Stone Cold

Twenty-Seven

A cockerel crowed, dawn cast her pink mantle over the sky and Claudia Seferius yawned.

She'd spent the night thrashing out a plan of campaign with Stella's husband and her head was throbbing from mental and physical exhaustion. All she wanted to do was drop into bed, but what chance of sleep with the slaves on the go and Stella's raucous brood yelling 'Mummy, where are you hiding this time?' at the top of their voices, and would you just listen to the baying of those damned tracking hounds, straining on the leashes in the yard!

Crossing the portico, she pushed her hair out of her face and rubbed the tiredness from her eyes. As the sun began to climb, its rays penetrated the thin veil of white cloud that was stretched over an azure blue sky. This was exactly like the skies over Tuscany this time of year, and if conditions back home were as fair as this then her bailiff would be organizing the workforce with his customary efficiency to gather the vintage. The cellars would have been fumigated well in advance, the treading floor scrubbed, the wine presses ditto, and she could almost hear the army of pickers singing hymns to Bacchus as their sharp knives sliced through the stalks and bunches of black grapes piled up in the baskets.

With Aquitania getting more hours of sunshine than anywhere in Gaul apart from the southernmost coasts, and with limestone soil that retained moisture up to sixty feet underground, wouldn't this area be good for growing vines, too? Claudia blew out her cheeks. Dammit, this was like an itch in the middle of your back that's just out of reach. You want to ignore it, but can't. As the smell of fresh bread coiled its tempting path from the kitchens, she realized there was an answer to itches like that. You get someone to scratch your back for you! There was no harm in bringing her bailiff over for a look. He'd be able to tell straight away whether vines would take to this climate, this soil, and it wasn't as though she was committed to the idea of expanding in Gaul. Hell, no, it hadn't even crossed her mind and 'Where's Stella?' Marcia demanded. 'Only I will not tolerate children playing leapfrog in my atrium, and, would you believe, the girls actually had their robes tucked into their knicker cloth! It's a disgrace.'

'It sounds like fun.'

'It sounds like they need their bottoms spanked. I say, you! Yes, you with the birthmark!'

A secretary bumbled forward, stylus at the ready.

'Find their tutors. Tell them I didn't hire them to let these little savages run wild and that I've docked a week's pay from their salary. Then tell them to start bloody tutoring or they'll find themselves another week short. Come along!' Marcia snapped her fingers and the lackeys behind her jumped to attention. 'Padi cast his divining rods,' she told Claudia with a self-satisfied smile. 'They confirm the outlook for today's manhunt is good-'

'Indeed, Mistress,' a lisping voice called from the crowd. 'Both rods and stones speak only of success-'

'And Koros has prescribed Tarbel one of his special pick-me-up potions, isn't that correct, Koros?'

The old man shot Claudia a venomous glare from the corner of his rheumy eye. 'I have, my lady. My calamint and bottlebrush tea should prove most invigorating.'

I'll bet, Claudia thought, as the human snake continued on its way, and he must have slipped Marcia a cupful or two, because although Orbilio had persuaded her to postpone the manhunt for a day she obviously intended to follow it every inch of the way, and Claudia wouldn't like to be in Padi's soft sandals when it turned into another wild-goose chase! She smiled. If nothing else, the Scarecrow had ensured his place in Santon legend, because he was in the one place not even Tarbel would think of looking and… And…

'Croesus!'

If the Scarecrow wasn't killing these girls, then who was?

Every victim was perfect, Hannibal said. Plucked in the bloom of youth. Primordial fear slithered under Claudia's ribs, and turned icy cold as she raced to Orbilio's room. Marcia's philosophy manifested itself in every square inch of this estate. From her painstakingly landscaped gardens to her exotic menagerie, from each piece of glorious statuary to that remarkable tomb destined for posterity, there was one common trait running through.

Perfection.

The killer, dammit, was stealing perfection and he had to be stopped before another innocent victim was sucked into his evil trap. Skidding on the marble outside Orbilio's bedroom, she thrust open the door.

'Marcus, get up! Get up, now!'

But the covers were neat, the pillows plumped, his washing water as clean as when it had been drawn from the well. That's why he wasn't around to witness her meeting with the Scarecrow. Orbilio hadn't come home last night. Claudia's legs turned to jelly. Never more had she needed the strong arm of the law, never more had she felt such a failure. So busy saving her own skin by proving the Scarecrow wasn't killing these girls, she had lost sight of the larger picture. That young women were being abducted by someone they trusted…

And Stella was nowhere to be found…

Orbilio was not dreaming now. What he'd thought was imagined was real. The forest, the clearing, the fire, the music. Even the chanting was real.

