by Marilyn Todd
So whilst Orbilio's staff went through the motions of chronicling this sudden upsurge in intelligence and cursing the long hours spent over their desks, their real interest lay in their boss.
Where was he? Why leave so suddenly? Why only the briefest of explanations? Had Orbilio really taken a furlough to reconcile with his ex-wife? They'd like to know more, because that Claudia was an absolute stunner, though what a dark horse he'd turned out to be! Why, only this morning, a second wife had appeared on the scene, eager to speak with her ex, and what a shame. One had trekked all the way from Rome to be with him, the other had travelled from Lusitania, and the bastard didn't deserve either.
Ambition goes hand in hand with ruthlessness, they concluded, agreeing that they'd bloody well need to watch their step when he was around, and promising to look out for one another, because patricians were renowned for their back-stabbing qualities. Only twenty-eight years old, yet already Orbilio was head of the Security Police in Aquitania having left two broken hearts (at least) in his wake.
God knew, that was exactly the sort of bastard that would hang his staff out to dry if he cocked up himself.
They made sure their notations were meticulous in every degree.
Satisfied that he'd left the running of his office to a team whose judgement he could trust unreservedly, Marcus Cornelius Orbilio emerged from the wash house with a different worry on his mind. Tugging at his pants, he vaguely remembered that Cappadocian tribesmen sheathed their swords in leather belts that were held in place by a strap that passed under their crotch. But then the Cappadocians divided their time between arid salt deserts and volcanic mountains, where the wind whistled with unrelenting chill. Up there, discomfort was probably a basic criterion for tribal acceptance. Thus preoccupied with the twin issues of nipping stitches and biting seams, he descended the steps and found himself tripping over one of the slaves who'd also been sold on the auction block yesterday. The chap's name, he recalled, was listed as Manion.
'Sorry.' Manion pulled an apologetic face as Orbilio grabbed the stair rail to steady himself. 'Having trouble adjusting?' he asked, with a wry arch of his eyebrow.
Orbilio gave another tug at his crotch. 'I don't know how the Hundred-Handed expect a man to walk, much less father a bloody child.'
Manion laughed. 'You'll get used to it.'
'Which? Walking bow-legged or a lack of circulation to the essentials?'
'Don't worry. By the time the bruises on your face have faded, you'll be walking normally again, and until then, Pretty Boy, no priestess in her right mind is going to pick you over the others. Not unless she wants to wake up with nightmares.'
'Thanks, but speaking of right minds, do you have a rational explanation for scrabbling around in the grass on your hands and knees in the rain?'
'I dropped my ring while we were being herded in for -what did they have the cheek to call it?' He grinned. 'The Purification Bath? Besides, this is only light drizzle.'
Pitching into the search, Orbilio found nothing remarkable to note about Manion's appearance. Average height, average build, eyes neither green nor blue. The sort of looks no one remembers, he thought absently. From the distance there came a rumble of thunder.
'Ah,' he said, fumbling beneath the wooden steps. 'Think I might've found something. Here.'
He rubbed the silver band on his shirt then tossed it across. But not before he'd noticed the engraving of an exquisitely worked scorpion. Complete with stinger, ready to strike.
'Thanks, Pretty Boy.' Manion slipped the ring on his finger and clapped Marcus on the back. 'I owe you one.'
He was laughing to himself as he sauntered off.
Orbilio forgot about the problems of tight pants.
Twelve
The rain had eased by the time Mavor's expert fingers began massaging Claudia's neck and shoulders with oils of fennel, thyme, cypress and marjoram, but thunder still growled round distant valleys. Clouds rolled in lower, and heavy. Typical midsummer storms, Claudia mused. But unlike Roman storms that trapped the heat and intensified the humidity, the temperature in this part of Gaul remained pleasantly temperate. Its proximity to the sea, she supposed.
