Scorpion Rising

by Marilyn Todd

  Absently watching half a dozen tearful women slip away as Beth whispered instructions to a stony-faced Swarbric, images floated before her.

  For one more moment, Sarra was still trailing her spray of white roses down the path behind her ...

  Blushing furiously, but unable to meet Pod's eyes ...

  Timing her walk so that she'd bump into the young woodsman ...

  Through the thick sticky heat, Claudia saw the shine on the girl's long, silky hair. The even longer kiss the lovers had exchanged. The grass stains she and Sarra had laughingly removed from the girl's pale pink robe. At least Sarra's last hours had been happy, she thought, and dammit there was something in her eye that was making it water, and she just could not rub the bloody thing out.

  While deep within the Cave of Resurrection, the spirits that buzzed like invisible bees guided a gentle soul down to the Underworld.

  Nineteen

  Midsummer for the Druids was also significant. Oak priests themselves and intermediaries of the gods, the sun was the fire from which all life began and Bel was the sun god, 'the Shining One', the god of light, and it was at midsummer that 'the Horned One', Hu'Gadarn, god of the underworld, died in the fire and was reborn on the winter solstice.

  Light and fire.

  Light and fire, that was the point, except this year they could not make their sacrifice in the fire, and the omens they read in the sky and in the entrails of beasts were not good.

  With the wicker man standing empty and silent, the Druids cast runes then passed round the Keys of Wisdom written on yew, for yew was the tree of eternity. And as the Keys passed in silence from hand to hand, the air was heavy with foreboding. Human sacrifice was vital to maintain the balance of life and continue the thread of eternity. Quite simply, it was one life, good or bad, exchanged for another. It was the symbol of redemption and peace.

  Without it, the gods would not be pleased. They would punish the Gauls for this terrible slight. Their insult would not be overlooked.

  In the runes, the Druids saw cattle ailing, crops failing, they saw disaster and ruin, hunger and despair - and why? Why should this be? they asked themselves.

  But the answer lay there. Written on yew. The Keys of Wisdom told them the reason. Rome sacrificed humans in the arena. They sacrificed men to wild animals in the name of execution, and if possible, so would the Druids. In fact, none of the present Council could recall a single instance

  where a criminal had not been burned at midsummer. It had always been their favoured method of execution, and keeping the offender alive for the wicker man had always been their preferred choice. A life for a life, in Rome and in Gaul. It was the sacred and eternal balance again.

  Except now—

  Thanks to fifty women the cycle was broken, the thread had been cut; no wonder the gods' anger was building. The Druids did not understand how Rome, whose dominion stretched for thousands of miles, could be fooled by a handful of simpering nature priestesses to the extent that the whole structure of Gaulish religion was crumbling. How could Rome possibly not see the damage these women were causing?

  Until someone in their administration had marked out a territory and named it Aquitania (which it wasn't), the Druids had been left in peace. And though Rome might have called their headhunting and wicker men barbarous, they had not outlawed the practice until recently. Shortly after Santonum was chosen as the province's capital, as it happened, and how strange that the College of the Hundred-Handed was close by!

  Staring at the Keys of Wisdom, the Druids knew the reason.

  Rome, no strangers to sacrifice, for they themselves pitted grazing beasts against lions in the arena, had been bewitched by the Hundred-Handed into practising double standards. The Druids hadn't wanted to believe the rumours, but now they were left with no choice. The evidence was laid bare for everyone to see. The Hundred-Handed were not nature priestesses who advocated peace. They were witches. Witches, who'd sucked the minds of the Romans clean: and there was only one cure for witchcraft.

  Burning.

  No other method would eradicate their insidious evil, and it was no use turning to Rome for assistance. Rome was already under their spell. No, no, the Druids must act independently in this matter - and they knew exactly who they must contact. A young warrior, who'd been shunned by his tribe for speaking out against Rome. A young warrior with an army in waiting.

  Most importantly, the Druids agreed, they needed to act swiftly, before any further damage was done.

  Like wasps, burning the nest was the only solution.

  The whole thing must be destroyed.

  High on the hill, the young warrior breathed on his ring then buffed it up on his shirt. There was no sunlight to make the silver shine, but the fact it was round his finger was enough. Engraved on it was the symbol of everything that he stood for, and he smiled.

  He had whispered his poison into the Druids' ears and the Druids had drunk every drop. And now that they'd been barred from sacrificing the wicker man, it would not be long now before they called on his services. He, and the Saviours of Gaul, were prepared.

  Staring out across the valley, he thought about the other whisperings he had put about.

