Corsican Shepherd’s Choice

Paulu looked up from his crouched position as the men obediently melted away, leaving an older man alone with him in the stone circle around the altar. The man was looking somewhat amused. He wasn’t tall and he was chunky in build, but he looked powerful. He was both distinguished looking, with well-cut salt-and-pepper hair, and an expensive-looking silk sweat suit, and rough looking. His face looked like it had been battered from time to time in street fighting but that he hadn’t gotten the worst of the fights. His nose had been broken—probably more than once—but on him it was a roughness that exuded power, danger, and mystery. When he opened his mouth in a smile, his teeth were perfectly aligned. Another sign that he was wealthy. They had probably set him back more money than Paulu’s family made in a year.

The jacket of his sweats was open, revealing a heavily muscled barrel chest, covered with black, curly hair. A gold medallion on a thick gold chain hung around his neck. He also had heavy rings on his beefy, long-fingered right hand, the biggest of the rings on his middle finger.

He moved slowly over to the altar, picked up Paulu’s sheepskin tunic, and leaned down and handed it to Paulu.

“Put your trousers and this back on and come with me. You look like you need some strong wine.”

Paulu uncoiled, reached over for his trousers at the base of the altar, and rose. He clothed himself, all the time carefully watching the man, who smiled benevolently back at him.

“I am Don Carlo,” the man said while he watched Paulu dress. “Those were my men. I live down near Calvi and we were out for an afternoon on the mountainside. They won’t be bothering you. They have other activities that will keep them busy. Come back with me to where the wine is.”