The Corpse with the Silver Tongue (8 page)

Beni took a final mouthful of wine as the waitress swapped our empty bottle for a full one, and brought fresh glasses. Very proper.

He smiled. He was regaining control and was more at ease. “Ah, I could speak about this piece for many hours, so I must try hard to not bore you. I can try to tell you the story briefly, if I may?” He raised his eyebrows and gestured with his hands by way of a query.

“Please, tell me. I'll enjoy every moment,” I said. With him to tell the tale, a second bottle of wine at my elbow, and my delicious mussels to savor I wasn't lying—every moment was going to be an
absolute
joy.

As he began to speak in his rich, low tones, with his delightfully formal vocabulary and fascinating accent, Beni carefully selected a strand of linguine and started to twirl it around the tines of his fork. Instead of stopping to eat it, he just kept twirling absently while he told me about the necklace that Alistair had intended to give to Tamsin for her birthday.

“It is a piece with a long and bloody history,” he began. “Maybe, after last night, it has another chapter. The necklace is written about in letters by a Roman centurion serving with the Second Augustinian Legion stationed in Isca Augusta, that is today called Caerleon, in the late part of the first century
AD
.”

I had to interrupt. “Do you mean Caerleon in
Wales
?” It seemed bizarre to be sitting in the south of France, with an Italian, talking about my homeland, Wales.

Beni nodded. “Yes, the Celts were very troublesome to the Romans, and they had major fortified encampments at both Caerleon and Chester.” Oh, the way he spoke those names—his rolling Italian “r's” seemed quite at home with the Welsh words. “Of course, the Roman defeat of Boudica allowed them to move the Second Augustinian Legion around the country, but by the end of the first century they were based in Wales. They stayed there for the next three hundred years then were moved north to build Hadrian's Wall.”

“Busy bunnies,” I observed, with a mouth full of bread soaked in delicious broth.

Beni smiled and took a mouthful of pasta. He paused to chew, then took a sip of wine, and continued.

“The centurion who was based in
Wales
—” when he smiled, his dimples were almost edible, “wrote to his brother, a merchant living in Rome, that he had taken a golden collar from the neck of a woman that he had killed in a skirmish. There were dozens of nameless battles like this at the time: the Celts would send out a raiding party to draw the Roman soldiers away from the security of their camp, then they would set upon them. It was a war that was fought in what we today call the ‘guerrilla' manner. The native population was, in many cases, treated well by the occupying forces, but resentment ran deep. Pockets of resistance were many and widespread. The letter from the centurion, itself, did not survive, but we have found references to it in the archives belonging to his brother's family, which moved here, to Cimiez. The archive is at the museum, which is why I know of it. What is interesting about this necklace is the specific way it was acquired, and what it might represent. You see, Cait—” Beni drew closer to me, and his tone became conspiratorial, “the necklace
might
be the only item ever found that gives the world physical evidence of the Druids.”

He was obviously deeply knowledgeable and passionate about his subject. I was puzzled. As he said the word “Druids” I visualized a man with a long beard, wearing a white robe, leaning against an oak tree and chanting to the moon. A bit like Gandalf from
The Lord of the Rings
. Or Getafix from the Asterix stories. I thought I knew a lot about Druids—but I decided I'd take the chance to find out if what I
thought
I knew had any truth in it.

“Um, Beni,” I hesitated: I knew I was on shaky ground, so I decided to give him a chance to fill me in. “Just because I was born and brought up in Wales doesn't mean that I know everything there is to know about Druids, although I've attended a few eisteddfods in my time. Don't we actually, I mean historically, know a lot about Druids? You know—oak trees, mistletoe, Stonehenge, full moon rituals—that sort of thing?”

Beni sipped his wine, refilled our glasses, and began to twirl his pasta once again. Then he stopped and pushed his food away. He lit a cheroot; he was obviously trying to assess how to proceed.

“You are an intelligent woman, Cait.” I thought that was a good opening, but suspected it meant he was about to treat me like a child.