  Some were true - the Druids' dissension, for example -which would force Rome to confront the wily old priesthood on their intentions regarding the Hundred-Handed, knowing full well that the Druids would not admit weakness in the presence of their oppressors. This would lead nicely to a climate of lies and distrust, which would then swing a good many don't-knows in his own favour.

  Some of the rumours were deliberately untrue, including the notion that the men who'd tried to assassinate the Governor had been hired by one of his own trusted generals. The Whisperer had no doubt that the craven little cowards would have been quick to confess that they'd been given their orders directly by the Scorpion's deputy, Ptian. That wasn't the point. A seed of doubt had been sown, and no matter how small, that seed was strong enough not to blow away. Rome already knew it had harboured informants within its own walls - why not something even worse? It wasn't a case of not believing the lies. More a case of not wanting to believe them. And these things mattered, if the beehive was to be set buzzing. The more emotional unrest that could be created, the better.

  He watched a rabbit sniff the hot sticky air and wished he'd had his bow with him. One arrow and he'd have that

  coney roasting over his camp fire, slathered with hot oil and mustard. Not that he was hungry, of course. There had been enough food at the revels to feed his army for weeks, but tempted as he was to stash some away, he resisted. People would notice. Beth would notice. Nothing escaped that bitch's eye.

  Which brought him to the other rumours he had spread. The ones that were neither true nor false, but somewhere in between. Like the Aquitani were primed to attack, for example. He'd had it put about that they were planning an uprising at the peak of midsummer, he'd leaked places, numbers, as much information as he could, knowing Rome would have to follow up but equally knowing their heart wouldn't be in it. Stretch a bowstring too tight for too long and it ceases to remain taut. In this case, the bowstring was Rome. They'd been led on so many wild-goose chases now that they really didn't believe it could happen. To them, war was something to be conducted from spring through to autumn, and already they were growing complacent. He'd seen for himself how the forces were growing thinner each time one of these rumours sent them hither and thither, and complacency suited the Saviours of Gaul. For the Aquitani, fighting for freedom and their very survival, there was no 'season for war'. Their lives at stake, their territories, their families, their whole way of life. And Rome expects them to stick to fucking rules? The Whisperer spat. Let them. Let them grow slack. Then when the Saviours of Gaul strike late, and at targets they won't be expecting, the bastards won't know which way to turn.

  Ah, but afterwards! The warrior felt the excitement of battle run through his veins, as exciting as - no, more than - sex. He saw the Druids restored to the glo
ry they once had. He saw them august, respected, strong and revered, and it would all be thanks to one man! Under a free Gaul - his Gaul - they would be exempt from tithes and would once more become the priests, judges, teachers, physicians and philosophers they were destined to be.

  He would restore the wicker man, too. The wicker-man sacrifice that was designed to show power. To show strength. That would give the gods the blood they needed to grow

  stronger again, and the right gods, this time. Not some stupid fucking nature lore spun by some bloody priestesses. Man's lore. In a mans world. Where women knew their bloody place.

  And he thought, what a sweet, sweet moment that was. Standing on the edge of that glade earlier watching the dwarf's dim-witted bastard blubbering over that wishy-washy little blonde cow. Did he think no one knew what they did in that glade, those two? He sneered, remembering how he'd seen them himself only yesterday afternoon. Her with skirts up round her waist, dirty slut, sucking the power out of another poor sod. And now she was dead. Butchered like a boar with her blood soaking the ground and did he care? Fuck no. Good riddance to bad rubbish, that's what he thought, and even better, this second murder would have the HundredHanded jumping at every damned shadow.

  The Whisperer rubbed his hands in delight. The bitches won't feel safe anywhere in their own grounds now, and that was perfect for the Whisperer's plans - and oh yes, he had plans.

  Several plans.

  With another poised to spring into action right now.

  Twenty

  You look sad,' a voice murmured in Claudia's ear.

  She recognized it at once. As soft and smooth as his deerskin pants, Manion's tones were the only distinctive aspect about him.

  'You don't,' she replied. 'You look like the cat who's found the lid's off the cream dish.' Smug wasn't the word. 'Well, you know how it is.'

  He flexed his muscles with a comical gesture before leaping the stream to join her, where she'd been staring at the place where the river gushed out of rock, thinking about Sarra and Pod. Another time and the sun would have alerted her to his presence with a shadow. She wondered how long he'd been standing there. Watching.

  'Strength and endurance, it's what this festival is all about, isn't it?' he asked with a wink, and now that he was standing close she could smell perfume on his shirt, and a faint hint of nutmeg beneath.

  'Every man must do his duty?'

  'Exactly,' he said. 'And this is the only job in the world where the mistress keeps a dog but still can't bark herself 'Woof, woof.'

