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"I don't believe you two have met," MacLeod heard Constantine say
as he returned. "Adam Pierson, this is—"
"Oh, we've met," MacLeod said as he saw Methos lounge in the doorway
of the study in his oversize pullover and grungy raincoat. The five-thousand-year-old
man was still playing at the perennial graduate student. "But I
didn't know you two knew each other."
Methos shrugged out of his raincoat and dropped himself down on
the settee. "It's hard to be a Classicist in Paris and avoid the
Big Kahuna of antiquities for very long."
"Glass of wine, Pierson?"
"I don't suppose you have anything that tastes like it was bottled
within this century? No, I didn't think so." He propped his Doc
Martens up on the coffee table and eyed MacLeod's snifter. "I'll
have whatever he's having."
Constantine handed Methos a glass of brandy, then pushed his feet
off the furniture. Returning to his seat near MacLeod, he said,
"Turns out, we'd met before. I helped him out of a little jam once."
"Marcus..." Methos said, a hint of threat in his voice. Constantine
gleefully ignored him.
"What was it? Thirty-four? Thirty-five? Our young friend here was
Remus, a slave in the household of one Valerius Petronius, Senator,
and the horrifying force of nature that was his wife, Druscilla."
"Marcus, I'm warning you..."
MacLeod was enjoying the show. He'd never seen Methos squirm quite
so much. "You were a slave?"
"It was all part of a plan," Methos said a little more petulantly
than he probably would have liked. "I was Valerius's advisor."
He put his feet back up on the coffee table with a loud thud and
a glare at Constantine.
"Druscilla the Emasculator, we called her. Wasn't man nor boy on
the Palatine Hill safe from her. Voracious she was, absolutely voracious.
And Petronius, that poor blind fool, had no idea what was going
on. Until the day the Emasculator set her sights on her husband's
trusted advisor."
"Look, Marcus, you got your bloody nail. Do you want a pound of
flesh now too?"
MacLeod was intrigued. "So what happened?"
Methos jumped in before Constantine could continue. "Same old ancient
saga. I certainly wasn't the first, you can look it up in Genesis
39 — I say no, she cries rape, dead slave, game over. End
of story, okay?"
"Well, not quite the end," Constantine added. "Luckily, Petronius
had a certain friend who heard about the incident and rescued young
Remus from the cross before he died too many times and helped him
out of the country."
"You never touched her?"
It was obvious the idea still horrified Methos. "Touch her? Are
you kidding? The woman had six inches and 150 pounds on me —
she came near me, I ran like hell. And because of her overactive
libido, Caligula became emperor in '37 instead of Petronius. All
that work wasted."
"Ah, my friend, but we who remained had to live with Caligula.
I think you got your revenge after all," Constantine noted.
Methos slumped back into the corner of the settee. "That's the
last time I got involved in politics, let me tell you."
"So that nail in the museum is yours?" MacLeod grinned with smug
satisfaction, knowing he had something he could hold over Methos
forever.
Methos knew it, too, and was less than pleased. "There, you see,
MacLeod, we've all got our crosses to bear. I hope you're happy.
Now, can we just move on? No amount of brandy is worth this abuse."
©1997 Warner Books, Inc. All rights reserved. Highlander:
Zealot by Donna Lettow. US $5.99 ISBN 0-446-60457-7
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