“I've belonged to Mensa for about twenty years, so I suppose that means you're right,” I replied sharply.

“Ah, you are a
genius
,” mused Beni smiling through clouds of cheroot smoke.

“Oh come now, Beni.” I forced a smile to cover my embarrassment at trying to impress this man. “We're not having a conversation about my intelligence. You're telling me about the necklace that Tamsin was to be given. Are you saying that it was a
Druid
necklace? And, if so, what does that mean?”

Beni smiled. “You are correct, of course, Cait. I will continue, and I will trust you to keep up with me.” His smiled widened as he grinned openly. Wickedly. It was lovely. I mopped my mouth, glugged some wine, then lit up a cigarette. I sat quietly, mesmerized by the way his mouth moved as he spoke and the way he expressively threw his hands about in the air as he enlarged on the points he was making.

“The Romans, like Julius Caesar, and the Greeks who wrote about the Druids and their rituals, had their own political agenda: they demonized them, so we are not sure about the
real
life of the Druids at all. We do know, however, that on what is now called the Island of Anglesey, yes, in
Wales
—” he nodded graciously and smiled again, “there was a stronghold for the Druids, and the Second Augustinian Legion was sent there to break them, early in the first century
AD
. It was very a difficult time for the people on that island, and the Druids never forgot the brutality of this particular legion. Thus, it is said, the Druids made it their particular mission to defeat the Second Augustinian Legion by a process of attrition: they plotted and planned many of the raids on the legion that took place over the next hundred years or so. Indeed, many of the battles with this particular legion were seen as ‘holy battles' by those opposing the Roman occupation, their efforts being blessed by the Druids, and the Romans being cursed. For example, we believe that the Druids supported Boudica in her famous confrontations with the Romans, which the Second Augustinian Legion eventually won.”

Ah—Boudica! Good old Boudica! I'd read a lot about Boudica, or Boadecia as she'd been called when I was at school, because I loved the idea of a strong woman fighting and sometimes defeating an overwhelming enemy. I grew up in a poor household (you never know if you're poor or rich when you're little, do you—however you live, it's just ‘normal') where library books had been about the only thing I could have as many of as I liked, because they were free. I took full advantage. And so it went for the rest of my life, which, given my apparently unusual memory and my voracious appetite for knowledge, has led to my possessing a wide, if eclectic, range of knowledge gleaned from books. Unfortunately, quite a lot of my so-called knowledge has since proved to be completely wrong, because of new discoveries or reinterpretations of existing evidence. It
can
be confusing, especially when you're talking to an expert with up-to-date knowledge on the topic.

Rather than launch into an enthusiastic conversation about my childhood heroine, I thought I'd just let Beni get on with
his
story and not side-track him. I might discover that Boudica wasn't that wonderful after all; we all want our memories of our heroes to remain unsullied, don't we?

“The letter referred to in the archive tells the story of such a ‘holy battle,' and it seems it was a very bloody one. Many Romans were killed as they slept in what the locals believed was a sacred grove. Somehow the wine the soldiers drank had been drugged. The Druids were believed to be masters of mixing potions. They were the members of society who possessed knowledge about plants and herbs, and how they could be used to help or harm humans and animals, and drugging enemies was a popular method used to undermine forces. So this rings true.

“The soldiers could not fight back, their limbs were too heavy. Only those who had not drunk the wine the night before could fight back—or take flight to save themselves. This is what the letter-writer did, much to his shame. He wrote to his brother that it was this shame at having left his fellow soldiers that made him take vengeance on the first person he saw after he had fled the site of the massacre. He encountered a young woman who was bathing in a stream by moonlight, and singing. He was angered that she should be doing something so idyllic while his comrades lay dead and dying, so he attacked her, without warning or provocation. He wrote that he regretted his actions as soon as he drew his sword from her flesh. She lay dying in his arms, and, as he tried to staunch her blood, she begged him, in his own language, to cut off her head when she died and throw it into the stream—this way she would find peace and happiness in the afterlife.”

