'Are you praying for Daddy?'
'Yes, darling, I am.'
'But I thought that band was the only precious thing from Daddy that you had left. So why are you throwing it away?'
'Well.' Stella tipped the contents back in the bag and drew the string tight. 'For a start, your father gave me six very precious things, and you, my angel, are one of them.' She planted a kiss on the top of her daughter's blonde head. 'And, for another, since this is the only object of value that I can call my own, I'm hoping it will carry some weight with the spirit to whom I entrust it.'
'You're not throwing it away, then?'
'Far from it, darling. Now off you go.' She patted Luci's bottom. I'll be along in a couple of minutes, then we'll play butterflies.'
As the little girl skipped and sang her way up the twisting path to the top of the hill, the eyes of the Watcher returned to her mother.
From behind a rock, they watched as she unpinned the bun coiled at the nape of her neck and released a cascade of dark, glossy hair down her back. They watched as she removed a knife from her belt and cut a lock to tie round the ring to bind her life-force to the metal band and breathe her own spirit into it.
There was no doubt about it. Stella had reached the pinnacle of physical perfection. Another few years of living hand-to-mouth as the future grew more uncertain and lines would ravage her beautiful face. Hands that were today long and slender would compact and grow knobbly. The belly that housework kept as taught as a drumskin would quickly turn to ripples of flab.
The Watcher listened as her sweet voice charmed the spirits that flowed through the water and felt nothing but pity that those lovely long tresses, shining with health in the sunlight, would one day become dull and speckled with grey. What a waste. What a terrible, terrible waste…
As Stella kneeled on the soft, green moss that covered the stones in front of the spring and raised her hands in supplication, it was inevitable that the Watcher's thoughts turned to the others, who had been so vigilantly followed and observed with such discipline.
The first was the redheaded sister of a man who made millstones. Athletic and spirited, it would have been a tragedy of the most enormous proportions to see such strength and energy become sapped by the tedium of housework or trapped in the prison of poverty. But, lively as she was, even the redhead could not compare to the voluptuous charms of the root-cutter's wife. Passionate, vibrant and kind, the Watcher could almost hear the echo of her laughter as she took men to her bed and left them glowing with warmth, their hearts filled with memories that would last them a lifetime. To stand idly by while those generous breasts sagged would have been criminal, and it was merely a matter of time before the cheese-churner's snub-nosed perfection was disfigured by the rigours of her arduous work. How quickly, too, the ripe curves of the tanner's daughter would have ballooned after childbirth, or the basket-weaver's work would have crippled her, like it had her grandmother, turning dextrous hands into claws.
Young and perfect — so utterly, utterly perfect! — those young women had been spared the rigours of old age and poor health. Never would they be forced to experience physical hardship or endure the long ache of loneliness. Each and every one was set free.
The Watcher's eyes followed Stella as she consigned her ring to the spirit, then strew her petals and herbs over the waters. They watched as she lit a small oil lamp and placed it on a ledge, and they watched as she stood up and brushed the moss off her tunic before backing away.
In fur-lined leather boots, the Watcher's feet made no sound on the floor of the canyon.
Twenty-Five
Lying on her bed with a bowl of juicy plums and a plate of crumbly white local cheese, Claudia stroked Drusilla's ears and congratulated herself on how well the word about tomorrow's manhunt was spreading.
'He might have been rounding up gangs of paedophiles while being heaped with crowns of glory, but there's nothing like an ambitious Security Policeman to make sure no stone remains unturned in the fight against corruption and evil, poppet.'
'Mrrrrw.'
'Exactly.' She raked her fingernails down an ecstatic furry spine. 'When it comes to a seat in the Senate, a chap can't have too many credits to his name.' Indeed, at this rate, Orbilio would be clearing up the imperial crime rate single-handed! 'Brrrrup?'
'Of course he'll drop his investigation into those ridiculous fraud allegations!' The man had honour stamped all over him. 'Frrr.'
'I know.' It was a damned shame he had tenacity, truth and intransigence tattooed on him as well. 'There isn't much that a spot of bribery, coercion or blackmail can't fix, but somehow Marcus Cornelius manages to block the bloody lot.'
Professional that he was, he wouldn't even agree to speak to Marcia about postponing the manhunt until he'd struck a deal.
'You succeed with the Scarecrow where others have failed? This I must see,' he'd chuckled.
Leaning back on her rainbow of pillows, Claudia wriggled her toes on the damask coverlet and checked the sun's march by the shadows on the wall. Unlike certain parties she could mention, she was not remotely sceptical about the Scarecrow rising to her bait, but this would not be before nightfall, and in the end she'd agreed that Orbilio could act as an observer. 'Provided you don't interfere,' she'd insisted.
'I can't promise,' he'd murmured. 'If the poor man calls for help, I'm duty bound to pitch in.'
Very funny.
'He can scoff all he likes that it took Marcia months not to track the Scarecrow down,' she told Drusilla, 'but Marcia's been using the wrong methods.' Or, more accurately, the wrong people.
'This business about the Emperor's birthday is bollocks,' Tarbel had growled earlier that morning. He'd been waiting on the landing, looking more than ever like he'd just been hewn out of some ancient oak tree. 'What's going on?'
Claudia had widened her eyes in incredulity. 'I have absolutely no idea.'
'Don't play the innocent,' he retorted, leaning so close she could smell dense, cedary forests through the thick leather breastplate. 'You Romans plan so far ahead you know what you'll be doing the fourth Saturday in August six years from now. Imperial birthday celebrations don't spring up out of the blue.'
'Maybe it's not Rome,' she said sweetly. 'Maybe the postponement is your mistress's idea?'
Chestnut eyes narrowed. 'Bullshit.'
'Do you know what I think, Tarbel? I mean, apart from wishing that I'd taken longer over my bath, so that you'd have had to kick your heels for another hour outside my bedroom.' She swept past him and placed her hand on the latch of the door. 'I think you're sulking.'
There was a rumble from deep in the big Basc's throat, and it wasn't the sort of sound a cat makes when it's purring. 'Why do you do this? Why do you always provoke me?'
'And here's me thinking men liked provocative women.'
'I've never done one bloody thing to offend you. Hell, I even saved your life in the woods-'
'No, you didn't.'
'I bloody well would have.' Colour was flooding his cheeks. 'The only thing you've done since then is insult me.'
'Because I don't like liars,' she said, sweeping into her room and closing the door.
'I am a Base,' he hissed, almost kicking the door down as he followed her in. 'Bases do not lie. We stand by our honour and you will apologize.'
'I'm sorry, but I never apologize. Especially,' she added smugly, 'when I'm right.'
Nibbling on another chunk of crumbly white cheese, she remembered that he'd been standing just there, right between the bed frame and the clothes chest, smelling of leather and cedar and deep indignation, his shoulders so broad they practically blocked out the light from the window.
'Rrrrp,' Drusilla purred.
'You want to know what Tarbel replied to that? Something quite unsuitable for cat's ears, I'm afraid.'