Stone Cold

Fifteen

The minute Orbilio booked Black Eyes into an apartment overlooking the basilica, he realized his mistake.

'Ooh, my lord.' The girl's dark, liquid eyes widened in delight as she fingered the soft damask furnishings and ran her hand over the smooth planes of the maplewood and oak. 'You are a dark horse!'

Elbowing their way through the crush of the market, and with his head throbbing like Vulcan's celestial smithy, it had seemed the logical thing to do, renting a furnished apartment for the girl. Well, he could hardly turn up with her at Marcia's villa then pack her off to the slave quarters, could he? The girl was freeborn, for heaven's sake! On the other hand, Marcia was never going to welcome what she'd consider the peasantry under her roof, no matter whose protection the girl was under. A furnished apartment off the Forum was the answer, and personal pride would not permit him to hire anything cheap. Except that the instant Black Eyes set foot inside, he knew she'd misunderstood his motives.

'Not that I'm saying I don't want to, my lord.' She plumped herself down on the soft, swansdown mattress, so her bouncing gaze travelled up and down his body with what could only be described as approval. 'Only — well, it's come as a bit of a surprise, that's all.'

He forced himself to tear his eyes away from the playful puppies that were threatening to burst out of her straining bodice and tried to explain his reasoning, a technique that sadly only served to make matters ten times worse.

'Stands to reason you won't want your wife to know,' she said sympathetically, wriggling further back on to the pillows and releasing the band restraining her long hair.

'I'm not married,' he explained patiently.

'Course not, my lord.' She tapped her nose knowingly. 'I understand. Your Zina's the very soul of discretion.'

Zina. The strumpet's name was Zina. And she wasn't, dammit, his!

Not that he wasn't tempted. Single man, single woman, no strings on either side, where's the harm? He didn't have to think back very far to Zina cutting through her stepfather's boatyard, teasing all the workers with her swaying hips and shimmering breasts, and pretending not to notice their ogling and catcalls. Looking at her now, pouting provocatively as she arched her neck, it wasn't as though she wasn't willing, and, judging by the unexpected jolt in his loins, it wasn't as if he wasn't able, either. (Despite the lump behind his bloody ear!) How easy it would have been to succumb. To have reached out and buried his face in the thick, dark curls which tumbled over her shoulders. How easy to imagine Zina as someone else. Someone, for instance, whose curls were streaked with the colours of the sunset, and, as his hands explored Zina's voluptuous curves, to imagine it was another woman's naked body writhing beneath him. Another woman moaning with pleasure as his lips brushed against her skin, crying out when he entered her.

So what held him back? Mother of Tarquin, it wasn't as though he was in love with Claudia! There was no pain to love. He didn't love her, or his heart wouldn't thrash in agony whenever he was with her, any more than his liver would feel as though it had been ripped apart by wild beasts when she left. No, no, no. Whatever it was, it wasn't love, so why not follow his natural instincts? Quite why he found himself making excuses about raging headaches, previous appointments and official business to attend to, he had no idea.

'Very well, off you pop, my lord, if you've got stuff to do.' His nubile misunderstanding stretched luxuriously over the scented damask counterpane. 'And while you're sorting that out, I'll see if I can't find out where that flesh-peddling creep took that little kid last night. Bastard couldn't have gone far with her, there weren't no cart waiting in the lane, so I'll have a snoop around.'

'You will do no such thing!' He'd been horrified. 'Zina, these men are dangerous and I absolutely forbid you to go poking around, endangering yourself!'

She shot up straight, her black eyes flashing like twin fireballs. 'Here, I might be your bloody mistress, but you don't tell me what I can and can't do, now!'

'For gods' sake, Zina-'

'You Romans can put all the fetters you like on your bloody wives, but I'm a Gaul. No one orders me about, not even you, my lord! Now give us a kiss before you go. Come on, a proper one. That's the ticket!'

