The third candle had burned two-thirds of the way down, and Orbilio had learned something new.
The Forty Sacred Cuts was not a ritual the Druids liked rushed.
He forced his mind to go to another place. Another time. Anywhere, please god, except here…
The blade was gleaming in the sunlight, as the bastards intended, but ignore it. Rise above them. Think about something else. Anything. Herbs. Think of the herbs. In those quantities, the combination of catmint, clover, marsh tea and bay heaped on the smoking fire could conjure the very egg that hatched from Chaos at the dawn of the world. Once you mixed them with hemp and coriander seeds, as was happening here, the effect was hardly surprising, and had they been Roman priests it would be the Olympians the Druids would be talking to in the forest. The Egyptians, of course, would be welcoming Isis and Osiris to their table, the Assyrians would be paying homage to Mylitta and Asshur, and no doubt the
Sabaean Arabs would be bringing down the sun, the moon and the stars. Indeed, such herbs had kept the Delphic Oracle in gold, so for Orbilio to see his own family massed in the clearing was hardly surprising.
His mother, wincing as each slash of the knife burned his body. I love you, son.
His brother, shaking his head with that same degree of told-you-so smugness he'd worn from early childhood. Didn't I warn you about joining the Security Police?
His father. For Croesus' sake, if you couldn't be a lawyer or continue the family name, couldn't you at least have died honourably on the fucking battlefield?
Uncles, cousins, aunts and siblings clustered closer, some of them living, some of them dead, but every one of them censuring him. Marcus shook the runnels of blood from his eyes. He forced his mind away from the pain to concentrate on what little understanding he had of hallucinogenic herbs. How people see not so much what they want to see, but what they have been conditioned to expect. Which probably explained why the one face he longed for wasn't in the crowd.
As the point of the knife danced under his skin, it was Claudia's name that went round in Orbilio's head.
But the word he screamed out was as primeval as the dark, silent forest.
When confronted by absolute perfection, trivia such as the noise of the tracker dogs and the relentless glare of the sun was blocked out. Concentrating on the chisel that was an extension of his own hand, the Watcher transformed straight Gaulish locks into tight Roman curls, which he tied up in a neat Roman ribbon. Just the one. Only married women, like the second caryatid in the line, were permitted to wear the double band.
Chipping away as he decided the ribbon should be painted the same vibrant green as her gown, Paris reflected on the improvement that long, flowing robes made compared to the short Santon skirt. They lent an air of maturity and elegance that had been stifled by the garish colours and deep fringe, yet retained every ounce of her feminine vibrancy.
'You are lovely,' he whispered, glancing along the line. 'You are all lovely, Women of Caryae. You are the most beautiful women in the world and nothing can taint you now.'
'Immortal and immortalized,' a woman's voice said. 'Plucked in the rosebud of life.'
For a moment, Paris was confused. The voice. Had it come from inside his head? Surely his caryatids were not so alive that they could speak? Then he realized there was someone standing beneath his ladder, and his pulse raced at the sight of this specimen of physical perfection.
'You guessed,' he said sadly, descending the ladder. 'What a pity. Such a terrible waste.'
'Why? Aren't I good enough to join the line-up?'
'Not good enough?' Paris laughed. 'With those flashing eyes and wayward curls you are perfect. You have no idea how often I've imagined sculpting your perfect cheekbones and sensual lips.'
'But?'
The chisel turned in his hand.
'But,' the Watcher sighed, 'I could not place you among my Women of Caryae, any more than I could risk the slave girls from the villa being recognized, or Stella, or-'
'Stella's alive?'
Paris shrugged. 'Why wouldn't she be? To have her face smiling proudly from Marcia's tomb would be to undermine a whole lifetime's work-'
'There have been others before this?'
'You sound shocked.'
As his foot touched the ground, he employed the same reassuring smile he'd used on the others when he'd chosen his moment. So easy, too. All it needed was a charcoal and parchment. Would you think it an awful liberty if I sketched you? Everyone knew Paris — the Paris, no less — created statues in human likeness. Who could resist the ultimate in flattery?
'Yes, Claudia, there have been others.'
Without charcoals or paper he would have to rely on the sex appeal he deliberately cultivated. Tossing his head, he waited for the hair to flop back into place. Sun-bleached hair that accentuated his bronzed skin and solid muscles. Muscles that could so easily wrap round a girl's chin, lifting her body clear of the ground…
'Beauty is all around us and, thanks to me, it remains timeless.'
He tossed down the chisel and enjoyed the surprise that flared up in her eyes. What a waste, he had said, and he meant it. Not to have donated such perfection to posterity was nothing short of a crime, and there was no chance of using her in Marcia's garden now, either, where her beauty could have been sustained through the centuries. All the same, he could not bring himself to tarnish perfection. That was the job of rats and maggots. For a man whose life had been dedicated to female excellence, Paris was determined not to keep to his usual methods. Hand round chin to cover her mouth and then, while the body was off the ground, thus powerless to scream or leave traces of struggle, the fingers of his other hand were free to ram up her nostrils. As always, though, death takes its time. Each caryatid fought like a wildcat, but a sculptor's hands are strong, his patience legendary. He ensured they died without blemish or flaw.
'Worry cannot shrivel their unlined faces,' he told her. 'The pains of growing old and enduring hardship has been removed, and in their place I have given them perpetual peace, whilst ensuring their beauty remains eternal.'
'You — excuse me, but I need to make quite sure I've got this right. In killing these girls you've done them a favour?'
'You seem surprised.'
'Actually, Paris, I think you're the one in for a surprise. Ready, boys?'
For a man who spent so much time watching, it astonished him how three men — the Gaul bodyguard, Qeb and Hor — could spring out of nowhere without him even having been aware of their presence.
'You bitch!' he screamed, as rough hands tied him up. 'You dirty, double-dealing, distracting bitch!'
'I will accept that as the perfect compliment,' she replied.
As more herbs were tossed on the Druids' fire, so the hallucinations increased. There was the Governor of Aquitania standing alongside his boss from the Security Police, both bemoaning the lack of stamina in employees these days. Even Orbilio's old nurse had appeared, and, hell, she'd died before he'd turned eight.
I told you to eat your parsley, Marcus. It makes your blood strong.
He wanted to take issue with that. It seemed to him that his blood was strong enough, judging from its copious donation.
'The gods take heart from your courage, Marcus Cornelius Orbilio.'
Vincentrix's sepulchral tones overrode the stridency of the long-dead nurse and Orbilio tasted blood and sweat on his tongue as another exhausted candle was removed from the spike. Once a new one was lit, soft cloths began blotting at his wounds and his brow was sprinkled with water.
'The Horned One is especially pleased with the sacrifice you are making-'
'Go to hell.'
'Defiance is good. It shows spirit and guts, and the gods commend me for the choice of sacrifice.'
'Tell me, Vincentrix, is it art you're making on my body, or are you merely marking me out for a chessboard?'