Staring at the Keys of Wisdom, the Druids knew the reason.
Rome, no strangers to sacrifice, for they themselves pitted grazing beasts against lions in the arena, had been bewitched by the Hundred-Handed into practising double standards. The Druids hadn't wanted to believe the rumours, but now they were left with no choice. The evidence was laid bare for everyone to see. The Hundred-Handed were not nature priestesses who advocated peace. They were witches. Witches, who'd sucked the minds of the Romans clean: and there was only one cure for witchcraft.
Burning.
No other method would eradicate their insidious evil, and it was no use turning to Rome for assistance. Rome was already under their spell. No, no, the Druids must act independently in this matter — and they knew exactly who they must contact. A young warrior, who'd been shunned by his tribe for speaking out against Rome. A young warrior with an army in waiting.
Most importantly, the Druids agreed, they needed to act swiftly, before any further damage was done.
Like wasps, burning the nest was the only solution.
The whole thing must be destroyed.
High on the hill, the young warrior breathed on his ring then buffed it up on his shirt. There was no sunlight to make the silver shine, but the fact it was round his finger was enough. Engraved on it was the symbol of everything that he stood for, and he smiled.
He had whispered his poison into the Druids' ears and the Druids had drunk every drop. And now that they'd been barred from sacrificing the wicker man, it would not be long now before they called on his services. He, and the Saviours of Gaul, were prepared.
Staring out across the valley, he thought about the other whisperings he had put about.
Some were true — the Druids' dissension, for example — which would force Rome to confront the wily old priesthood on their intentions regarding the Hundred-Handed, knowing full well that the Druids would not admit weakness in the presence of their oppressors. This would lead nicely to a climate of lies and distrust, which would then swing a good many don't-knows in his own favour.
Some of the rumours were deliberately untrue, including the notion that the men who'd tried to assassinate the Governor had been hired by one of his own trusted generals. The Whisperer had no doubt that the craven little cowards would have been quick to confess that they'd been given their orders directly by the Scorpion's deputy, Ptian. That wasn't the point. A seed of doubt had been sown, and no matter how small, that seed was strong enough not to blow away. Rome already knew it had harboured informants within its own walls — why not something even worse? It wasn't a case of not believing the lies. More a case of not wanting to believe them. And these things mattered, if the beehive was to be set buzzing. The more emotional unrest that could be created, the better.
He watched a rabbit sniff the hot sticky air and wished he'd had his bow with him. One arrow and he'd have that coney roasting over his camp fire, slathered with hot oil and mustard. Not that he was hungry, of course. There had been enough food at the revels to feed his army for weeks, but tempted as he was to stash some away, he resisted. People would notice. Beth would notice. Nothing escaped that bitch's eye.
Which brought him to the other rumours he had spread. The ones that were neither true nor false, but somewhere in between. Like the Aquitani were primed to attack, for example. He'd had it put about that they were planning an uprising at the peak of midsummer, he'd leaked places, numbers, as much information as he could, knowing Rome would have to follow up but equally knowing their heart wouldn't be in it. Stretch a bowstring too tight for too long and it ceases to remain taut. In this case, the bowstring was Rome. They'd been led on so many wild-goose chases now that they really didn't believe it could happen. To them, war was something to be conducted from spring through to autumn, and already they were growing complacent. He'd seen for himself how the forces were growing thinner each time one of these rumours sent them hither and thither, and complacency suited the Saviours of Gaul. For the Aquitani, fighting for freedom and their very survival, there was no 'season for war'. Their lives at stake, their territories, their families, their whole way of life. And Rome expects them to stick to fucking rules? The Whisperer spat. Let them. Let them grow slack. Then when the Saviours of Gaul strike late, and at targets they won't be expecting, the bastards won't know which way to turn.
Ah, but afterwards! The warrior felt the excitement of battle run through his veins, as exciting as — no, more than — sex. He saw the Druids restored to the glory they once had. He saw them august, respected, strong and revered, and it would all be thanks to one man! Under a free Gaul — his Gaul — they would be exempt from tithes and would once more become the priests, judges, teachers, physicians and philosophers they were destined to be.
He would restore the wicker man, too. The wicker-man sacrifice that was designed to show power. To show strength. That would give the gods the blood they needed to grow stronger again, and the right gods, this time. Not some stupid fucking nature lore spun by some bloody priestesses. Man's lore. In a mans world. Where women knew their bloody place.
And he thought, what a sweet, sweet moment that was. Standing on the edge of that glade earlier watching the dwarf's dim-witted bastard blubbering over that wishy-washy little blonde cow. Did he think no one knew what they did in that glade, those two? He sneered, remembering how he'd seen them himself only yesterday afternoon. Her with skirts up round her waist, dirty slut, sucking the power out of another poor sod. And now she was dead. Butchered like a boar with her blood soaking the ground and did he care? Fuck no. Good riddance to bad rubbish, that's what he thought, and even better, this second murder would have the HundredHanded jumping at every damned shadow.
The Whisperer rubbed his hands in delight. The bitches won't feel safe anywhere in their own grounds now, and that was perfect for the Whisperer's plans — and oh yes, he had plans.
Several plans.
With another poised to spring into action right now.
Twenty
You look sad,' a voice murmured in Claudia's ear.
She recognized it at once. As soft and smooth as his deerskin pants, Manion's tones were the only distinctive aspect about him.
'You don't,' she replied. 'You look like the cat who's found the lid's off the cream dish.' Smug wasn't the word. 'Well, you know how it is.'
He flexed his muscles with a comical gesture before leaping the stream to join her, where she'd been staring at the place where the river gushed out of rock, thinking about Sarra and Pod. Another time and the sun would have alerted her to his presence with a shadow. She wondered how long he'd been standing there. Watching.
'Strength and endurance, it's what this festival is all about, isn't it?' he asked with a wink, and now that he was standing close she could smell perfume on his shirt, and a faint hint of nutmeg beneath.
'Every man must do his duty?'
'Exactly,' he said. 'And this is the only job in the world where the mistress keeps a dog but still can't bark herself 'Woof, woof.'
He settled beside her, facing the waterfall, and ran his hand over his closely cropped hair. 'Why don't you tell me what troubles you, my lady. I find sadness is always best when it's shared.'
'I think everyone's sharing this sorrow, Manion. Or doesn't it touch you that a young girl has been butchered?'
'Dead?' he rumbled. 'Another one?'
And she could almost believe he hadn't heard, if it wasn't for those unfathomable eyes. Neither green nor blue, but somewhere in between. Why did she have a feeling she'd seen them before?