banquet in their honour. The very act of participation was considered a mark of distinction, and whereas Kazan had baled out from laziness and bitter experience, she suspected that his sons cocked their snooks at the games out of fear.

Fear that, when competing naked and oiled like the rest of the male athletes, their youthful paunches would not compare well.

Fear that, when pitted against men who had been training for weeks, their skills would be shown to be lacking.

Had Marek and Mir been truly unconcerned about the games, she reflected, they would not be sneaking away during the drum roll that summoned people for the start of the procession.

The stadium lay in the bowl of a ring of low hills, at the confluence of the two rivers that fed the fertile red plain that in turn swept down to the Adriatic half a mile distant. In true Histrian tradition, the joining of these waters was marked with an ancient oakwood shrine, overflowing with gifts and donations to the cat goddess, from offerings of food to ornate, painted terracotta plaques. In addition, the spirits of the rivers were appeased with chaplets of wildflowers, though those who could afford it consigned more precious objects to the rushing waters and the river beds glistened with silver and bronze.