Closing her eyes as Mavor kneaded and squeezed, her mind travelled away from these rolling, wooded hills fed by thousands of streams to the ocean that encircled the world. Bedevilled by whirlpools and demons, giant fishes and monsters, this watery universe was ruled by Oceanus the Titan, but what was this old man's parentage?
From the Darkness sprang Chaos, and from the union between them, Day and Air were created. From Day and Air, Mother Earth and the Sea were then born, and from Mother Earth and Air came forth the Titans. But so, too, did Anger, Strife, Vengeance and Fear, but always, yes always, it came back to Mother Earth. To the priestesses who preached peace through the worship of nature. But her grandchild - Oceanus's daughter - was none other than Nemesis, and Oceanus's own granddaughter was Venus herself. Venus, that oh-so-beau-tiful goddess of love, who rose from the ocean's foam surrounded by sparrows and doves, while the HundredHanded were universally beautiful and Mavor was the Priestess of the Birds—
'I'm sorry, my dear, did I wake you?'
'No, no,' Claudia lied. 'Just drifting.'
Mavor took a step back and tapped her lip with her finger.
'I can't feel any change in you,' she said thoughtfully. 'Maybe I'll try a different treatment.'
'It's only been three days,' Claudia reminded her.
'Yes, but you should be showing some signs of improvement by now.'
'That pain in the neck seems to be under control.'
If Clytie's killer was among the male slaves, Orbilio would soon root him out.
'Possibly,' Mavor said, 'but my fingers aren't sensing a difference, suggesting your relief is merely psychological.'
When she reached up to pluck a bunch of downy wormwood hanging from a hook in the ceiling, the action accentuated the generous curve of her breasts. She laid the leaves on the hot stove with a sensuality she was probably unaware of.
'I think we should try moxibustion.'
'Does that have any connection with the word combustion?' Claudia asked warily.
'It does.'
'Then I think maybe we shouldn't try that.'
Because inventing a medical condition was one thing. Having it treated with burns was another.
'Nonsense.' A surprisingly firm hand pinned Claudia to the table. 'This will do your poor neck the world of good.'
'A noose would be quicker.'
And a damn sight more pleasant. No wonder wormwood deterred lice and beetles!
Mavor laughed. 'Don't tell me you'd rather suffer a painful spine than endure a tiny little unpleasant whiff! Now lie still, please. I want the heat to penetrate into your bones.'
Bones? It was penetrating the bloody table.
'Your boyfriend has a very high opinion of you,' Claudia said. 'Although not quite as high as the one he has of himself - are you all right?'
'The, er, oils on my fingers. Made the pot slip.' As she bent down to pick up the shards of the broken jar, there was a look of alarm - even panic - on Mavor's face, which she concealed, but not quickly enough. 'What did he say?' She tried to make the question sound casual.
'Basically that you were good in bed.'
'H-he said that?' Alarm was replaced by confusion.
'Not very gentlemanly conduct, I agree, but he also insisted that a man's hands are better suited to massage than a woman's, and suggested I speak to you for confirmation.'
Mavor let out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. 'Oh, you mean Swarbric'
Claudia recognized that sigh. She had let out a similar one, when he'd told her it was Ribolo ...
'You may think it's because he wants to rub his hands over naked ladies, but actually he does have a point. I wouldn't disagree that men make better masseurs.' Mavor lifted the wormwood and replaced it with a new batch of heated leaves. 'And he blooming well ought to speak highly of me. I fix
ed his shoulder when it dislocated earlier this year, though between you and me, he yelped like a girl.'
The usual consequence of adding two and two together in a hurry, Claudia thought. Swarbric had been amused, because she'd used time as an excuse to leave, when the sun was patently obscured by the clouds. And when he said Mavor was good, he meant she was good - in her professional capacity.
Damn.
'Such an injury must need regular treatment,' she pointed out.
'Not at all.' Mavor pressed down lightly on the warm leaves. 'Luckily, I was able to treat the joint within minutes of the accident occurring and could keep him swaddled like a baby until the risk of ligament damage passed. That prevented any recurrence. Swarbric's as fit as a flea.'
