and stale sweat and bad teeth.
Moreover, she was aware of their opinion of her.
Suspicious and superstitious, their skins wrinkled and leathery from working outdoors in the sun, the islanders could not imagine how a woman past thirty could - by natural methods - retain a complexion like milk and hair which shone like
damascene. Especially long black hair which fell to her waist, with not a single strand of white to be seen.
Rumours spread like heath fire. The newcomer was one of the Lamiae. Women who took men to their beds then feasted off their living flesh to keep themselves young. Clio's contemptuous snort startled a small herd of goats grazing in the distance. Lamiae indeed! She waded back to the shore, each leg slowly, sensuously, parting the water. Some young boy decides he's had enough of this island, hitches a ride on the first available ship, and suddenly the dark-haired woman on the hill is accused of eating the poor bugger alive! Were their lives really that narrow?
Picking up a towel, she blotted off the excess water, spending longer than necessary on her beautiful breasts and the soft insides of her thighs. When she was finished, she knelt on a soft patch of grass and bent over the water, washing her hair with a mixture she'd concocted herself to bring out the shine.
Combing her dripping black mane through to the ends, Clio knew what had started tongues wagging. She'd arrived out of nowhere, taking over this abandoned stone house on the hilltop without explanation. No servants, no husband, no children. Such a solitary existence was not natural in the islanders' view. And on Cressia, if something's not natural, then it has to be . . . unnatural.
Sure, the locals took her money in the market, but they made no effort to disguise the sign they made to avert the evil eye. Beauty came at a price, they believed, openly chanting spells and incantations to make sure they weren't the ones to be paying it. Behind her back they called her witch, enchantress, sorceress -and worse. Fine. Let them make the sign of the horns. What did she care? It was only superstition, at the end of the day. And superstition doesn't put food on the table.
Getting back into her robe to signal that the show was over, Clio heard the two silver coins clink on the hard ground. No trading for her. Strictly cash. There was a rustle in the bushes behind the drystone wall which grew fainter and fainter until only silence remained.
She scooped up the coins, bit them to test the metal and smiled.
Sprats tonight!
Eleven
Sir Qus's voice was a strained whisper - 'a word before we sail?'
Behind a pillar in the colonnade, Claudia froze. Her pale lemon-yellow gown was the same colour as the marble, rendering her all but invisible in the early morning light. She held her breath.
'What now, Qus?' Leo asked tetchily.
'I found this when I unlocked the bath house this morning.' The Ethiopian was holding a wooden spear adorned with carvings, ribbons, feathers and what appeared to be a dozen clumps of hair. When he shifted position the spear rattled, and halfway up the lance a sheet of parchment was impaled.
'Embedded in the door,' he said, 'like last time and the time before.'
'Not quite,' Leo said. 'The previous delivery was lodged in the stables, the first we found impaled in the boat shed.' 'Same thing.' The Ethiopian shrugged.
'No, there's a pattern, don't you see? Jason,' Leo said, 'has been creeping that little bit closer to the house every time. Now the bastard's turned his terror tactics to arson and murder.' 'Surely you don't think Jason killed Bulis?'
'Who else?' Leo said. 'Dammit, Qus, his flames have been terrorizing the archipelago for weeks. Sooner or later he was bound to cross the line.'
Not just these islands, either, Claudia thought. Everywhere, villagers were fleeing in droves from attacks which Rome, their so-called protector, was powerless to prevent. Small wonder the natives were getting
Moreover, she was aware of their opinion of her.
Suspicious and superstitious, their skins wrinkled and leathery from working outdoors in the sun, the islanders could not imagine how a woman past thirty could - by natural methods - retain a complexion like milk and hair which shone like
damascene. Especially long black hair which fell to her waist, with not a single strand of white to be seen.
Rumours spread like heath fire. The newcomer was one of the Lamiae. Women who took men to their beds then feasted off their living flesh to keep themselves young. Clio's contemptuous snort startled a small herd of goats grazing in the distance. Lamiae indeed! She waded back to the shore, each leg slowly, sensuously, parting the water. Some young boy decides he's had enough of this island, hitches a ride on the first available ship, and suddenly the dark-haired woman on the hill is accused of eating the poor bugger alive! Were their lives really that narrow?
Picking up a towel, she blotted off the excess water, spending longer than necessary on her beautiful breasts and the soft insides of her thighs. When she was finished, she knelt on a soft patch of grass and bent over the water, washing her hair with a mixture she'd concocted herself to bring out the shine.
Combing her dripping black mane through to the ends, Clio knew what had started tongues wagging. She'd arrived out of nowhere, taking over this abandoned stone house on the hilltop without explanation. No servants, no husband, no children. Such a solitary existence was not natural in the islanders' view. And on Cressia, if something's not natural, then it has to be . . . unnatural.
Sure, the locals took her money in the market, but they made no effort to disguise the sign they made to avert the evil eye. Beauty came at a price, they believed, openly chanting spells and incantations to make sure they weren't the ones to be paying it. Behind her back they called her witch, enchantress, sorceress -and worse. Fine. Let them make the sign of the horns. What did she care? It was only superstition, at the end of the day. And superstition doesn't put food on the table.
Getting back into her robe to signal that the show was over, Clio heard the two silver coins clink on the hard ground. No trading for her. Strictly cash. There was a rustle in the bushes behind the drystone wall which grew fainter and fainter until only silence remained.
She scooped up the coins, bit them to test the metal and smiled.
Sprats tonight!
Eleven
Sir Qus's voice was a strained whisper - 'a word before we sail?'
Behind a pillar in the colonnade, Claudia froze. Her pale lemon-yellow gown was the same colour as the marble, rendering her all but invisible in the early morning light. She held her breath.
'What now, Qus?' Leo asked tetchily.
'I found this when I unlocked the bath house this morning.' The Ethiopian was holding a wooden spear adorned with carvings, ribbons, feathers and what appeared to be a dozen clumps of hair. When he shifted position the spear rattled, and halfway up the lance a sheet of parchment was impaled.
'Embedded in the door,' he said, 'like last time and the time before.'
'Not quite,' Leo said. 'The previous delivery was lodged in the stables, the first we found impaled in the boat shed.' 'Same thing.' The Ethiopian shrugged.
'No, there's a pattern, don't you see? Jason,' Leo said, 'has been creeping that little bit closer to the house every time. Now the bastard's turned his terror tactics to arson and murder.' 'Surely you don't think Jason killed Bulis?'
'Who else?' Leo said. 'Dammit, Qus, his flames have been terrorizing the archipelago for weeks. Sooner or later he was bound to cross the line.'
Not just these islands, either, Claudia thought. Everywhere, villagers were fleeing in droves from attacks which Rome, their so-called protector, was powerless to prevent. Small wonder the natives were getting
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