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A hint of worry appeared in Bericus' face. She pushed her slight advantage. "Of course I speak in riddles! Tell me"—she advanced on him and felt a savage delight when he gave way a step—"what women speak in riddles, Publius Bericus? What women see the fears behind a man's eyes when he comes to them for guidance?"
Bericus' face began to lose what little color it normally possessed.
"You begin to wonder, do you not? A sale made in haste. The slave too unusual to offer on the open market. Where did Caelerus steal me, Bericus? Why did he advise you to keep me drugged? Why does he fear my tongue, my wrath so deeply?"
"Who are you?" His voice came out hoarse and strangled.
She drew herself to her full height, standing so tall she matched him in height. The breath she drew was as much for courage as for dramatic projection.
"I am called sibyl, you little fool!"
"You lie!" The denial ripped from him. His face had taken on a waxy pallor.
"Mother Cybele as my witness, Bericus, I am Sibyl. If you dare to violate what is sacred to the Magna Mater of all Rome, the Great Goddess Cybele herself, the very earth will roar and cover your abomination with fire and death!"
Bericus clutched at the table.
Behind her, a single set of handclaps broke the silence. Sibyl whirled, badly startled.
Tony Bartlett stood in the shadows.
Oh, God, no...
"Very entertaining, my dear Aelia," he called out. "Bericus, my good friend, her performance seems to have moved even you." Bartlett strolled out into the su
Son-of-a—
Sibyl clenched her fists, knotted with rage and terror.
"I told you she was talented, Bericus. When I first captured her off that godsforsaken island where her tribe lives, she told me her father was a wizard. Said he would change me into a turtle if I did not return her at once." Bartlett chuckled and held his arms out to either side. "I seem to have suffered no lasting harm."
"You filthy snake!" she hissed in English, too angry to care any longer.
His eyes widened, then narrowed savagely.
"Furthermore," he continued darkly, "she needs to be taught a few civilized ma
Bericus passed a shaking hand across his eyes and pushed himself away from the support of the table.
"Then this prophecy—"
Bartlett threw back his head and laughed. Sibyl wanted to smash her fists into his teeth. She wondered how far she'd get if she made a break for it. Probably about as far as Quintus....
"Bericus," Tony Bartlett was saying smoothly, "how often does the earth shake here? It's been shaking now and again all week. Of course she felt the tremors. And some slave probably told her about the shock that damaged the Temple of Jupiter in Pompeii a few years ago."
Bartlett brushed the nape of her neck with his knuckles. Sibyl jerked away from the caress. "Don't touch me!"
His smile promised pain and terror.
"She is very clever. And very convincing. And an incurable liar." He shrugged. "Perhaps you will be able to discipline her sufficiently to break her of the habit."
Bericus' eyes began to glint. He licked his lips and eyed her with greater interest.
Bartlett shrugged again. "If the earth does roar, it will be far more likely the Goddess Herself is outraged at such a contemptible deception. And from a mere barbarian slave chit, at that."
Where'd you learn Latin, Bartlett? Your accent's good. Who the hell are you?
Bericus still wasn't convinced. "But if she is telling the truth—"
"You've been up the coast to Cumae, Bericus, to consult the sibyls. Ask her the name of the current high priestess. Ask her simply to describe the woman."
She was trapped. Bartlett knew it and smirked.
"Out with it, girl!" Bericus snapped.
Tears stung Sibyl's eyes. She had to look away from Tony Bartlett's gloating expression.
"Go ahead, little sibyl," Bartlett urged. "Tell your master what he wants to know."
Now would be a very good time for Vesuvius to erupt... . "Her name is Flavia," Sibyl said steadily, giving it a wild shot in the dark.
Bericus narrowed his eyes. "And her appearance?"
"Small, slender," Sibyl answered carefully, giving a general description of the Mediterranean type, "dark..."
Bericus hit her. Sibyl landed in a flower bed. She'd never been slugged in her whole life. Her entire head rang. Dread of another blow made her cringe. Above her, Bericus snapped, "The high priestess of Cumae is a horse-faced crone, taller than you are, and uglier than my wife. As you say," he told Bartlett, "an incurable liar."
When she dared look, Bericus' eyes were glittering. Sibyl held back a whimper. Ru
"I will return to my rooms now, my good friend, and prepare for my journey. Enjoy your new pet."
She listened to his footsteps die away into silence. Listened to Bericus' breath quicken. Listened to the sound of her heartbeat banging at her eardrums... .
Then Bericus closed his hands brutally around her arms.
Chapter Eleven
Close to an hour after he set out, Charlie found a good spot to lie up and scout out Bericus' villa. A stand of wild oak trees crouched on an outcropping above a quiet grove of olives just above Bericus' villa. Jupiter's sacred trees gave Charlie plenty of cover and a good, unrestricted view of the whole valley.
Bericus' villa lay a couple of miles from Vesuvius' summit and at least another two miles line-of-sight from Herculaneum. By road, town was much farther; the road snaked around the flank of the volcano, taking the easiest route. Part of the way, the rutted lane actually headed for the interior of the Italian peninsula. Given his druthers, Charlie would've headed that way—fast.
Instead, he scouted out the villa and tried to come up with a sound plan of attack. Behind him, Silver grazed contentedly under the trees, tearing audibly at the deep, rich grass with strong teeth. Charlie envied the horse his easy meal. As a precaution, he'd tied the long reins to a stout branch.
He observed activity around the villa for several minutes, getting a feel for normal "traffic" and waiting for inspiration to strike. Unfortunately, it didn't seem to be striking anywhere near him. High above his hiding place, Vesuvius loomed like somebody's bad idea of a gothic novel cover. Charlie could feel constant tremors in the earth through his belly.
A feeling of extreme caution prompted Charlie to drag himself up and limp over to the horse. Earlier, he'd found long leather straps attached to the back of the saddle and finally figured out what they were for: hobbles. Charlie carefully fastened them to Silver's legs. The horse snorted, but offered no further protest. Feeling marginally better, Charlie returned to his observation post.
All quiet down there, not much activity near the house, except for a carriage which rattled away toward the distant town. There were three occupants. Charlie wished bitterly for a good pair of field glasses. He'd like to have known who was leaving. Tony Bartlett, making his escape? Probably. The bastard... With Tony went Charlie's hope of getting hands on Jésus Carreras in this—or probably any other—lifetime.
He turned his attention back to the silent villa. Unfortunately, there were plenty of people out in the fields, working the harvest. It was August. Scores of slaves had been dispatched into fields and orchards to gather the bounty. Goatherds and sheep tenders had driven their flocks out to the rich pasturelands, aided by wiry, alert little dogs. Charlie grumbled into the stubble of his beard. Dogs could be a serious problem.
The dogs weren't his only problem, however. Those slaves could be marshaled as a hunting expedition at a second's notice. Charlie hunkered down, belly flat under the ancient oaks, and made plans for—then discarded again—several approaches. After a moment, a wry smile tugged at his lips. Despite a healthy dose of fear, he had to admit one thing. Of all the stakeouts he'd ma