Orbilio groaned as he now pushed his way through the crowds celebrating the Vulcanalia. Until now, if he'd given a thought to his own courage, which of course he hadn't, he would have put himself at about eight on a scale of one to ten. Never mind his two years in the army, working for the Security Police had left him facing some pretty hostile situations, yet he'd never hesitated. Fist fights, knife fights, sword fights, it was fairly bloody stuff, and over the years he'd gone charging into burning buildings to rescue the inhabitants, been beaten up and tortured. Dammit, it was fast approaching the point where he could not see skin for scars. But, frankly, he'd rather face a dozen axe-wielding maniacs any day than a seventeen-year-old buxom minx…

He postponed his return to the wretched apartment as long as he could, spending the night, talking, watching, listening in search of information, and, as a patrician, he had an obligation to attend the morning's sacrifice to Vulcan, hadn't he? But all the time the bull was being led around the altar, Marcus's mind was in another place. A dark and lonely place, where a small child whimpered pitifully, slave to a pervert's pleasure…

When the bull was finally brought before Vulcan's holy priest, its horns gilded and beribboned, Orbilio noticed that the acolyte's hands were shaking when he purified the creature first with salt and then with holy water, but then whose wouldn't? That was one massive lump of cattle snorting its hot breath into his face. Orbilio waited while the prayers were sung, but when the priest cried Strike! — the cue for his attendant to stun the sacrificial bull before its throat was cut — he turned away. The memories of what had befallen Rintox in the boat yard the night before were far too raw, and, in any case, he was worried what Zina would do next.

Throw her arms around his neck was what she did.

'You don't understand,' he said, disentangling himself.

'Course I do and it's bound to tickle, a big bump like that. But better I whacked you one than have the gang see you, cos I know what that ugly bastard's like. Dunno what me mam sees in him, I really don't. He'd have slit your throat, my lord, as soon as say hello-'

'Marcus. Call me Marcus, please.'

'Then Marcus it shall be, my lord, but I've had a good old poke around the boat yard, and wherever he's keeping that poor little mite, it ain't in there. Any luck your end?'

'Not a bloody thing,' he admitted ruefully.

Taking Black Eyes' advice, he'd made no mention to anyone in authority that he was investigating the abduction of small children, instead letting it be known around the bath houses in Santonum that if anyone knew where he could find young flesh, and the younger the better, wink wink, he would appreciate it. But the only thing he'd been met with was revulsion, and who could blame them?

'There's more bad news,' he told Zina. 'Despite reporting the fact that I'd seen a body in the river as I was taking a midnight stroll along the bank, Rintox hasn't washed up.' He wasn't sure how to phrase the next bit. 'The thing is-'

'It takes three days for the gases to build inside as the body rots,' she said bluntly.

He had forgotten that she'd lived beside the Carent all her life.

'I'm just hoping that when he bloats up, we'll be able to fish him out and bury him, poor bugger. Cos if we don't, he'll not find reincarnation. He was a lazy git, Rintox, like I said, but he don't deserve not to find eternal peace.'

Orbilio had never been convinced of the logic behind this reincarnation lark. Peace, Zina called it, but as far as he could see life was one long, lonely, uphill struggle — which the Gauls seemed to want to keep repeating. Stepping out on to the balcony, he saw that she'd already installed a pot brimming with marigolds and asters. They really needed to have a talk, Black Eyes and him!

'It's such fun, this Fire Festival,' she said, stepping out to join him.

Beyond the basilica, smoke rose from the Great Inferno in the Forum, which would burn until daybreak tomorrow. This was the time of year when people began to work by candlelight and these roaring, spitting flames were lit as an auspicious start to the closing of the summer.

'All our shrines are stuck out in the middle of the forest,' Zina said. 'Takes all bloody day to hoof out there, and ain't as though you can understand a word the Druids say.' The fringe of her short skirt vibrated distractingly as she jumped up and down. 'I much prefer the idea of celebrating Hammer God Day with races and dancing!'

Young and vibrant, she would, of course, and in another twenty years, the whole of Aquitania would be scornful of the old ways, of furtive practices carried out in secrecy and silence by a priesthood that hardly anyone remembered. Already, for a nation new to public spectacles, the concept of Games was opening up a whole world of fresh horizons.

'Chariot races, horse races, foot races, I can't wait for this afternoon,' she said, clapping her hands in delight. 'Oh, Marcus, my lord.' She slipped her arms round his waist and nuzzled her head against his shoulders. 'Isn't this just wonderful?'

'Yes, Marcus, my lord, isn't this just wonderful?' a voice cooed from below.

'Claudia!' He took the stairs three at a time. 'Claudia, it's not what you think.'

'And what do I think, Marcus, my lord, when I see you standing on a bedroom balcony draped around a pretty girl whose hair is as loose as her morals? By the way, I do hope it's a quality place that you've rented.'

He made a sweeping gesture with his hand. 'A man of my stature settles for nothing less than the best.'

'Best, as in more fleas per square inch?'

'Keeps a chap warm in the winter.'

