'Including the souls of your ancestors?'
Mavor's shoulders lost their stiffness. Her whole body slumped. 'Especially the souls of my ancestors,' she said hoarsely.
With the candles flickering, it was hard to tell. But Claudia could have sworn she was crying.
With the advent of rain, the birdlife of the forest burst into action. There was no need to shelter from the fierce rays of the sun now, or fear the shadow of predators. They were free to feast on the abundance of insects that were only yesterday flying too high to catch. Nestlings could start feeding themselves.
Watching this activity with his back to a birch beneath the palisade on the hill, a young man ran his finger down the spine of his arrow then trailed his nail over the cock feather. Thanks to his industrious agents, rumours were bubbling among the Druids faster than brews in a witch's cauldron and the mix was increasing in potency with every hour that passed. Again, thanks to his labours, tales were coming to their ears of men being reduced to blubbering simpletons after drinking the waters of the Hundred-Handed's sacred spring. Of virility being sapped, travellers disappearing, of clouds being conjured to cover the moon. See for yourselves, O Holy Ones. Cows, pigs, even horses are sickening without reason, as the Hundred-Handed cast their evil spells. Drunkards were being brought in from outside the area and thrown at the Druids' feet as evidence. The case was building nicely.
The Whisperer notched an arrow into his bow. A quail fluttered once then lay still.
'Bitch.'
A wood pigeon took off. He aimed at that. Another substitute priestess.
'Bitch.'
A jay next.
'Bitch.'
Then a crow.
'Bitch, bitch, bitch.'
But as his resentment grew, so his aim became weak. He laid down his bow. He must take care not to lose control, because leaders are strong, leaders are powerful, leaders are dedicated to their cause. He must not allow hatred to overshadow his judgement. This was war.
Glancing back towards the palisade, he thought of the tribes who embraced the Oppressors as allies and were genuinely indebted to the foreign troops who patrolled their borders. They kept our roads and our waterways free of bandits, they claimed, and if there were skirmishes to be fought, better their sons be mourned than our own. Really? How short their memories, the Whisperer thought. Don't they remember how their grandfathers had resisted Rome with a ferocity that had caught the invaders off guard? Their whole bloody army had proved no match for the Aquitani. A whole legion was cut down like rats in a run, while the soldiers Caesar sent to avenge them were also decisively routed.
What happened? he wondered. What had turned proud warriors into self-serving cowards?
What acid had rotted the heart of the Nation that was, until so very recently, a force to be feared?
What female poison made eunuchs of men?
The Whisperer adjusted the bandana round his neck and straightened the ring on his finger. So the Chieftains had allowed themselves to be seduced by profit and greed and then sold that concept to their own people! Who cared? Thank Lenus, there were enough patriots left who were willing to stand up for what they believed in.
Freedom.
Freedom to choose what wars they fought, choose who they died for, even who they paid their bloody taxes to, as well as the freedom to discipline women and children in their own home — and to hell with this bollocks about nature and peace, the Hundred-Handed had it coming.
Tower-sucking bloody bitches.'
The woodpecker flew on with its beakload of grubs, unaware of the arrow that thudded harmlessly into the trunk of an oak. The Whisperer swore, but lunch break was over. It was time to return to College business — paste on a smile — make all the right gestures — but not for much longer, thank Lenus! Replacing his bow beneath the overhang of rock, he wrapped his wrist grip in his bandana, tucked them both inside his quiver then concealed the lot with leaf litter and branches.
Damned bitches — he brushed the dirt off his hands — deserved everything they bloody well got, and closing his eyes, he pictured the flames of their thatches lighting the night sky. Imagined their screams carrying into the forest. Carrying, but where nobody heard… He would show them. He'd show them what women were really for. One after the other, after the other.
It was time to put an end to their power-sucking strategies.
It was time to give men their balls back.
'Can I tempt you with a honeycomb, my lady, now that the sun's pushed the clouds out of the way?'
A young man with a voice as smooth as the sweetmeat he was offering bridged the stream in one agile leap.
'Providing you join me,' Claudia said.
She recognized him immediately from the auction block yesterday, though for the life of her she couldn't say why. There was nothing about him that was particularly memorable. Average height, average build, even his eyes were neither green nor blue but some point in between, and, like the sea, always changing. But with his dark hair cropped short and the spring in his step, there was something compelling about this young man and it was easy to see why the Hundred-Handed had picked him. But not why he'd picked Claudia out 'With pleasure, milady.'
Perhaps it was a prerequisite of male slaves, but this one also wore pantaloons tighter than skin. Except whereas Swarbric had chosen fabric, these were cut from pale yellow deerskin. Soft, supple and smooth.
'Manion,' he said by way of introduction and, as he stretched out on the rock, she detected a faint smell of nutmeg. Being limestone, the rock was already dry from the midsummer sun and an earwig scuttled between the grass in the fissures. Maybe the storm was passing, after all. 'The new beekeeper,' he said with a chuckle.
'What happened to the last one?'
One indolent shoulder shrugged. 'Who knows?'
As he broke the honeycomb in half, she noticed a band of pale skin round his seal finger, as though it was missing a ring.
'Doesn't it worry you, being stung?'
He cast her a sharp glance from the corner of his eye. 'Perhaps they know I sting back.'
Claudia didn't doubt it. For all his oozing of charm and consideration, there was a predatory aura about Manion. As well as something teasingly familiar- Maybe she'd run into him last year in Santonum? Maybe it was his voice that sounded familiar? Maybe he just reminded her of somebody else?
But barely had he taken a second bite than he was springing to his feet.
'Leaving already?'
Seascape eyes darkened as he leaned over her.
'Only dead men do nothing,' he whispered.
With the edge of his thumb, he scooped a drizzle of honey from the side of her mouth and unhurriedly licked it off.
Watching him lope back up the hill, Claudia wondered why, if she didn't recognize him, she couldn't rid herself of the feeling that she'd met him before. And what slave ever had use for a seal? Not so much bees, she reflected, more a hornet's nest he was stirring up.
She'd never eat honeycombs again without thinking of him.
'What was that about?' Orbilio asked, striding down the path with a bundle of hay perched on his shoulders. Yet for all his jauntiness, the narrowing of his eyes and a strongly clamped jaw suggested he'd seen everything. And hadn't liked what he saw.
'Oh, just a slave bringing me something to eat.' She handed him Manion's half. 'Want some?'
He grunted, but she didn't think it was in everlasting and grateful thanks.
'He didn't say anything, then? Manion?'
'Ifyou must know, we enjoyed a riveting chat about bees.'
'Bees.'
'You know the things, Marcus. Fluffy buzzy creatures. One sees them all the time flittering round flowers.'
Marcus tore his gaze from the trees into which Manion had disappeared and stared at her. 'Are you referring to those fluffy buzzy male drones that do all the work, while the queen watches from the centre of the hive?'