So, too, the throbbing inside his head.

They were waiting inside Zina's apartment. Poor cow, she wouldn't have thought twice about trusting the Druids and he wondered what tale they'd spun her once they'd rendered him unconscious. Whatever it was, he bet it was slick as they carried him out wrapped in a rug like Cleo-bloody-patra and threw him in the waiting cart. But why him? When he first returned to consciousness, it seemed ridiculous. A Roman patrician attached to the Security Police? What on earth would the Druids want with him? Information, he'd supposed, though what use kidnapping him and tying him to a tree in the middle of the forest was likely to be, he had no idea.

But his brain had still been befuddled at that point. A second knock on the head in a fortnight. Hallucinogenic herbs on the fire. Who wouldn't have been confused? As time passed, however, and the pain in his head subsided, he began to realize that the Druids wanted nothing from him.

Nothing, except his life…

Suspicion became certainty when Vincentrix arrived in the clearing shortly after daybreak. Dressed in rich robes embroidered with symbols Orbilio didn't recognize, he took his seat on an oak throne at the head of a wooden table round which his fellow priests were already seated, and addressed them in their secret language. Carved keys were passed round from Druid to Druid — the infamous Keys of Wisdom, he supposed — before Vincentrix rose and strolled across to the prisoner bound to the sacred oak.

'You wonder why you have been chosen?' he said. 'The power of the gods has been waning, Marcus Cornelius Orbilio, and they need blood. Your blood is what's needed to restore their authority over our people. Your blood is rich, it is a sacrifice worthy of the Divine Ones, for it is Roman and the blood of our conquerors. Moreover, it is noble in birth and noble in character, and you need have no worry about a search party coming to rescue you. I have concocted a story to cover your absence.'

'Vincentrix, if you are going to kill me, do it quickly. Please don't bore me to death.'

The Arch Druid smiled. 'Courage, as well. This is good, my friend. Very good, and, if it comforts you in any way, I intend to gild your skull for my collection — a privilege, I might add, that is bestowed upon only a few.'

Withdrawing a small, hooked blade from its scabbard, he sliced away at Orbilio's tunic until his prisoner was naked.

'But before you get carried away by notions of bravery, you should know what lies ahead.'

Orbilio had long since recognized the smell of blood seeped into the bark. Knew the damage such a small blade could inflict, and over how much time…

He swallowed. 'Why don't you just surprise me?' he said, and there was no quaver in his voice.

'Rest assured, Marcus Cornelius Orbilio, it will surprise you.'

There was no emotion in the Druid's voice as he checked the knots on the prisoner's ropes.

'Tomorrow, the planets align with the seasons. Night with day, earth with fire, wind with water, every element unites with its counterpart. It is the way of the universe, and at midnight tonight, in fact at the very turn of the autumn equinox, the gods will see their powers restored, but — ' he shrugged — 'the sacrifice does require a full day's preparation.'

A day. It would take a full day to die…

'First comes the scourging. The testing of the threshold of pain. That will commence now — '

The ferocity of the lash arched his back like a bow and sucked the air from his lungs.

'- and lasts for the length of this candle, after which we apply the Forty Sacred Cuts, and do not be afraid to scream, Marcus. Every man does, there is no shame, and in any case no one can hear you.'

The pounding in his ears came not from the cane that was being so expertly applied to his body. It came from the knowledge that he would die when there were still so many mountains to climb. Mother of Tarquin, there were so many places he hadn't seen, so many things left unsaid. The future that had looked, even this morning, rosy and golden was now merely dust at his feet. Failure that he was, he couldn't even boast children to carry his ancestry forward or glorious deeds to make his family proud — and he was glad now that he hadn't told Claudia that he loved her. Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, he counted to three.

'I can hardly wait to hear what you serve for dessert,' he said between gritted teeth.

'Death is not to be embraced hastily, my friend. After the Forty Sacred Cuts comes the Breaking of Fingers, then the Renunciation of Manhood.'

Vincentrix examined the hook of what Orbilio suddenly realized was a castration knife.

'Another marriage of elements. Human seed to fertilize our Mother Earth, and then, only then, Marcus Cornelius Orbilio, do we embark upon our ultimate sacrifice.'

At the flick of his wrist, a huge wicker frame was wheeled into the clearing. The frame had been fashioned in the shape of a man.

'At midnight exactly, when the stars are in perfect alignment, your ash will rise to the gods on the wind, and, yes, of course you will be alive for the burning.'