'Yes, and talking of fires — ' She indicated the massive bonfire burning in the Forum — 'did you know that in the olden days people didn't just throw fish into the flames like we do today, they used to toss small animals in, as well? I'm thinking of rats, in particular.'

'That's not fair!' He spiked his hands through his hair, and wished now he'd taken that bloody girl after all. 'There's a lot more to Zina than meets the eye.'

'Really? Looks to me like you can see most of it through that flimsy handkerchief that passes as a frock.'

'You know full well that all Gaulish women wear their skirts short, and, dammit, you've no right to question my private life. Not when your relationship with that — that — ' he jerked his thumb at the sandy-haired Gaul scowling at him from lowered brows — ’boy is the talk of the whole bloody town.'

Claudia seemed intent on examining a piece of jewellery around her wrist, a silver band which wrapped round twice, rather like a snake, and which was etched with whorls and inset with red enamel.

'Did you know the Gauls believe dwarves have healing powers?' she asked sweetly. 'I must remember that, next time I see one clowning in the theatre. See how healthy the rest of the troupe is and make comparisons.'

There was an ugliness surfacing in Orbilio that he was not proud of, but the mental images that confronted him — the two of them entwined, bedsheets askew, as the candle flame burned ever lower — were too powerful to ignore.

'Well?' he persisted. 'You could at least deny the rumour.'

'Orbilio, I have no intention whatsoever of discussing the relationship between my bodyguard and myself,' she said cheerfully. 'And certainly not in the sense you're suggesting.'

Contrition overwhelmed him. For Croesus sake, what got into him — and what the hell was he thinking of, prying into her sex life? What she did in the privacy of her own bedroom wasn't any of his bloody business!

'I am so sorry,' he said, and he meant it. 'When I used the word relationship, I wasn't talking any "sense" in particular-'

'Do you ever?'

Her eyes defied him to follow her as she disappeared into the celebrating crowd.

For the children, especially, the idea of spending weeks making their own offerings to throw into the fire had been particularly successful. Some of the older boys had carved elaborate wooden fish or animals to burn, while the girls had sewn or knitted theirs (with the aid of patient mothers), though the youngest simply tossed in whatever they'd been given. For most Santon children, this was their first experience of a party held right there in the middle of the street, to which everybody was invited, young or old, rich or poor, sick or ailing. There was music, made by all kinds of instruments. Trumpets, horns, pan-pipes, cymbals; there were harpists on the steps of this temple, lyre players on the steps of that; dancers everywhere. Some were costumed, some were masked, some mimed stories as they leaped, others performed breathtaking balletic feats and everywhere, but everywhere, there was food. Hot sausages, chilled wine, crumbly pies and crusty bread, sweet cakes made with almonds, honey, wine or dates, savouries filled with cheese or nuts or olives.

Through the giant flames, Claudia could see Stella's brood tossing their offerings into the fire, their eyes wide and shining as Hannibal guided their childish throws so they would hit the target. Balanced on the crow's nest of his shoulders, the littlest one clung on with fists clenched white, chortling merrily as his fish-shaped pastry landed in the middle and exploded with a whoosh that suggested Hannibal had filled the little chap's offering with oil. By his side, Stella clapped and laughed. She was dressed in Roman garb again, her dark, glossy hair pinned up in tight, obedient curls secured with pins of the finest ivory, and her tunic had been girdled in the latest fashion with the exact number of pleats that this year's style dictated, with the embroidery just so and a gold border round the hem and neck, and, just like at the banquet, she looked the prosperous, neat, attractive cousin she was meant to be. But again, just like at the banquet, it was as though the essence of the girl had been ironed out of her. How much longer, Claudia wondered, before Marcia sucked the whole lot out?

Moving on to where fire walkers drew both gasps and silver from their flabbergasted audience, she was distracted by a soft tug on her sleeve. Turning round, fully expecting a beggar child or perhaps a vendor at her elbow, the last thing she expected to see grinning back was the unctuous smile of Marcia's short, fat Indian soothsayer.

'If you're going to tell me I'm about to meet a tall, dark, handsome stranger,' she told Padi, 'I've already bumped into him this morning. He was tall, he was dark, he was handsome, and he was stranger than you'll ever know.'

'That is not what the rods spoke of,' he replied in his soft, sibilant voice, and again Claudia was reminded of a snake slithering through the long grass. 'The Great Mistress asked me to cast them for you, and to consult the Stones-That-Talk, that I might be able to divine your future.'

'Is it good?'

'Indeed, Mistress Claudia.'

'Am I blessed?'

