Stone Cold

Sixteen

'Correct me if I'm wrong,' Claudia said, 'but isn't today Saturday?'

She and Stella were sitting on their favourite seat in the garden, munching on chunks of warm chestnut bread, spiced liver sausages, smoked ham and other delicacies, all washed down with a large jug of chilled white wine. The chief attraction of this seat was the rippling fountain alongside, which was ringed with hibiscus and fragrant oleander. A soft breeze wafted scents of heliotrope, roses and summer narcissi over the topiaried box trees.

Stella squinted across to the calendar nailed to one of the portico pillars. 'Yes, today's Saturday. Why do you ask?'

'No reason,' Claudia replied, 'no reason at all.' Yet her eyes continued to follow Semir, stripped as usual to the tightest of loincloths, as he planted out Trojan irises to flower the following spring, pausing occasionally to gnaw on chicken legs and bite-sized sesame buns as he worked through his lunch break. 'Just that I've lost track of time lately,' she lied.

'Me, too.' Stella sighed, pushing a lock of dark hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand. 'Now Marcia's brought in a welter of servants, I've nothing to do and it's driving me crazy. Every day is the same as its predecessor.'

Nearly a week had passed since the Vulcanalia. A week in which the first turnips began to be pulled, red deer started to rut and neither hide nor hair of Hannibal or Orbilio had been seen.

'It's not as though I could pass some of the hours sewing clothes for the children, Marcia's taken care of all that. She's brought in tutors from the university in Burdigala to (quote) relieve me of my obligation to teach them their letters

(unquote), and our quarters are so organized that I barely recognize them. Thanks to her, my laundry's taken care of, likewise the meals, and I can't even grow my own vegetables and herbs, because Marcia won't have me what she calls "labouring like a common peasant in the fields". If you have any ideas, I'm open to suggestions.'

Claudia leaned back on the marble seat, reached for another delicious oyster from the Carent estuary and turned her face towards the sun. It was said that winter in these parts didn't start before December and lasted only until the end of February. That left nine glorious months in which the summers were not too hot, the springs and autumns not too wet, and two thousand hours of sunshine to spread between them. That was a lot of time to be doing nothing, she reflected, even assuming Stella was the tapestry type.

'Marcia's threatening to swamp me with wardrobe and cosmetics slaves,' Stella added drolly. 'So far, I've managed to fend off that particular invasion.'

Claudia studied the simple belted tunic in the palest mint green linen that showed off Stella's long, glossy hair to perfection. She'd stopped short of restraining it Gaulish-style in a ribbon at the nape, but her uncomplicated bun told its own story, and no doubt Marcia was having kittens at the freckles on show and the distinct absence of kohl around her eyes. But the truth was, Stella looked stunning. If only the worry lines would disappear…

'You need a man,' Claudia pronounced.

This wasn't something she advised many women — in fact, now she came to think about it, it was a first — but Stella badly needed a companion. A soulmate to grow old and wrinkly with. A man to laugh with in her bed, and out. A man to take her sons fishing and glower at her daughters' suitors. A man to share the burdens of her life, then take them off her shoulders and carry them on his. Don't we all, a little voice whispered.

'I hope you're not trying to palm me off with Semir.' Stella chuckled, following the direction of Claudia's gaze. 'He has more braids in his hair than my girls put together and more jewellery than my dear cousin.'

'His baubles are only glass.'

'True, but there's so much oil on that man's body, it would be like making love to an eel.'

'I was speaking generally.' Liar.

'Good, because I've had a husband, thank you very much, and the desire to repeat the experience is not at the top of my shopping list.'

'So planting vervain round the peristyle isn't your idea?' Vervain was supposed to bring errant husbands home.

'That old wives' tale?' Stella giggled. 'No, no, that's Marcia's doing. If Jupiter himself will have no other herb to sweep his table, why should she settle for anything less?' The vitality suddenly popped like a bubble. 'Why?' she asked wearily. 'Why did he just walk out without a bloody word?'

The lump in Claudia's throat tightened like a knot.

'Another woman?' Stella sighed. 'Was he in some kind of trouble? Why couldn't he have just left an explanation?'

Why, indeed, she thought, and the knot just got tighter.

'Doesn't he care at all, that the older ones still cry themselves to sleep at night? That he's consigned my girls to wearing clothes they hate, living rigid lives with frigid masters that they might grow up with all the privileges money can buy, but no spirit?' The freckles stood stark on Stella's face. 'Did he hate us? Hate me and wanted to punish me? I don't understand. We were fine. Nothing magical, I grant you, and something must have been building up that I didn't see, but until you have five kids running amok and a sixth kicking your belly-button inside out, you can't know what it's like, and it's not as though it was me who kept pushing for the large family.'

