Except the root-cutter, presumably.
'There was a girl who churned cheeses.' Claudia ticked the victims off on her fingers. 'Then Brigetia, the tanner's daughter, and now a young basket-weaver has failed to come home.'
'To wit, Vincentrix believes our friend, the Scarecrow, is responsible for their mysterious disappearances?' Hannibal stroked his jaw thoughtfully. 'I will certainly ask around. See what the slaves here have to say, what the local people think. But meanwhile, madam, I urge you to have caution when dealing with the Druids. They are not what they appear.'
'Who is?' she replied, locking her gaze firmly with his.
He held her gaze, but only just. 'They pass themselves off as preachers and philosophers, wise men who have learned their wisdom from the ancients, and when they make worship they speak in riddles to confuse their subjects, because the more secret their knowledge, the greater their power. But what you have to remember here, madam, is that the Druids practise human sacrifice.'
'Used to,' she corrected. 'Rome has put paid to all that.'
'So the Druids would have us believe, dear lady, so the Druids would have us believe.'
There was no joking in his manner now. The low tone was deadly serious.
'But there are places in this forest a full day's march from here where the soil is black from scorching and where the stains against the oak are suspiciously sticky. The wicker man is not dead, madam, that I assure you. The Collegiate has not forsaken its ways.'
With a mighty groan, Esus the Blood God woke from his long sleep. Through the blackness, he had heard his name being invoked. An old woman calling for vengeance.
Half man, half bull, Esus lumbered to his feet, shook the dust off his stout horns and bellowed.
The death rictus on the old woman's face slowly relaxed into a smile.
Fifteen
The minute Orbilio booked Black Eyes into an apartment overlooking the basilica, he realized his mistake.
'Ooh, my lord.' The girl's dark, liquid eyes widened in delight as she fingered the soft damask furnishings and ran her hand over the smooth planes of the maplewood and oak. 'You are a dark horse!'
Elbowing their way through the crush of the market, and with his head throbbing like Vulcan's celestial smithy, it had seemed the logical thing to do, renting a furnished apartment for the girl. Well, he could hardly turn up with her at Marcia's villa then pack her off to the slave quarters, could he? The girl was freeborn, for heaven's sake! On the other hand, Marcia was never going to welcome what she'd consider the peasantry under her roof, no matter whose protection the girl was under. A furnished apartment off the Forum was the answer, and personal pride would not permit him to hire anything cheap. Except that the instant Black Eyes set foot inside, he knew she'd misunderstood his motives.
'Not that I'm saying I don't want to, my lord.' She plumped herself down on the soft, swansdown mattress, so her bouncing gaze travelled up and down his body with what could only be described as approval. 'Only — well, it's come as a bit of a surprise, that's all.'
He forced himself to tear his eyes away from the playful puppies that were threatening to burst out of her straining bodice and tried to explain his reasoning, a technique that sadly only served to make matters ten times worse.
'Stands to reason you won't want your wife to know,' she said sympathetically, wriggling further back on to the pillows and releasing the band restraining her long hair.
'I'm not married,' he explained patiently.
'Course not, my lord.' She tapped her nose knowingly. 'I understand. Your Zina's the very soul of discretion.'
Zina. The strumpet's name was Zina. And she wasn't, dammit, his!
Not that he wasn't tempted. Single man, single woman, no strings on either side, where's the harm? He didn't have to think back very far to Zina cutting through her stepfather's boatyard, teasing all the workers with her swaying hips and shimmering breasts, and pretending not to notice their ogling and catcalls. Looking at her now, pouting provocatively as she arched her neck, it wasn't as though she wasn't willing, and, judging by the unexpected jolt in his loins, it wasn't as if he wasn't able, either. (Despite the lump behind his bloody ear!) How easy it would have been to succumb. To have reached out and buried his face in the thick, dark curls which tumbled over her shoulders. How easy to imagine Zina as someone else. Someone, for instance, whose curls were streaked with the colours of the sunset, and, as his hands explored Zina's voluptuous curves, to imagine it was another woman's naked body writhing beneath him. Another woman moaning with pleasure as his lips brushed against her skin, crying out when he entered her.
So what held him back? Mother of Tarquin, it wasn't as though he was in love with Claudia! There was no pain to love. He didn't love her, or his heart wouldn't thrash in agony whenever he was with her, any more than his liver would feel as though it had been ripped apart by wild beasts when she left. No, no, no. Whatever it was, it wasn't love, so why not follow his natural instincts? Quite why he found himself making excuses about raging headaches, previous appointments and official business to attend to, he had no idea.
'Very well, off you pop, my lord, if you've got stuff to do.' His nubile misunderstanding stretched luxuriously over the scented damask counterpane. 'And while you're sorting that out, I'll see if I can't find out where that flesh-peddling creep took that little kid last night. Bastard couldn't have gone far with her, there weren't no cart waiting in the lane, so I'll have a snoop around.'
'You will do no such thing!' He'd been horrified. 'Zina, these men are dangerous and I absolutely forbid you to go poking around, endangering yourself!'
She shot up straight, her black eyes flashing like twin fireballs. 'Here, I might be your bloody mistress, but you don't tell me what I can and can't do, now!'
'For gods' sake, Zina-'
'You Romans can put all the fetters you like on your bloody wives, but I'm a Gaul. No one orders me about, not even you, my lord! Now give us a kiss before you go. Come on, a proper one. That's the ticket!'
Orbilio groaned as he now pushed his way through the crowds celebrating the Vulcanalia. Until now, if he'd given a thought to his own courage, which of course he hadn't, he would have put himself at about eight on a scale of one to ten. Never mind his two years in the army, working for the Security Police had left him facing some pretty hostile situations, yet he'd never hesitated. Fist fights, knife fights, sword fights, it was fairly bloody stuff, and over the years he'd gone charging into burning buildings to rescue the inhabitants, been beaten up and tortured. Dammit, it was fast approaching the point where he could not see skin for scars. But, frankly, he'd rather face a dozen axe-wielding maniacs any day than a seventeen-year-old buxom minx…
He postponed his return to the wretched apartment as long as he could, spending the night, talking, watching, listening in search of information, and, as a patrician, he had an obligation to attend the morning's sacrifice to Vulcan, hadn't he? But all the time the bull was being led around the altar, Marcus's mind was in another place. A dark and lonely place, where a small child whimpered pitifully, slave to a pervert's pleasure…
When the bull was finally brought before Vulcan's holy priest, its horns gilded and beribboned, Orbilio noticed that the acolyte's hands were shaking when he purified the creature first with salt and then with holy water, but then whose wouldn't? That was one massive lump of cattle snorting its hot breath into his face. Orbilio waited while the prayers were sung, but when the priest cried Strike! — the cue for his attendant to stun the sacrificial bull before its throat was cut — he turned away. The memories of what had befallen Rintox in the boat yard the night before were far too raw, and, in any case, he was worried what Zina would do next.