Widow's Pique by Marilyn Todd

The poor sods just couldn't help it.
    'But you can't go on prostituting yourself like this,' he said gently. 'You have to stop, for your own sake as well as your family's.'
    This was probably not the time to bring up the subject of diseases. Or blackmail. Or beatings. Or what happened when good looks started to fade . . .
    'Marcus, oh, Marcus, what am I going to do?'
    Orbilio spiked weary fingers through his hair. 'For a start, you're going to dry your eyes, patch up your make-up and put that ridiculous wig back on. Then, my dear cousin, you and I are going to walk out of here as though I'm taking my little playmate home for the night.'
    He felt a hundred years old, not just twenty-eight, and a vice was crushing the life from his ribs.
    'When we're far enough away from this place,' he continued, 'you're going to wash your face, change into a tunic that isn't see-through and slit to the crotch, then you're going to go home to your poor bloody wife, tell her you spent a wonderful evening with your cousin Marcus and then tomorrow morning, Horatio, you're going to sit on the magistrate's bench as usual. Is that clear?'
    Silence.
    'Horatio, I said, is that clear?'
    Unable to speak, Horatio nodded dumbly.

Seven
    As much as Claudia would have liked to think the islanders' searing scrutiny was centred on Mazares's skin-tight pants, she knew it was curiosity at a possible future Queen that had their eyes drinking in everything from the straightness of her back to the gilding on her sandals, the childbearing potential of her hips to the shining silver tiara that stopped her curls from tangling in the breeze. Darkness had encompassed the archipelago, but she could feel the women contrasting her elaborate coiffure with their own simple braids and comparing her fashionably pleated (and hideously expensive) embroidered gown with their own plain and practical tunics. Ah, but when they weighed up the stiff gold girdle beneath her bust, how did that rate against the comfort of a soft woven belt tied loosely round the waist?
    Kazan had shouted, 'Drinks all round!' to everyone who'd turned out to welcome the King's bride, an offer seized upon with alacrity by his two sons. The ponytailed Pavan had strode off into the night, presumably to find some more badgers to pickle, Drilo had led his priestly entourage off to make sacrifice for Claudia and the ship's safe arrival, heaven knows where Vani had disappeared to, probably arm-wrestling with the crew if those muscles were anything to go by! So, with Rosmerta barking orders for the disembarkation of Claudia's luggage with an efficiency that many a centurion could learn from, it was left to Mazares to lead Histria's honoured guest through the labyrinth of winding streets to the King's house.
    Any preconceptions of this being a nation of backward, warring pirates who needed to be kept in check by their Roman vanquishers had long gone. Between the late King, Dol, and his successor, a culture had been created that was as sophisticated as it was autonomous, and although the Histri worshipped different gods and retained their own traditions, theirs was as vibrant and progressive a society as any within the boundaries of the Empire.
    Equally, though, Histria was a land of opposites. Half the kingdom comprised a string of isolated coastal communities who made their living from the sea and were defended by a fleet of fast, sleek galleys. The other half was made up of the hunters and farmers of the peninsula's interior and was policed by an army officially classified as Roman auxiliaries. Light and shade, she thought. Light and shade . . .
    'The person who can successfully juggle the needs of two such diverse factions must be quite a man,' Claudia said.
    She saw no need to add that there was no way such a hero would seek out a low-born, impecunious widow for his wife.
    'Not for someone born among the two communities,' Mazares replied, holding the torch high, so she wouldn't miss her footing on the steps.