At the time, Claudia had hoped to pick up a few tips from the richest woman in Santonum, but in practice it was the other way around. Marcia had no idea that Claudia wasn't the wealthy, successful wine merchant she purported to be, and by surrounding herself with people on whom Fortune smiled Marcia hoped that happiness would rub off on her. And that by offering lavish hospitality, they would stay..
How sad that she constantly threw away her real chance of happiness. A succession of young studs lined up to bed her, but, since sex alone wasn't enough for a sophisticated and educated woman, she threw them out because they bored her. Yet, if she'd only been patient (and not looked down her nose because they were Gauls), she might well have ended up with a devoted young husband who worshipped the ground she walked on, eternally grateful for the wealth and education he'd been given.
'It has to be the tomb,' Claudia said, as they reached the stream. 'Because the killer has to be someone who can come and go without arousing the suspicion of the professionals.'
'Whilst taking advantage of the deserted work huts for his grisly task,' Junius added grimly.
Mighty Jupiter, don't let Stella be dead! Let us find her laughing. Shaking that cascade of dark, glossy hair down her back. Let her be calling her children monsters when her tone implied angels, or playing barrels as she rolled the littlest one down the garden path. For pity's sake, please. Just let us find her alive…
The little bridge blurred beneath Claudia's feet. Too late, too late, too late, her sandals rumbled. Too late, too late, too late, the timbers echoed back.
She scrubbed the tears from her eyes. Marcia's vulnerability had left so many cracks for maggots to crawl through that the villa was infested, for the rot ran far deeper than Koros and Padi. Tarbel, too, was living a lie, even if it took someone else to make him see it, and Semir, of course, went without saying. How he'd sold Marcia the idea that he could recreate the famous Hanging Gardens she had no idea. Nebuchadnezzar died, what, five centuries ago? He couldn't possibly have any idea how to replicate the famous gardens, never mind that the conditions for planting in Gaul weren't remotely similar to Babylonia, even allowing that such flowers could survive the climate or the long journey! Yet such was Marcia's ego that she'd swallowed his sales pitch hook, line and sinker, and whatever kind of garden Semir ended up giving her she would have no doubts that it was a genuine replica. To question his authenticity was to question her own, and reality had long since slipped off Marcia's agenda. The estate, the villa, the gardens, the tomb — together these things combined to create a world of their own. A world so isolated from reality that it was almost a fantasy, where a lonely, damaged woman could feel safe, without knowing she had also created a perfect breeding ground for other, more destructive fantasies.
'You search those huts!' Claudia shouted. I'll check these.'
Every man Marcia had hired was a perfectionist, yet each was a worm in the apple of her integrity. Hor might be famous throughout Alexandria, but a man who only painted scenes that showed his patron in a flattering light? Exquisitely executed or not, no artist worth his reputation would lower himself to that level, even for his brother's sake, while Paris sculpted faces on figures carved by others. Talented, undoubtedly, but hardly what Marcia was paying such exorbitantly high prices for.
'Nothing?' She couldn't believe it. 'Are you sure?'
'I've checked and double-checked,' Junius said. 'There's nothing here.'
How could she have been so wrong? Claudia slumped down on a half-chiselled plinth. In the forests, mournful hounds sneered at her stupidity and the lump in her stomach was lead. Silly bitch. If you'd only thought things through — talked it over with someone — with Orbilio — you wouldn't have wasted so much time.
Time Stella didn't have…
Sagged against the ropes that bound him so tightly to the oak, Orbilio felt as though every inch of his skin was on fire. What a ridiculous way to discover the secrets of the Druids, he thought. What a ridiculous time to learn the ways of their torture.
At first, he truly believed he could take it. A candle burns while he is flogged. His blood runs out in Forty Sacred Cuts. His fingers are snapped. By the time he's dragged into the wicker frame, he'd probably be grateful.
How wrong could he be?
It wasn't that he'd underestimated the excruciating pain of the lash. It was the way the cane was designed to inflict maximum pain for minimal damage and, as Vincentrix so calmly pointed out, determine a man's threshold for pain.
The other surprise was that his life — or more accurately his death — was to be measured in a series of candles. He couldn't see how many were left, but they'd used the second to pour refreshing water down their victim's throat and lay soothing compresses on his lash marks. The bastards, goddammit, were reviving him.
The Druids wanted their sacrifice very much screaming and kicking when the flame to the wicker man was finally lit.
'Dammit, Junius, I was certain the killer brought his victims here.'
Claudia wanted to move, but her limbs were as heavy as the marble blocks that surrounded her, and the lead in her stomach had turned cold. Despite the warm autumn sun, she was shivering, but there was no comfort in this haven of eternal tranquillity. Not in the soft, swirling particles of white dust, nor the chip-chip-chip of Paris's chisel, nor the flicker of Hor's oil lamp as he worked on his frescoes, his body almost as white as the linen of his kilt as he stretched on tiptoe to apply the finishing touches to his latest scene.
'My lady?' There was a strange expression on her bodyguard's face as he tugged at her sleeve. 'I think maybe the killer did bring the girls down here.'
His dagger was drawn, she noticed. And the grip round the handle was tight.
'Look over there.'
The lead in her stomach flipped over. 'I-'
'Look at the caryatids, my lady.'
'I've seen them.'
Pretty girls in floaty robes holding up Marcia's tomb for posterity, they were brilliantly sculpted, considering the man was a fraud. He might be Greek, he might well come from Myceanae and, hell, Paris might even be the sculptor's real name — but he wasn't 'the' Paris. That's why he'd avoided meeting prominent people at the banquet. Rome, at least wealthy, influential Rome, was a relatively small world, and word would quickly spread that he was too young/too blond/ too heaven-knows-what to be the genuine article. Which wasn't to deny Paris his talent. That fourth nymph along he'd given deep dimples, another one had been assigned a cute little snub nose, while the caryatid he was working on now, the one with the huge eyes, he'd endowed with arguably the most curvaceous legs any woman could hope to put on show for eternity… Oh, sweet Janus. Claudia turned a bloodless face to her bodyguard's.
'Those aren't imaginary women holding up the roof, are they?'
'No, my lady' His face was ashen as well. 'They're real.'
She hadn't known the root-cutter's flighty young wife or met the young basket-weaver or known the girl who'd churned cheeses. But Brigetia, the tanner's daughter, had deep dimples, had she not? And didn't the sister of the man who made millstones have a snub nose? Of course, they could be coincidence. Features that any brilliant sculptor might add to give his caryatids the individuality that lifted his work above the average.
But the girl Paris was chipping away at now, the girl with the big black eyes and the curvy thighs, was no coincidence. That was Zina. And all Claudia could think of was how Marcus would take the news that the boatbuilder's daughter was dead.