Enemies at HomeBook - 2014
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These two well-dressed women from ancient civilised provinces, Spain and Greece, regarded me as a wild barbarian since I came from Britain. Meline had a habit of teasingly calling me a druid. The Romans had invited, cajoled and coerced most gods of the Mediterranean into their city, no doubt to cover themselves in case the Olympic pantheon were not truly the tops. At no point had they brought the druids. Nor would they.
My mother once read me a poem about witches haunting this sinister spot under a lonely moon, a terrifying piece of work where cruel hags murdered a young boy: Horace, in spooky mode; he did it gruesomely. I was going through a mystic period at the time, a teen myself, in love with the supernatural without seeing its true menace. Now I despised horrors.
I was a grown woman. I could do what I liked. It wasn’t as if we had set fire to a scroll box of Virgil’s _Aeneid_ in order to fry a Lucanian sausage.
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