Then why were you sneaking down to his hut? Why the alarm when I mention the word boyfriend? Why the relief when you know it's only Swarbric?
I know, the note on Claudia's table had read. I just cannot decide who to tell
Outside, the thunder rumbled that little bit closer.
'How well did you know Clytie?' she asked.
This time the reaction was no less pronounced. Except the emotion was cold rather than hot.
'Hardly at all,' Mavor said stiffly. 'She was still learning
plant lore, which, on account of its complex medicinal aspect, takes a long time to master.'
'The birds and the bees come along later, then?'
The joke wasn't enough to soften the pinch to her sensuous lips. 'You will have to excuse me,' she said briskly. 'It's the solstice tomorrow and much preparation needs to be done for the ceremonies, but I need you to remain perfectly still to allow the after-effects of my manipulation to settle.' She notched a mark on a candle. 'Then I'd like you back here at dusk, please, so I can assess whether there's any change.'
There was change. Claudia's neck had never felt so stiff or uncomfortable.
'Before you go,' she said, 'as the Bird Priestess, does your protection extend to ravens as well?'
When Mavor opened the door, the flames on the candles angled forty-five degrees. 'My dear, I am responsible for all mother nature's feathered creatures.'
'Including the souls of your ancestors?'
Mavor's shoulders lost their stiffness. Her whole body slumped. 'Especially the souls of my ancestors,' she said hoarsely.
With the candles flickering, it was hard to tell. But Claudia could have sworn she was crying.
With the advent of rain, the birdlife of the forest burst into action. There was no need to shelter from the fierce rays of the sun now, or fear the shadow of predators. They were free to feast on the abundance of insects that were only yesterday flying too high to catch. Nestlings could start feeding themselves.
Watching this activity with his back to a birch beneath the palisade on the hill, a young man ran his finger down the spine of his arrow then trailed his nail over the cock feather. Thanks to his industrious agents, rumours were bubbling among the Druids faster than brews in a witch's cauldron and the mix was increasing in potency with every hour that passed. Again, thanks to his labours, tales were coming to their ears of men being reduced to blubbering simpletons after drinking the waters of the Hundred-Handed's sacred spring. Of virility being sapped, travellers disappearing, of
clouds being conjured to cover the moon. See for yourselves, O Holy Ones. Cows, pigs, even horses are sickening without reason, as the Hundred-Handed cast their evil spells. Drunkards were being brought in from outside the area and thrown at the Druids' feet as evidence. The case was building nicely.
The Whisperer notched an arrow into his bow. A quail fluttered once then lay still.
'Bitch.'
A wood pigeon took off. He aimed at that. Another substitute priestess.
'Bitch.'
A jay next.
'Bitch.'
Then a crow.
'Bitch, bitch, bitch.'
But as his resentment grew, so his aim became weak. He laid down his bow. He must take care not to lose control, because leaders are strong, leaders are powerful, leaders are dedicated to their cause. He must not allow hatred to overshadow his judgement. This was war.
Glancing back towards the palisade, he thought of the tribes who embraced the Oppressors as allies and were genuinely indebted to the foreign troops who patrolled their borders. They kept our roads and our waterways free of bandits, they claimed, and if there were skirmishes to be fought, better their sons be mourned than our own. Really? How short their memories, the Whisperer thought. Don't they remember how their grandfathers had resisted Rome with a ferocity that had caught the invaders off guard? Their whole bloody army had proved no match for the Aquitani. A whole legion was cut down like rats in a run, while the soldiers Caesar sent to avenge them were also decisively routed.
What happened? he wondered. What had turned proud warriors into self-serving cowards?
What acid had rotted the heart of the Nation that was, until so very recently, a force to be feared?
What female poison made eunuchs of men?
