Part 13 (1/2)

Her arm around Alison, she helped the girl shuffle through to the kitchen and sat her, still coc.o.o.ned in the blanket, on a stool.

Quietly, she closed the door and turned the key, then, her hand shaking with fear, she picked up the phone.

The line was still dead.

XXVI.

Defiantly leaving his car in a parking s.p.a.ce reserved for the disabled right next to the castle gates Greg strode towards the entrance. He glanced at the sky. Snow and sleet showers, they had forecast, turning to unseasonably heavy snow later. That probably meant sleet out at Redall Bay, but you never knew. Sometimes it settled. Whatever happened it would be worse in Colchester. It always seemed to snow heavily there.

It was a long time since he had been in the museum. He stared round, confused. The huge hall with its peripheral exhibits had vanished. Instead it was sectioned, part.i.tioned, intimate, the lighting low and seductive and from some distant corner he could hear the tinny insistent blare of videoed commentary. He frowned. Why couldn't the b.u.g.g.e.rs leave things alone? He could have found his way to Marcus blindfold before. Now, G.o.d knows where he was.

He was upstairs, near yet more video c.r.a.p. With an impatient glare at the booth from which sounds of ma.s.sacre were emerging, Greg stood in front of the statue and stared long and hard at its face. Then he, as Kate had done, moved to the exhibit and looked down at the man's skeleton. She had been right. It was not Marcus himself who was buried at Redall. So who was it? His eyes strayed to the other remains. Smaller, though not significantly so; Marcus's wife had strong, well-formed bones. His art school study of the skeletal form had been fairly rudimentary, but it was thorough enough for him to give an educated guess that she had been young when she died. How, he wondered. Illness? Injury? Childbirth? He glanced at the inscription. There was no clue there, no notes beyond the bare minimum. He stared down at what was left of Marcus's skull. Was his story written there, in the imprint of his bones? His loves, his hates, his triumphs, his disasters? He brought up his hands and rested them against the cold gla.s.s of the display case. *Come on, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d, cough.' He hadn't realised he had spoken out loud until he saw a woman near him turn and stare. She caught his eye and hurriedly turned away. He grinned absent-mindedly but already his attention was back on Marcus. Rich, successful Marcus who had made good after the Boudiccan defeat; who had returned to Colchester and to Redall and bought land, probably when prices were rock bottom, like today a he grimaced a was that how it had been? Or had he just helped himself to some property he fancied and marched in? Had Redall's former owner died in the rebellion, leaving his lands wasted and deserted, or did he sell at a profit? He leaned closer to the gla.s.s, resting his forehead against it and closed his eyes.

HATE.

ANGER.

FEAR.

FURY.

The emotions sweeping through him obliterated every other thought in his head. They swirled round him, s.h.i.+mmering with colour: Red! Black! A vicious violent orange! He was spitting, shouting, tearing at the air, aware in some distant part of himself that there was foam at the corners of his mouth, hearing howls of anguish in his ears and realising they were his own.

Then, as suddenly as they had come, the noise and the colour and the pain were gone and he was conscious of a sudden total silence around him.

Christ, had that been him? Had he really screamed out loud, or had it all been inside his head? The tape in the booth had reached its end and was silent for a few minutes before it marshalled itself for yet another enactment of the conversation between two Romans as the hordes closed in. The hall echoed with silence and cold.

The quick, anxious tap of heels on the floor did not intrude on his shock and terror until he felt a timid hand on his arm. *Are you all right? Would you like me to fetch someone?' The woman who had been watching him was staring anxiously into his face. *I saw you staggering about. I thought perhaps a' She faltered as he stared at her, blankly. *I don't know, but I wondered if you were epileptic or something ...?' Her anxiety petered out and she blushed crimson. *I'm so sorry.'

He gazed at her vaguely. *I'm all right. Thanks. It must be the heat in here.' He stared round, confused. The hall was cold. Very, very cold.

Slowly she was backing away. She would hurry as soon as she was out of sight and run downstairs and perhaps send up one of the attendants. Well, when they came, whoever they were, they would find that he wasn't p.i.s.sed. In fact he had never been more sober.

He reached out a hand towards the gla.s.s case and then withdrew it quickly as though it had stung him. Whatever had attacked him, overwhelming him with its vile emotions, had come from behind that gla.s.s.

