Eventually, they reached for the wax tablet beside the bed and flipped open the hinge. Picking up the metal stylus, they began to write.
In the centre of the world, between earth, sky and sea, at the point where the realms of the universe meet, Rumour gath ered her friends all around her. Envy, Confusion, Malice, Resentment, Flippancy, Folly and Pride. Huddling close together for warmth, for Rumour's house has no doors and the windows no shutters, their murmurings echoed through the brass chambers like the sound of the sea's waves heard at a distance, or the last rumbles of Jupiter's thunder.
But in the heat of their embrace, Sorrow was smothered, Truth became suffocated and Remorse died in the womb.
Falsehood poured another glass of poison and toasted her own success.
Eleven
Swarbric was engaged in conversation with a youth with a fuzz of dark curls when Claudia approached his hut shortly after breakfast. Actually, she thought, conversation might be too strong a word. What Swarbric was actually engaged in was grabbing the youth by the fabric of his collar, pressing the boy's back against the wall and snarling into his face. Which, when you looked closely, was quite a handsome young face. But then she'd never seen so many hunks to the square mile before.
Having taken a stroll round the perimeter of the village on the way to his hut, from glimpses through the palisade she'd noticed that the workforce was universally young, universally strapping, universally unblemished and universally intelligent. Perfect sires for the priestessly foals, and yet not one of them over the age of forty. What must it feel like? she wondered. What must it feel like to be valued for your physical attributes and your core characteristics, but never, not once, for yourself?
She hid behind a holly bush and watched the exchange. Overhead, low clouds began to cover the sky.
'It doesn't matter whether you like it or not,' Swarbric was growling. 'You bloody well do your job.'
'Never,' the boy hissed back. 'I'm not some sodding bear that can be forced to dance or be beaten to within an inch of its life.'
'Wrong, Connal, that's exactly what you are. See these?' Swarbric indicated his own tight linen pants. 'See this?' He ruffled his shirt whose drawstring hung open halfway to his waist, revealing the sort of chest armourers used when fashioning models for breastplates. 'This is the livery of a performing bear, Connal, and you either get used to it-'
'Not all of us are like you,' the boy spat, 'and maybe when you fall in love, you'll know how it feels.'
'Love! Do you think any of these women cares a copper quadran for you? They don't know the meaning of the bloody word.'
'That's where you're wrong! Elusa loves me, I love Elusa, and somehow we're going to get out of — ow!'
The youth's face twisted in pain as Swarbric tightened his grip on his collar, choking Connal with his own shirt.
'Listen to me, you stupid bastard, there'll be no talk of running away, do you hear?'
'The hell I-'
'Do you know what they'll do to Elusa, if they find out what you're planning?' he rasped. 'Because they will, son. They always find out. These trees have ears, they have eyes, trust me, the Hundred-Handed know everything. They pool secrets the same way they pool their knowledge of nature, the same bloody way they pool us, and what the trees don't give away, pillow talk does. Now for gods' sakes, Connal, grow up.'
He released his grip and his anger drained with it.
'Meet with Elusa, love with Elusa, but you damn well do what you have to do, son, and you do it with good grace or believe me, they'll sell you faster than you can say knife, then you'll never see Elusa again.'
'I know you mean well — ' Connal wiped his nose with the back of his hand — 'but times are changing, Swarbric, just look at us. You're German, I'm a Briton, the world's opening up, even for the Hundred-Handed. With Santonum having trade links all over the world, thanks to sailors' tales, to merchants, from the Gauls travelling themselves, people don't accept blind authority any more.'
'If you mean Elusa-'
'Not only her. Lots of the younger ones have minds of their own.'
'We all have minds of our own, son. It's our bodies that are in thrall, that's the trouble, and the Hundred-Handed are slaves to their system every bit as much as we are.'
'But-'
'But nothing. Don't you imagine Beth was as passionate when she was Elusa's age? Don't you imagine Dora or Fearn or Ailm had the same fire in their bellies as you have? As the younger ones have today?'
The youth shrugged one surly shoulder. 'They might have, I suppose.'
Then no more talk of escape, right? You've only been here a year, son, you're still learning. Now go on with you.' He gave him an affectionate shove back to the village. 'And trust me, Connal. You'll get used to it.'
Would he, though? Claudia wondered, as the boy slouched miserably off up the hill. Would he ever get used to the concept of never being able to marry, never being able to settle down, never raising kids of his own? Croesus almighty, if the men were bitter and resentful in youth, what on earth were they like in middle age? How poisoned would they be in their dotage?
Her mind pictured the young girl with blonde, almost white hair, laying hot stones on her back, and the pain that had filled the girl's eyes. Swarbric was wrong. Elusa did care for Connal, but was it hot, searing puppy love, something deep and eternal or a novelty which would pass once duty superseded it? At the moment, though, the definition of Elusa's feelings was irrelevant. All that mattered was that the girl believed herself deeply in love and was prepared to sacrifice everything to be with him. Yet another forbidden fruit.
Claudia looked round the valley, at the willows, the iris, the dragonflies and the bees. She looked at the water gushing out of the rock. At the stream that danced its way through the meadow.
And saw not paradise.
But Hell.
Where all manner of dark creatures slithered. Including fear…
The night before, when she'd returned to her bedroom — one of several small private chambers sectioned off in the longhouse that served as the guest quarters — the note was the first thing she'd noticed. As, indeed, she'd been meant to, since a candle had been lit adjacent to the writing tablet and the stylus laid elegantly across it.
I know, it had read. But now seven new words had been added. I just cannot decide who to tell.
Since she was the only guest at the moment, that narrowed the list.
To approximately five hundred women.
Of whom one was also a murderess.
'The Pit of Reflection?' Swarbric seemed surprised by her question. 'Yes, of course I can take you there.' He tipped his prematurely grey head to one side and raised one eyebrow suggestively. 'I can assure you, the Lady Claudia won't lack for privacy up there.'
'Sorry to disappoint you, but it's only the Pit that the Lady Claudia's interested in.'
'We'll see,' he said cheerfully. 'But I have to warn you, it's quite a hike.'
He wasn't kidding, though quite how the seams of his pants stood the strain of the climb, she wasn't entirely sure. 'And it's up here?' she wheezed.
'Nope.' He gave his short sword an airy jab towards the opposite hill. 'It's up there.'
Maybe it was the sweat in her eyes, but — 'Wouldn't it have been easier to have walked round the arrowhead to reach that second hill?'
'Much easier and a damn sight faster, as well.' He helped her down a slope that would have given the average mountain goat palpitations. 'But that way I wouldn't get to hold your hand or have you lean against me, now would I?'
The old joke sprang to mind: If I said you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?
'I'll say one thing, Swarbric. You don't lack for confidence.'