'Exceedingly.'

'Are there any nasty surprises in store?'

'Oh, no, no, no.' Padi placed his plump pink palms together and bowed. 'The rods speak of long life and perfect health. The Stones-That-Talk cannot lie and they tell of riches and happiness, a husband who adores you, children who will live to their full span. Come, I will show you how they fell, and in any case the Great Mistress wishes to speak with you. She is curious to know how your soil tests are coming along.'

So that’s why Claudia was invited up to the villa. The devious bitch wanted to plant her own vines over these Santonian hills! Until Claudia's arrival, no one had even considered planting grapes here, but, shrewd businesswoman that she was, Marcia had sniffed a new market, and rather than waste her own money on analysing conditions why not let an expert do the job for her and then bleed her dry?

'The soil tests aren't looking good,' Claudia said solemnly. 'Perhaps you can cast your rods for me, Padi? See what the future holds for my vines, only the experiments we've conducted so far are depressing in the extreme.'

Blatant little fraud that he was, he was hardly likely to go against a specialist's assessment, now was he? And I ask you, what sweeter way for Marcia to discover that her potential new money-spinner was a non-starter? Which, now Claudia came to think about it, and bearing in mind what little she knew about vines, might not actually be the case. The conditions, she suspected, were absolutely perfect for growing the little beggars and the knowledge surprised her. She'd obviously picked up more about viticulture than she'd supposed… and something fluttered under her ribcage.

'Come,' Marcia said, when she joined her. 'I want to introduce you to some of my suppliers.'

'Exactly what business are you in?' Claudia asked.

'Anything, everything. I told you before, there's no embarrassing way to get rich, and there's money to be made in times of conflict.' When she leaned close, Claudia could smell the balm of Gilead she rubbed into her skin, so rare, so expensive it had been the Queen of Sheba's gift to Solomon. 'An awful lot of money,' she confided. 'But I wasn't talking about business. I want you to meet the merchants who supply me with textiles. You see, I have what I believe to be the finest cottons shipped in from the Indus Valley and the highest quality of linens that come out of Egypt, but we are somewhat out on a limb in Aquitania.'

'And you'd like confirmation — ' not as an introduction to good fabric merchants or a second opinion on girlie issues, but as someone who lived in Rome and who'd know about these things — 'that you're not getting fobbed off with second-grade rubbish?'

'Exactly.'

Well, Marcia didn't sell charm as one of her character traits, so she could hardly be accused of double standards…

'Meat pie, anyone?' Claudia breezed, as a hot-food seller approached wheeling his barrow. 'Marcia? Padi? Tarbel?'

'Tarbel doesn't eat between meals, the Indian takes his meat raw-'

'Really?' Claudia turned to the soothsayer, who nodded in smarmy confirmation.

'… and I need to watch my figure. I say, you! Yes, you over there!' Her masculine voice stopped half the traffic and one of the fire eaters nearly did himself a mischief. 'That vellum you sent round.'

The merchant in question flushed crimson as people turned to stare.

'I specifically asked for kidskin and, mother of Heaven, that stuff you sold me was mutton on its last legs. It's too late to return, I've already used it, but if you think I'm paying full price for that inferior junk you're mistaken. Five per cent is the most I will go and that's final.'

The merchant was torn. His reputation publicly shredded, was it better to fight and risk further humiliation, or accept her unreasonable terms and melt quietly away? He opted for the latter, and Claudia wondered if that hadn't been Marcia's plan all along. She had no doubts whatsoever that the merchant's vellum was top grade. He just happened along in the wrong place at the wrong time, because Marcia was forty years old, her beauty was hanging by the most slender of threads, but, most of all, she was alone. Despite her outward denials, these things mattered very much to her and the void they left had to be filled somehow, regardless of who got trampled along the way. This incident showed the whole town that she was as rich and powerful as ever, and, since this was also the capital of Aquitania, she'd ensured the whole of western Gaul knew who they were dealing with.

'Tell me about your husband,' Claudia said, as a rope walker balanced his pole above the Great Fire. 'Do you miss him?'

Marcia's sneer could have extinguished the flames. 'Let me tell you how we met,' she said, 'then you decide. I was twelve years old when one of your soldiers snatched me as I was walking home one cold December afternoon. The next thing I knew, I was being sold to a dealer.'

Claudia's maths weren't the fastest, but even she knew that if you subtract twelve from forty, then you're left with twenty-eight. And twenty-eight years ago, Rome was no longer making examples of rebellious Gauls by enslaving them as prisoners of war.

