Still. If there was a power struggle between Pavan and Mazares, it was no concern of hers. She was here to sign a contract that would make her rich, rich, rich, and not before bloody time, either. She stared into the churning waters. Jupiter alone knew why she'd hung on to the wretched business after Gaius died. True, the Guild of Wine Merchants had acted like vultures, descending almost before his body was cold, in the hope of dividing up his contacts, his client base and his vineyards between them, but so what? She'd only married Gaius for his money, why not sell? Why not give in to the Guild, let them have what they wanted? Fighting them at their own dirty game had got her so deep into debt that she'd had to resort to all manner of illegal activities, and it was getting harder and harder to keep that one crucial step ahead of the law. Especially when the law took such long, strong, muscular strides 'Mazares,' she called. 'This contract with the King.'
'What about it?'
The wind billowed out his white shirt and stirred the aureole of glossy curls that framed his face as he crossed the deck.
'Well, I was wondering how much he'd need per annum.'
The deep crevices around his eyes narrowed into canyons. 'How much what?'
'Wine, of course.'
That irritatingly lazy twinkle returned to his eyes. 'Are you implying our King's a dypsomaniac?'
'Mazares, I don't give a fig whether the old duffer's a drunkard, a dilettante or a down-and-out degenerate. He invited me to Histria to supply him with wine and I-'
'Wine?' Mazares threw back his head and laughed. 'WINE?'
In fact, he laughed so long and so hard, that he had to rub a muscle in his side that went into spasm.
'Have you actually stopped to look at the land that we're passing?' he wheezed. 'Because, if not, I suggest you take a look now.'
Something solidified in Claudia's stomach.
'This kingdom, My Lady, is wall-to-wall forests bursting with game and dotted with rivers, lakes and streams that are absolutely chock-full of fish.'
Not barren and scrubby, then…?
'Our bright-orange soil gives us everything we could ever need in terms of grain, cattle, pigs and sheep, and it provides us with more fruit and vegetables than we can eat.'
Not poverty-stricken, either, if they can export.
'The climate is perfect for apples, cherries, figs, pears and plums, for nut trees of every kind, and the boughs of our olive groves sweep the ground because the yield is so heavy.'
Not even a tiny bit of ferocious summer sun that bleaches the rocks white…?
'So, naturally, we have vines.'
His hand made a sweeping gesture.
'Miles upon miles of rolling vineyards, Claudia, that produce robust reds on the coast and whites so fine that they are the favourite of a great many high-ranking Romans. Including, I might add, the Lady Livia.'
Who was, as it happened, the Emperor's wife…
'Alas, My Lady.' He wiped his streaming eyes. 'The King didn't bring you all this way in order to execute some paltry little commercial deal.'
'He… ' She cleared her throat and started again. 'He talked about drawing up a contract between us.'
By now, every eye on the ship was on her, though only two seemed to bore straight through. They were hard and they were grey, and she didn't trust herself to return Pavan's gaze. From the recesses of her memory, she recalled how foreign military commanders were forbidden to wear weapons and uniform unless in times of war or for ceremonial occasions.
What a stupid, stupid time to remember. She focussed on a family of dolphins leaping joyfully alongside, and knew that she would always associate them with this terrible moment.
'Yes, but…' Mazares composed his face into a mask of politeness. 'I'm sorry if you are under a misapprehension, My Lady, but His Majesty isn't interested in your wine,' he said gravely. 'It is unfortunate that he was too ill to travel to Rome to make his request in person, but…'
Dammit, the bastard actually had the nerve to pause for impact.
'… but the King invited you to Histria to ask for your hand in marriage.'
Five
The hell he did.
The sun was sinking, and the galley's crew were hauling up the canvas and setting out the oars. The sky, a brilliant sheet of copper, was mirrored on the surface of the Adriatic, fusing the horizon in a blaze of burnished metal. Gulls wheeled lazily overhead, crying out like ghosts to one another, fish darted like quicksilver through the translucent shallow waters, and the broad-chested, weather-beaten, long-haired tiller turned his massive steering oar towards the shore.
The island of Rovin was exactly as Mazares had described it. Part of an otherwise flat green archipelago, her whiteness rose out of the ocean like Venus rising from the foam, only, instead of being surrounded by cherubs and nymphs, fishing boats clustered at her rocky feet, tilted on one side as though asleep, their nets spread wide to dry beside them.
'There was nothing in that letter about marriage,' Claudia told Drusilla.
Mistress and cat were sitting beneath the galley's stern post — which was carved in the shape of an appropriately firebreathing dragon — eating lobster and scallops and sardines stuffed with herbs.
'Nothing at all.'
'Hrrrr.' Drusilla took time off from a prawn to agree. 'Admittedly, I skipped several large chunks.'
Claudia was nothing if not objective.
'But only because he was such a pompous old windbag.' Dammit, she wished now she'd brought the letter with her, rather than leave it for her steward to show to her creditors. But the whole point of that exercise was that no one hustles a supplier to royalty for money. Including Arabian moneylenders!
'Nevertheless, I think I would have noticed a marriage proposal nestling among all those titles and dreary "begats by".'
They're cunning, they're sneaky and they're all doubledealers. Weren't they just.
Drusilla's attention was distracted by the boy responsible for disposing of the ship's slops. Ordinarily, he'd toss them over the stern, but today his task was hampered by a growling, arching, cross-eyed monster as ferocious as anything the Argonauts had had to face.
'Hrrowwwww.'
The boy revealed latent leadership qualities by tossing the contents of his buckets over the starboard wale. A stream of curses from four angry oarsmen didn't discourage him. Backing nervously away, he was more than happy with his decision.
'Have you ever heard of anything more preposterous?' Claudia said, stroking Drusilla's hackles flat. 'The King of the Histri asking the widow of a wine merchant for her hand in marriage — and the widow a pariah at that?'
'Prrrr.'
'Absolutely, my poppet. Jupiter would turn celibate first and the sun would set in the east.'
There was a distinct smell of fish in the air and it wasn't coming from Drusilla's sardine!
So, what was the King's game? That letter was genuine enough, so, could it be a simple case of mistaken identity? That a distance of 300 miles, together with a hiccup in Latin translation, resulted in his request being delivered to the wrong Claudia? Yes, and that ham curing nicely over my kitchen chimney will sprout wings and fly over the Forum! No, no, it was the right Claudia who'd been inveigled into Histria's political tug-of-war, stuck in the middle along with the King. But why her?
'It doesn't make any sense.'