The Whisperer adjusted the bandana round his neck and
straightened the ring on his finger. So the Chieftains had allowed themselves to be seduced by profit and greed and then sold that concept to their own people! Who cared? Thank Lenus, there were enough patriots left who were willing to stand up for what they believed in.
Freedom.
Freedom to choose what wars they fought, choose who they died for, even who they paid their bloody taxes to, as well as the freedom to discipline women and children in their own home - and to hell with this bollocks about nature and peace, the Hundred-Handed had it coming.
Tower-sucking bloody bitches.'
The woodpecker flew on with its beakload of grubs, unaware of the arrow that thudded harmlessly into the trunk of an oak. The Whisperer swore, but lunch break was over. It was time to return to College business - paste on a smile - make all the right gestures - but not for much longer, thank Lenus! Replacing his bow beneath the overhang of rock, he wrapped his wrist grip in his bandana, tucked them both inside his quiver then concealed the lot with leaf litter and branches.
Damned bitches - he brushed the dirt off his hands -deserved everything they bloody well got, and closing his eyes, he pictured the flames of their thatches lighting the night sky. Imagined their screams carrying into the forest. Carrying, but where nobody heard ... He would show them. He'd show them what women were really for. One after the other, after the other.
It was time to put an end to their power-sucking strategies.
It was time to give men their balls back.
'Can I tempt you with a honeycomb, my lady, now that the sun's pushed the clouds out of the way?'
A young man with a voice as smooth as the sweetmeat he was offering bridged the stream in one agile leap.
'Providing you join me,' Claudia said.
She recognized him immediately from the auction block yesterday, though for the life of her she couldn't say why. There was nothing about him that was particularly
memorable. Average height, average build, even his eyes were neither green nor blue but some point in between, and, like the sea, always changing. But with his dark hair cropped short and the spring in his step, there was something compelling about this young man and it was easy to see why the Hundred-Handed had picked him. But not why he'd picked Claudia out—
'With pleasure, milady.'
Perhaps it was a prerequisite of male slaves, but this one also wore pantaloons tighter than skin. Except whereas Swarbric had chosen fabric, these were cut from pale yellow deerskin. Soft, supple and smooth.
'Manion,' he said by way of introduction and, as he stretched out on the rock, she detected a faint smell of nutmeg. Being limestone, the rock was already dry from the midsummer sun and an earwig scuttled between the grass in the fissures. Maybe the storm was passing, after all. 'The new beekeeper,' he said with a chuckle.
'What happened to the last one?'
One indolent shoulder sh
rugged. 'Who knows?'
As he broke the honeycomb in half, she noticed a band of pale skin round his seal finger, as though it was missing a ring.
'Doesn't it worry you, being stung?'
He cast her a sharp glance from the corner of his eye. 'Perhaps they know I sting back.'
Claudia didn't doubt it. For all his oozing of charm and consideration, there was a predatory aura about Manion. As well as something teasingly familiar— Maybe she'd run into him last year in Santonum? Maybe it was his voice that sounded familiar? Maybe he just reminded her of somebody else?
But barely had he taken a second bite than he was springing to his feet.
'Leaving already?'
Seascape eyes darkened as he leaned over her.
'Only dead men do nothing,' he whispered.
With the edge of his thumb, he scooped a drizzle of honey from the side of her mouth and unhurriedly licked it off.
Watching him lope back up the hill, Claudia wondered
why, if she didn't recognize him, she couldn't rid herself of the feeling that she'd met him before. And what slave ever had use for a seal? Not so much bees, she reflected, more a hornet's nest he was stirring up.
She'd never eat honeycombs again without thinking of him.
'What was that about?' Orbilio asked, striding down the path with a bundle of hay perched on his shoulders. Yet for all his jauntiness, the narrowing of his eyes and a strongly clamped jaw suggested he'd seen everything. And hadn't liked what he saw.
'Oh, just a slave bringing me something to eat.' She handed him Manion's half. 'Want some?'
He grunted, but she didn't think it was in everlasting and grateful thanks.