'Rome and the Santons had a peace treaty going by then,' she pointed out.

'My dear girl, a legate and his entire army were slaughtered! Regardless of pieces of paper, there was — and remains to this day, I might add — hostility on both sides, leading to all manner of atrocities, and, let me stress again, by both parties. Invariably, it is the innocents who are caught up in the backlash.'

'Of which you were one?'

'Not for long!' Her hard eyes glittered. 'Do you have any idea what it's like, being thrown into a Massilian brothel at that age? No, of course you don't, nobody does until it happens to them, but you could say I was lucky. Shortly after I joined, a man comes along. He takes a shine to the little girl with blonde hair and no breasts and decides to keep her as his personal pet. This man is rich, he's Roman, and, though the girl's lost her innocence, there are times when knowing the tricks of the trade comes in handy. One night, when she's brought this pig to the brink of ecstasy, he agrees to marry her.'

No. Claudia didn't suppose you would miss a husband like that. 'How did he die?' she asked.

'Slowly. During which time I learned a lot about the money that can be made from the black market.'

Bitter, lonely — but, Janus, was this girl a survivor! As the fire walker was applauded, there was one thing Claudia did not understand.

'Why come back?'

'Why not?' Marcia shrugged. 'It's my home.'

'But you've distanced yourself from your people in favour of the very people who sold you out?'

'I would trade with Hades if it turned me a profit. Besides, you only have to look around to see that this offers a far better life and, moreover, it's the way of the future. Ah. I've just seen someone I need to talk to. We'll do the textile people tomorrow, and don't forget I have a front box at the races this afternoon. Do be there.'

High in the hills, inside the cave from which the Spring of Prophecy bubbled from the rocks, the Arch Druid Vincentrix sat cross-legged on the floor, only this time it was the sun's progress that he followed as it traversed the heavens, not the moon's.

From here, he could not see the rooftops of Santonum shimmering in the heat of the afternoon, nor the smoke rising from the thatches of his people's homes. All he could see were the first hints of the autumn across the canopy of trees, and a pair of buzzards rising on the thermals, mewing to one another as they spiralled ever higher.

Vincentrix tossed another handful of magic herbs on to the fire, pressed his eyes into the palms of his hands and blotted out everything but the blackness inside his head. Leaning over the smoke, he inhaled deeply, rhythmically, and waited.

How many hours had passed he did not know, but finally he became aware that he was no longer alone inside the cave. Removing his hands from his eyes, he saw the Horned One, born of the winter solstice and Master of the Underworld, seated on his left, and on his right sat the Piercer of Shields, father of twin sons, Terror and Panic, who led his people into battle and then directed them onwards to victory.

Our influence is waning, Druid. You have seen for yourself how it is, for it is not the Thunderer our people propitiate today. It is the foreign smith they worship.

'Those are only silly cakes they toss into the flames,' Vincentrix replied in the same secret tongue. 'Is it not good that they are happy?'

The soul cannot perish, because it passes from one body to another after death, but only you are the conduit to this new life, Druid.

'I am aware of this, my lieges. It is why the Collegiate elected me.'

You are the only one with the powers to make this happen. But think! Think what will befall our people, should they choose to enter foreign Halls of the Dead. Neither we nor you can reach them there — and if we cannot reach them, Druid, their eternal souls will perish.

'And they will be no more than dust, blowing on the wind.' Vincentrix finished the ancient text for them. 'But I have kissed the Stone of Honour,' he reminded them, 'and wear the Ring of Pledge on my right hand that, though I might grow weary, I will never cease to serve the gods as they command.'

He closed his eyes, and when he opened them he expected to find himself alone again.

It is not enough that you serve us, loyal Druid. Our hearts have lightened at the safeguards you have put in place against such terrible contingencies, but our influence is waning, because we ourselves are growing weak.

This time, the Thunderer stood before him, hammer in his hand, his skin as black as the dark clouds that he rumbled.

You know what we need to make us strong again?

'I do,' he said heavily.

Then do it, another voice said. The voice was gentle, coaxing, full of warmth and love. Mother, lover, sister, friend and wife rolled into one. Do it for us, Vincentrix. Do it for our people, I beseech you.

He searched the Healer's sweet, smiling, innocent face and found comfort through the pain.

'Of course,' he said at last, kissing the ring on his right hand. 'Of course you will receive what is owed you, and your people will receive what they deserve, too. Peace through eternal life.'

He prayed with all his might that his next life might bring the same kind of succour to him.