XXVII.

There was no escort, no guard to watch over him. They trusted him absolutely. The G.o.ds had spoken; there was no question but that he would obey. Last minute private farewells were common; what more natural than that a man should say goodbye to the world.

*NO!'

Her scream of agony echoed across the dunes and marshes, the sound rising and falling across the land and the sea until it was lost in the clouds beyond the horizon.

*Claudia a my love a '

*No! I won't let them! What kind of barbaric G.o.ds do you wors.h.i.+p that they can do this? You can't go back to them. You can't! You can't ...' She burst into tears.

*Claudia. I have to. The G.o.ds have chosen me.' His voice was firm, his strength surprising, even to himself.

*I hate your G.o.ds!'

*You mustn't. You must honour them as I do. And obey. To be chosen for the Great Sacrifice is the highest honour possible.'

*Honour! I thought your people sacrificed their prisoners! Their slaves! What kind of honour is it to die like them?' The tears were running down her face, streaking the saffron eyeshadow she had so cheerfully applied before she left home.

*The greatest. The G.o.ds have demanded the blood of a prince.' He spoke calmly, his need to rea.s.sure her in some strange way giving him courage. *Maybe we offended them, my dearest, with our love,' he said gently, touching her face with the tip of his finger as though trying to memorise the position of her nose, her mouth, her eyes for all eternity. *Perhaps it is best like this. Your G.o.ds too, I hope, will be appeased and honoured by my death.'

*No.' She shook her head blindly. *No. I wors.h.i.+p Fortuna. She does not demand the death of her followers. She wants them to live, and be happy. No, I won't let you die. If you die I want to die too.'

*No!' He took her shoulders and shook her gently. *Claudia, you must live. For your son's sake. You can't leave him. And for my sake. To carry my memory in your heart. You must be strong. You are a daughter of Rome, remember?' It was something she took such pride in, her n.o.ble breeding. As he hoped, the words reached her.

She straightened her shoulders a little and raised her head, though tears still streamed down her face. *You're not afraid?'

*Of course I'm not afraid.' He smiled sternly. *I am a prince and I am a priest. Why should I be afraid to meet my G.o.ds?' He reached up to the heavy silver brooch which fastened his cloak. *I want you to have this. Wear it for me and don't grieve too much.'

She took it with a shaking hand and pressed it to her lips. *When ... when will it happen?'

*At dawn. As the sun shows over the eastern edge of the world.'

*Where a?' It was barely a whisper.

*At the sacred marsh.' He smiled sadly. *On the land that belonged to my fathers and my fathers' fathers. In the place where the G.o.ds congregate and this world and the next run side by side.' He took a deep breath. *You must go now.'

*Not yet.' Her voice slid up in agony.

*Please, Claudia Honorata. I wish to bid you farewell without tears. I want you to be as full of honour and courage and pride as you would have been had you been my wife.' His voice was stern.

She closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. *If that is your wish, husband of my heart.' She forced a tight, meaningless smile and, raising her face, she kissed him on the cheek. He took her hands and pressed them to his lips, then, unable to trust himself further he turned away and ran towards his chariot.

The phone was still not working. Three times she dialled, her hand sweating, slipping on the receiver, and three times she was greeted with the strange echoing silence, the conviction that at the other end someone was listening to her heavy breathing.

*What's wrong?' Alison was shaking visibly.

*The phone doesn't seem to be working.'

*You mean we're cut off?' The girl's voice slid into a squeak.

*It's all right, Allie. It doesn't matter. You're safe here. Safe and warm.' Kate forced herself to smile rea.s.suringly. *I'll make that hot drink now. What would you like?' She glanced at Alison, who shrugged.

Picking up the kettle Kate walked across to the sink to fill it, staring out of the window as she did so. The trees in the wood, only just visible through the streaming sleet, were bent double before the force of the wind. There was a strange darkness in the sky which was heavy with brownish cloud. Snow. It was snow cloud.

She turned on the tap. There was sand in the sink. Sand and peat and a with a shudder she s.n.a.t.c.hed the kettle away, letting the stream of water swish round the sink to wash the maggots and soil away. She glanced at Allie, hoping she had noticed nothing. The girl's eyes were closed and she was swaying slightly on her stool.