'I would trade with Hades if it turned me a profit. Besides, you only have to look around to see that this offers a far better life and, moreover, it's the way of the future. Ah. I've just seen someone I need to talk to. We'll do the textile people tomorrow, and don't forget I have a front box at the races this afternoon. Do be there.'
High in the hills, inside the cave from which the Spring of Prophecy bubbled from the rocks, the Arch Druid Vincentrix sat cross-legged on the floor, only this time it was the sun's progress that he followed as it traversed the heavens, not the moon's.
From here, he could not see the rooftops of Santonum shimmering in the heat of the afternoon, nor the smoke rising from the thatches of his people's homes. All he could see were the first hints of the autumn across the canopy of trees, and a pair of buzzards rising on the thermals, mewing to one another as they spiralled ever higher.
Vincentrix tossed another handful of magic herbs on to the fire, pressed his eyes into the palms of his hands and blotted out everything but the blackness inside his head. Leaning over the smoke, he inhaled deeply, rhythmically, and waited.
How many hours had passed he did not know, but finally he became aware that he was no longer alone inside the cave. Removing his hands from his eyes, he saw the Horned One, born of the winter solstice and Master of the Underworld, seated on his left, and on his right sat the Piercer of Shields, father of twin sons, Terror and Panic, who led his people into battle and then directed them onwards to victory.
Our influence is waning, Druid. You have seen for yourself how it is, for it is not the Thunderer our people propitiate today. It is the foreign smith they worship.
'Those are only silly cakes they toss into the flames,' Vincentrix replied in the same secret tongue. 'Is it not good that they are happy?'
The soul cannot perish, because it passes from one body to another after death, but only you are the conduit to this new life, Druid.
'I am aware of this, my lieges. It is why the Collegiate elected me.'
You are the only one with the powers to make this happen. But think! Think what will befall our people, should they choose to enter foreign Halls of the Dead. Neither we nor you can reach them there — and if we cannot reach them, Druid, their eternal souls will perish.
'And they will be no more than dust, blowing on the wind.' Vincentrix finished the ancient text for them. 'But I have kissed the Stone of Honour,' he reminded them, 'and wear the Ring of Pledge on my right hand that, though I might grow weary, I will never cease to serve the gods as they command.'
He closed his eyes, and when he opened them he expected to find himself alone again.
It is not enough that you serve us, loyal Druid. Our hearts have lightened at the safeguards you have put in place against such terrible contingencies, but our influence is waning, because we ourselves are growing weak.
This time, the Thunderer stood before him, hammer in his hand, his skin as black as the dark clouds that he rumbled.
You know what we need to make us strong again?
'I do,' he said heavily.
Then do it, another voice said. The voice was gentle, coaxing, full of warmth and love. Mother, lover, sister, friend and wife rolled into one. Do it for us, Vincentrix. Do it for our people, I beseech you.
He searched the Healer's sweet, smiling, innocent face and found comfort through the pain.
'Of course,' he said at last, kissing the ring on his right hand. 'Of course you will receive what is owed you, and your people will receive what they deserve, too. Peace through eternal life.'
He prayed with all his might that his next life might bring the same kind of succour to him.
Sixteen
'Correct me if I'm wrong,' Claudia said, 'but isn't today Saturday?'
She and Stella were sitting on their favourite seat in the garden, munching on chunks of warm chestnut bread, spiced liver sausages, smoked ham and other delicacies, all washed down with a large jug of chilled white wine. The chief attraction of this seat was the rippling fountain alongside, which was ringed with hibiscus and fragrant oleander. A soft breeze wafted scents of heliotrope, roses and summer narcissi over the topiaried box trees.
Stella squinted across to the calendar nailed to one of the portico pillars. 'Yes, today's Saturday. Why do you ask?'
'No reason,' Claudia replied, 'no reason at all.' Yet her eyes continued to follow Semir, stripped as usual to the tightest of loincloths, as he planted out Trojan irises to flower the following spring, pausing occasionally to gnaw on chicken legs and bite-sized sesame buns as he worked through his lunch break. 'Just that I've lost track of time lately,' she lied.
'Me, too.' Stella sighed, pushing a lock of dark hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand. 'Now Marcia's brought in a welter of servants, I've nothing to do and it's driving me crazy. Every day is the same as its predecessor.'
Nearly a week had passed since the Vulcanalia. A week in which the first turnips began to be pulled, red deer started to rut and neither hide nor hair of Hannibal or Orbilio had been seen.
'It's not as though I could pass some of the hours sewing clothes for the children, Marcia's taken care of all that. She's brought in tutors from the university in Burdigala to (quote) relieve me of my obligation to teach them their letters
(unquote), and our quarters are so organized that I barely recognize them. Thanks to her, my laundry's taken care of, likewise the meals, and I can't even grow my own vegetables and herbs, because Marcia won't have me what she calls "labouring like a common peasant in the fields". If you have any ideas, I'm open to suggestions.'
Claudia leaned back on the marble seat, reached for another delicious oyster from the Carent estuary and turned her face towards the sun. It was said that winter in these parts didn't start before December and lasted only until the end of February. That left nine glorious months in which the summers were not too hot, the springs and autumns not too wet, and two thousand hours of sunshine to spread between them. That was a lot of time to be doing nothing, she reflected, even assuming Stella was the tapestry type.
'Marcia's threatening to swamp me with wardrobe and cosmetics slaves,' Stella added drolly. 'So far, I've managed to fend off that particular invasion.'
Claudia studied the simple belted tunic in the palest mint green linen that showed off Stella's long, glossy hair to perfection. She'd stopped short of restraining it Gaulish-style in a ribbon at the nape, but her uncomplicated bun told its own story, and no doubt Marcia was having kittens at the freckles on show and the distinct absence of kohl around her eyes. But the truth was, Stella looked stunning. If only the worry lines would disappear…
'You need a man,' Claudia pronounced.
This wasn't something she advised many women — in fact, now she came to think about it, it was a first — but Stella badly needed a companion. A soulmate to grow old and wrinkly with. A man to laugh with in her bed, and out. A man to take her sons fishing and glower at her daughters' suitors. A man to share the burdens of her life, then take them off her shoulders and carry them on his. Don't we all, a little voice whispered.
'I hope you're not trying to palm me off with Semir.' Stella chuckled, following the direction of Claudia's gaze. 'He has more braids in his hair than my girls put together and more jewellery than my dear cousin.'
'His baubles are only glass.'
'True, but there's so much oil on that man's body, it would be like making love to an eel.'
'I was speaking generally.' Liar.
'Good, because I've had a husband, thank you very much, and the desire to repeat the experience is not at the top of my shopping list.'
'So planting vervain round the peristyle isn't your idea?' Vervain was supposed to bring errant husbands home.