Trapped. Trapped and caged like the lovebirds in Marcia's aviary, pretty and spirited, but doomed all the same, and yes, what kind of bastard does that? Until now, Claudia had envied Stella, believing that a note saying "sorry" was better than no note at all. She was wrong. Her father (assuming he had walked out) had entrusted his daughter to her mother's care, and at least her mother had waited until Claudia was old enough to take care of herself before slitting her wrists. A butterfly fluttered off from the heliotrope, taking every ounce of Claudia's self-pity with it. Orphaned, she was at least free to make her own decisions. Decide who she married, what she did with her future, how she earned her living. Stella's husband had left her high and dry. Unable to divorce him. Unable to remarry. Unprepared and ill-equipped for taking over his business, until the family became a victim of Marcia's charity, the coldest charity of all.

'I don't know whether this is some kind of sick control he's exercising,' Stella added wearily, 'but what he can possibly gain by making his children suffer, I have no idea.'

Claudia rubbed weary eyes. 'You're going to have to stop lying to them, you know that? You're going to have to tell them the truth about their father's absence, because four years is a long time to be stringing them along and children aren't stupid.'

'You're right.' Stella sighed. 'Hannibal said the very same thing, said if I didn't do it quickly, the danger was they'd turn against me for betraying them.'

Hannibal wasn't wrong. 'Have you seen him recently?'

'Uh-uh.' A soft smile played at the corner of Stella's lips. 'In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if he hasn't gone roving again. Have you ever known a man with such itchy feet?'

'Probably not, dear lady,' a familiar voice boomed, 'probably not, but restless though my poor body is, I am not a pack mule. Even I cannot remain on the move all the time.' He turned the corner into view, balancing the littlest one on his shoulders. 'Think of the strain on my poor weary legs, not to mention my wallet.' he cast an oblique glance at Claudia. 'And, in any case, Stella my star, Hannibal never leaves without saying goodbye.'

Fond farewells were the least of Stella's concern. 'What happened to my son?' she squealed, jumping to her feet.

'Small boys, I fear, are like pigs, in that they are addicted to rolling in mud.' Hannibal tickled a little fat midriff and was rewarded with a loud chuckle in his left ear.

'I'm a pig, I'm a pig.' To the chuckles were added a series of snorts. 'Oink, oink, oink, Mummy. Oink, oink.'

'I'll turn you both into bacon,' Stella exploded, as he was heaved down. 'Marcia will be needing that tomb tomorrow, if she catches you in this state,' she scolded her son, 'and as for you!' She rolled her eyes at Hannibal. 'That tunic is filthy! Give it here before Marcia sees it or you'll be banned from the house. You know how she baulks at the slightest imperfection.'

'Now, Stella my star? Here? And in public?'

'Yes, of course, now, here and in public' Stella unbuckled his belt as though he was just another one of her brood she was undressing. 'It's a lovely warm day, you'll have it on your back within a couple of hours.'

She didn't even blink at the lean, tanned torso that was revealed, or the strong sinewy arms that had been previously hidden by baggy sleeves.

'Now, what's this little piggy been up to, eh?' She tucked the three-year-old under her arm like a bedroll and carried him back to the house. 'Oink, oink, little piggy-wig.'

'Oink, oink,' the bedroll echoed back. 'Oink, oink, oink.'

Once they'd rounded the corner, Hannibal flopped on to the bench beside Claudia. 'You have no idea how exhausting that tribe can be, madam, no idea at all. Tell me,' he leaned sideways and lowered his voice to a whisper, 'are there really only six of them, or does the witch keep another set indoors as a spare?'

Oh, Hannibal, Hannibal, what sorrow you sow…

'Like the horses of the Gaulish sun god, they feed in special pastures overnight to replenish their energy,' she quipped. 'What did you find out about the Scarecrow?'

'Well, for a start, it would seem your Druid friend's tally is correct.' He reached for a spiced sausage. 'First, the sister of a man who made millstones went missing. Number two was the root-cutter's wife. Three was a young woman who used to churn cheeses. Number four was the tanner's daughter, Brigetia, who was due to be married to a local boy called Orix. And, finally, the fifth victim is the granddaughter of an old woman who'd passed her basket weaving skills down through the family. Sadly, the old dame died of a broken heart,' Hannibal added, munching his way through a plate of rissoles, 'and I understand the root-cutter has not been the same since his wife disappeared, either, despite her reputation for lifting her skirts at the blink of an eye.'

The tavern-keeper's words replayed in Claudia's memory. It's never just one man, she had said. It's always somebody's father and somebody's son, a brother, a lover, a friend. Let it go. Wise words, because it was never simply an isolated incident. Whole families are destroyed in the process, and if Claudia was unable to let go of the past, how on earth could these families hope to move on?

'I'm told the Druids conducted a thorough investigation after each girl's disappearance, but no traces of violence were found. No blood, no trampled undergrowth or broken branches to suggest these women had fought for their lives, and, since there were no signs of struggle in their homes, it was accepted they'd plotted in advance to elope.'

'Bollocks. Even the most hot-headed lovers will take some cherished possession with them.'