“It doesn't sound very peaceful or pleasant to have your head hacked off and tossed away,” I interrupted. Because it didn't. Of course, once you're dead, you're dead. That's it—as far as I'm concerned. Your corpse is still a biological wonder, no question about it, but it isn't something you're going to need again. (Mind you, I've still got the ashes of my mother and father sitting in two urns on my mantelpiece at home, so I guess I shouldn't labor the point too much.)

“Ah, but this is why it is an interesting story,” replied Beni sharply. His eyes were visible above the lenses of his sunglasses, and they were aglow with passion. While I might have wished it was for me, I knew it was for this story. I sighed and let him get on with it.

“From the various writings we have, and from our studies of the continuing Celtic belief systems that grew from this Druidic base, we believe that running water, moonlight, and the reciting or singing of mystical odes, or poems, were all very important to the Druids. We also know that women often had a role within the mystical life. The head was seen as the most important part of the body—many stories about how the spirit lives in the head, as opposed to any other part of the body, abound in Irish, Scottish, and even Welsh mythologies—but I assume you know this of your own history.” Charming though his smile was, I knew he was patronizing me.

I snapped back, “Well, I've read
The Mabinogion
, of course, and a few other pieces of medieval Welsh literature—but those are mythologies, not histories. There's a big difference, isn't there?” Whenever I'm feeling defensive I slip back into Welsh mode. In other words, I start asking rhetorical questions that don't assume the need for an answer. (In Wales almost every part of a conversation is wound up with “is it?” or “isn't it?” or “shall we?” or “didn't I?” or the ever popular “eh?” The “eh?” thing at least allowed me to fit right in when I moved to Canada.)

“Ah-ha!” replied Beni loudly, which made me start. “Yes, you understand our problem. What part of a mythology is based on a historical fact, and what part is pure fantasy? The word ‘myth' did not always mean something bad or made up and untrue, it has also been used at different times in history to mean ‘news' or ‘history' or even ‘a search for the inner truth.' What was viewed by a Victorian scholar as a ‘myth' might be a historical fact, or vice versa. You see that, yes?”

Fascinating though all this was, a full tummy, a light head, and the warmth of an early May afternoon were taking their toll, especially given the night I'd just had. I had to get Beni back on track or he'd never get to the important bits—the bits about Alistair, and how he came to have such a necklace.

“Would you like some coffee?” I asked. I thought it might help keep me focused.

“
A, si, buono,
” replied Beni, lapsing into his native tongue. He reached into the air, waggled his hand, and the waitress appeared, as if by magic. “Espresso for me, and for the lady, a cappuccino—”

“I'll take a double espresso, thanks,” I interjected. I knew what I wanted and it wasn't a cup of foam—I needed caffeine and I needed it strong and black!

As Beni waved to someone across the marketplace, I took my chance to steer the conversation back in the direction I wanted it to take.

“Beni—listen, if the Roman soldier took the necklace off a woman's body in Wales almost two thousand years ago, then how on earth did Alistair get his hands on it? I mean, I understand what you're saying, but, if it's so important, and old, and rare, why
isn't
it in a museum?”

“Oh Cait, it
should
be, this is what I am telling you. The soldier told his brother he did as the woman asked—he cut off her head and threw it into the stream—and he then wrote something that the brother's record is very precise about:
he said that the head spoke to him as it was carried away in the water
.”

He seemed to be waiting for some response. I obliged by raising my right eyebrow. I can raise either eyebrow, at a pinch, but I tend to let the right one do most of the work.

Beni appeared to realize that this was all he was going to get, so he continued. “The dead woman's head said that a curse would be upon the solider and his entire family until his bloodline had died out completely, that the necklace was magical and would kill everyone who owned it or wore it, unless they were of true Celtic blood.”

“Ah,” I nodded, “the dreaded Curse of the Celtic Collar.” I was pretty sure I'd loaded my voice with as much irony as possible. Beni nodded back. Earnestly. Oh dear. “So, what happened?” I continued, “I am guessing he took the necklace in spite of the curse, then met some horrible end?” Call me cynical, but that had to be where this story was going.