Highlander - Donna Lettow [11]
Constantine seemed a bit relieved that MacLeod approved. “Recognize this one?” he asked, pointing to one of the artifacts “floating” in the case on hidden wires.
A Celtic torque gleamed in the case’s spotlight, the golden terminals at the ends of the elaborate neckpiece clasped together to form a delicate ring, finely wrought and crafted by artisans whose skills had rarely been equaled. “Ceirdwyn’s?”
“How’d you guess? She rarely lets it out. I nearly had to pry it off of her. You should have seen the look she gave me when I asked if I might borrow her sword, as well.”
“She brought it out when her husband Steven was killed.”
Constantine looked grim. “Sad business, that.” He was silent for a moment, then went on. “The Celts were such an amazing people, Duncan. You should have seen them—they were passionate, they were spontaneous. They loved life with a gusto I’d never thought was possible. And then the Romans came through and we made them…” Constantine seemed at a loss for the right words.
“English?” MacLeod ventured with a wicked grin, and they both laughed. He looked at the next item in the case. The footlong piece of iron was flat black next to the gleaming torque, maybe an inch in diameter, and marked only with a ring of rusty oxidation about halfway up the shaft. “What’s that?”
“Slave boy from the northern provinces was crucified by his Roman master because the master’s wife tried to seduce him.”
MacLeod looked more closely at the nail and shuddered. “Nasty way to die, even for one of us.”
“You should have seen the master’s wife.” Now it was Constantine’s turn to shudder. “Personally, I think crucifixion was the better part of the deal. The slave kept one of the nails as a souvenir. Sick sense of humor, if you ask me.”
MacLeod pointed out the empty section of the case. “So what goes here? A piece of the One True Cross?”
“Actually, that’s why I asked you to come by.”
Ah, here it comes, MacLeod thought. “Somehow I knew you wouldn’t make a lunch date just because you enjoyed the company, Marcus.”
Constantine, a little embarrassed, asked, “That transparent, am I?”
MacLeod smiled. “Whatever I have is yours. You know that.” He looked around the room. “But I don’t know what I have that would fit in with all of this.”
“Paul Karros’s sword?”
“Karros?” MacLeod was intrigued.
“I tried to locate him and found out you had…taken care of him, as it were. I thought you might have kept the sword. It was a gladius, an iron short sword, beautiful piece of work. He used it during the Spartacan revolt, you know. He was Thracian, like Spartacus, trained as a—”
“I know, trained as a gladiator to fight in the Roman games. He must have told me a thousand times,” MacLeod explained.
“Really? I didn’t realize you were that close.”
“We were once,” MacLeod said quietly, and Constantine needed no further explanation. They’d all been there.
“So you do have the sword?” Constantine asked eagerly.
MacLeod nodded. “I know where I can get my hands on it. Tuesday soon enough?”
“Perfect. The exhibition opens on Wednesday.” Constantine looked pleased. “Well, that was simple enough—and I didn’t even have to spring for lunch,” he added with a devilish look at MacLeod, who thought he could almost detect a small gleam of victory in his eyes.
“Uh-uh, not so fast,” MacLeod said, shaking his head. “You still owe me, Marcus. And this time I pick the restaurant. I don’t think we’ll be welcome at Chez Nous again.”
“What did you do, Duncan?” Constantine scolded with