Claudia looked up so quickly that she tripped. 'Did you say Spaniard?'
'Odd character.' He caught her, even though she was in no danger of falling, and seemed in no great hurry to let her go. 'Didn't much mix with the rest of the men and didn't much enjoy his work with the ladies.'
She wriggled free, yet could still feel where the German's hands had held her firm at the shoulders.
'I suppose that's the reason they sold him,' he added, with a rueful cluck of the tongue. 'A man needs to be content in his work, even a slave.'
Happiness wasn't her concern. 'This Spaniard. I don't suppose you can remember his name?'
'Ribolo, why?'
'Ribolo!'
Mistaking her sigh for something other than relief, Swarbric hooked a ringlet that had come astray and tucked it back under its ivory hairpin.
'Ri — ' he let his fingertip slide on down her cheek — 'bo — ' under her chin 'lo.'
As it began to trace a line down her throat, Claudia moved away. 'Good heavens, is that the time? If I don't hurry, I'll be late for Mavor.'
Swarbric glanced up at the sky, where clouds obscured the sun that kept track of the hours. 'Mavor is good,' he said, and his eyes were dancing. 'In fact, our Bird Priestess is better than good.'
Now that was where she'd seen the redhead coming home from last night. From the direction of Swarbric's hut.
'Though a man's hands are stronger and can massage far better than a woman's, but don't take my word for it. Ask Mavor.'
'I'm sure she'll give you a glowing report.' In fact, she was sure they all would.
'If you need me at any time, Lady Claudia, you know where to find me.' He performed a theatrical bow in farewell. 'And I was wrong about it being Ribolo, you know. He was the Guardian of the Trust before last, and anyway, he came from Rhodes, now I think about it.'
The first spot of rain started to fall. Claudia did not feel it.
'And the last Guardian?' she asked. But why bother, when she already knew?
'Oh, he was a Spaniard, I got that part right,' Swarbric said, as he strode back up the path. 'But that executioner went by the name of Gabali.'
In the Governor's Palace, intelligence was coming in thick and fast — and from every direction.
The Aquitani were going to attack! They were going to attack tomorrow, at midsummer, Rome had better be ready!
The Druids were dissenting! They were angry, because witchcraft was rife among the Hundred-Handed, Rome had better do something!
Those three assassins were mercenaries! They'd been hired by one of the Governor's own generals, Rome was under attack from within!
Orbilio's staff processed the informants' claims with weary formality and paid the rumours no heed. Every two weeks, it seemed, stories would surface about the Aquitani's latest plans for insurrection, invariably giving dates, locations, numbers of rebels, their methods of attack — and every time it amounted to nothing. This was all part of the Scorpion's plan, of course. Spreading rumours then watching Rome dance to his jig, knowing they'd be wasting their time, money and most importantly precious manpower while they chased after shadows, but, equally, knowing that they could not afford to dismiss any of this out of hand.
Convinced that this latest intelligence was the same bullshit, and seriously doubting that that pathetic raggle-taggle band of self-styled warriors could inflict more than a pinprick, much less free Gaul in the three short months that remained of the campaigning season, the Security Police were still taking no chances. There was no room for complacency within the Roman administration. Wild-goose chases went with the territory. So with painstaking patience, Orbilio's staff logged the details of this impending midsummer attack and passed them on to the army.
As for the Druids, that was a political issue. Claims of witchery would certainly need close investigation, and if found to be true the sentence was punishable by death. But the Druids were crafty old buggers, not above spreading lies if it suited their purpose, and since Rome backed the peace-loving priestesses over their sectarian bigotry, large pinches of salt were required when it came to information purporting to come from them. But if the Druids resented the loss of political, religious and secular control over their fellow Gauls, they only had themselves to blame. Rome was quite happy for them to continue acting as judges and philosophers, inter mediaries and priests providing they stopped incinerating their own people inside wicker effigies while the poor sods were still alive. Except the Druids refused, claiming human sacrifice was their right and their gods needed the blood, leaving Rome no choice other than to impose its own laws outlawing such practices. Was it any surprise the Gauls then flocked to the side of those who protected them?
And where those rumours sprang from that the three men who'd tried to kill the Governor were part of a coup, the Security Police had no idea! Very little by way of torture had been required before the would-be assassins were singing like thrushes. The Scorpion put them up to it, they said even before the second iron was drawn from the fire. None other than his second-in-command, a man called Ptian, had given them their orders in person, and they'd been proud to sacrifice their lives for the greater good of Gaul, etc., etc., etc. No one bothered to point out how fast their enthusiasm had waned at the first sight of the bone screws and pincers. The point was, their testimony wasn't in doubt.
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.'