'Ah, but there speaks the voice of wisdom and experience,' Hannibal intoned, reaching for a plum. 'These villagers have not travelled further than Santonum. They do not understand the significance, not so much of these girls' disappearances, but the manner of them.'

Something uncoiled in her stomach. 'You mean…?'

Perhaps the plum was bitter, because he tossed it into a bush. 'They were stalked, madam. Like hinds at a drinking pool, someone watched them, followed them, knew their every move.'

'Knew when and where to strike.'

'Precisely so, dear lady, precisely so.' He drew a deep and thoughtful breath. 'And there is a common denominator among these missing creatures. The ladies in question were not necessarily beautiful, but each was without blemish and in the richness of youth. In short, madam — ' He filled his glass — 'they were plucked in full bloom.'

Silence descended, in which the only sounds were bees buzzing from plant to plant heavy with pollen, and the distant low of cattle in the water meadows.

'Tell me,' Claudia said eventually, 'if you were a tribune in the army, how come you wear a tunic with narrow purple stripes?'

'This?' Hannibal looked down, then gasped. 'Good heavens, I've been robbed!'

She smiled dutifully at the clowning, whilst remembering how he'd slipped away from the Forum while she'd gone to meet his informant.

'The stripes.' She was damned if she'd let him change the subject. 'I'm curious.'

The rules of class were simple. You're an aristocrat? Then you sew wide purple stripes on your tunic that can be seen a mile off, and, just in case the viewer's sight is fading, you wear a long tunic and red boots so there's no mistaking you for any old oik. But aristocrats were a minority. Most citizens were simply freeborn, but in between there existed a sizeable class of merchants, bankers, landowners and senior civil servants known as equestrians. Claudia's husband had been an equestrian and he, too, had been entitled to wear narrow purple stripes on his tunic. Most inherited their rank, but some — again, like Claudia's husband — could be promoted to the order provided they were of free birth for two generations and had assets totalling half a million in sesterces. Hannibal was struggling to hang on to half a sestertius, never mind half a million, and whilst being born into the order explained his education and manners, it didn't explain the tribune bit, when only patricians qualified for the role.

'Curiosity does terrible things to cats,' he rumbled, reaching for a chunk of smoked ham, 'but if you must know, I am the son of a senator. Not necessarily the legitimate heir, but flesh and blood all the same.'

'Were you close to your father?'

'Let me see. Are you meaning close as in the number of times my mother and I stood outside the Senate House hoping for a quick glimpse — her, not me? Or are you referring to the number of visits he made to the house and dandled me upon his knee? Because if it is the latter, madam, you can count those on the fingers of a man with no hands.'

'Yet he bought you a commission in the army?'

'He also paid that I might have a good education. Athens University, no less. Ah, dear Papa! Taught me so many things.'

'Like how steadfast men can be?'

'You, young lady, will cut yourself with your own tongue one of these days.'

Never mind that. 'Did you just say Athens?’ All this time she'd been working out ways to translate Orbilio's case notes from Greek, and now the gods had thrown her a man who had been to university in Athens!

Hannibal reached for the chicken and nodded. 'Wonderful city, magnificent architecture, shame about the drains. In fact, it was while I was studying there — could you pass the bread, please? — that I discovered my true vocation in life. Frankly, I am not sure what my father would have made of my purveying pitch at the shipyards, because I never had contact with the dear fellow, but since my mother was already in her grave-'

'She died young, then?'

'I'd call thirty-six young, wouldn't you?' He demolished the rest of the oysters. 'Tumour,' he explained. 'And do you know, that woman died with his name on her lips. Can you believe that?' He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 'Hadn't seen the man for twenty years yet loved him to the end. Now, I ask you.' He tossed back the last of his wine in one swallow. 'How bloody stupid is that?'

Dawn cast her soft pink veil across the landscape of rolling hills and gentle woodlands, bringing verdant fields to life with birdsong and the scent of wild herbs and giving warmth to the early autumn air. Along the water meadows, dragonflies dried their wings. Horses, cows and sheep lumbered to their feet, stretched the stiffness from their limbs and began to graze on grass made moist and succulent with the dew.

Inside the villa, the slaves' quarters were already bustling, as furnaces were stoked to heat the Mistress's water, wood chopped, bread baked, floors swept, chairs polished.

In a den of leaves lined with soft moss deep in the forest, the Watcher gazed upon unqualified perfection. With streaming hair and streamlined hips, and without mark or blemish to stain her flawless skin, she waited for the sun to rise over her loveliness.

In breathless wonder, the Watcher stared, mesmerized by the spectacle of so much youth, vibrancy and beauty. Dare one? Dare one touch such embodiment of purity without polluting its very innocence in the process? Tentatively, one hand reached down towards her perfect cheek. Her eyes did not flicker when the shaking finger stroked her skin, nor did she flinch as trembling lips were laid on hers.

Her lips were cold. Icy cold.

The Watched waited for the sun to rise and warm them.