  He settled beside her, facing the waterfall, and ran his hand over his closely cropped hair. 'Why don't you tell me what troubles you, my lady. I find sadness is always best when it's shared.'

  'I think everyone's sharing this sorrow, Manion. Or doesn't it touch you that a young girl has been butchered?'

  'Dead?' he rumbled. 'Another one?'

  And she could almost believe he hadn't heard, if it wasn't for those unfathomable eyes. Neither green nor blue, but

  somewhere in between. Why did she have a feeling she'd seen them before?

  'No wonder you're worried,' he said, breathing on the seal ring that had been noticeable by its absence yesterday. 'It's clearly not safe for a woman to be out alone.'

  As he polished the silver against soft yellow deerskin, Claudia caught a glimpse of an engraving. It looked like an animal or perhaps a sideways figure-of-eight, but when he caught her looking, he twizzled it round so only the whorls on the other side of the band were on show. And she thought of the water that rushed out of the rock, and the other river that ran inside the hill. How many other rivers had made torrents through these hillsides? Eroding the soft limestone as they churned, leaving caverns and caves by the score? She thought of the people, long faded from history, whose hands left prints and art on the walls. We are all just memories, she thought dejectedly. And wished she could believe, like the Gauls, that one soul passed to another in time. That life was eternal and good.

  'I'm used to being on my own,' she told Manion. It was the truth. 'I actually prefer it that way.'

  'Do you?' Either the wind had sprung up or he was leaning so close that her hair moved with his breath. 'Do you really prefer being on your own?' he whispered. 'Or are you just frightened of letting a man in?'

  'Frightened?' she laughed. 'My dear Manion, I eat men between slabs of bread with my supper. The male of the species doesn't scare me at all.'

  'Men, no, but a man? One man? The right man, perhaps?'

  Something flipped over inside.

  'I don't need anyone.'

  'Your scars run deep, then, my lady.'

  His voice was husky with something she did not recognize. It might have been desire. Then again, it might have been laughter. Or pain.

  'You fear abandonment, which is why you will not -perhaps cannot - trust a man enough to let him into your heart. Am I right?'

  'Does it matter?' she retorted. 'The fact that you think you know me seems enough for your ego. Colossal isn't the word.'

  'Now you're getting prickly, because I'm close to the mark. Too close for your comfort, it seems. But I'm right, am I not? My lady,' he added. 'That to win Claudia Seferius, a man must first win her trust?'

  'Define trust,' she snapped. 'It's just an empty word meaning all things to all men, and I really have no time for the stuff.'

  'Who abandoned you, I wonder? Your father? Your mother—?'

  'None of your business!'

  'Oh, dear me. Both.'

  He leaned forward and dabbled his fingers in the cascade, then held the drips to Claudia's lips. She spat them away.

  'Because your parents left you, and I'm guessing through death when you were still very young, you carry within you a morbid fear of being abandoned by someone else that you love.' He licked the water off his own fingers. 'That's dangerous.'

  She wanted to respond. She wanted to hit him, kick him, punch him on the nose, but the problem was, he was right.

  'It's dangerous, because you end up pushing those people who care for you so very hard that it eventually drives them away—'

  'Show me your ring.'

  Whatever he was expecting, that wasn't it. His eyebrows arched in surprise. 'Now that's my little secret.' He sprang to his feet and the expression in his aquamarine eyes was serious. 'Tomorrow, perhaps. Tomorrow when we share other confidences, but now I fear I must leave you. Death or not, the revels have to go on.'

  'And even a sex slave must play his part.'

  'I didn't ask for the job,' he said evenly.

  Oh, but you did, Manion, I think you did. He'd adapted too quickly, just like Orbilio had. The question is, why would someone deliberately plant himself in the slave auction for the Hundred-Handed to buy? What was it inside this wretched College that Manion needed so badly?

  No birds moved in this hot, sticky morning, only the butterflies over the flower-filled meadows and the soothing rasp of the crickets. And for a man who had work to do, he

  seemed in no hurry to leave. Once again, she wondered why he'd sought her out.

  'But to answer your question,' he murmured, 'trust is when the same man is always behind you, to catch no matter how often you fall.' He grinned. 'Just thought you might like to know.'

  And with that he loped off up the hill, leaving Claudia's thoughts churning like a river bed after the storm, and her heart as heavy as lead.

  It was only after he'd gone that she realized that the scent on his shirt was white roses. The same type that Sarra liked to collect.

  Around the Field of Celebration, revellers rose, stretched and broke their fast. Glancing at the sky, their disappointment at cloud cover on such an important occasion was understandable, yet it was a different emotion entirely that consumed the congregation. Confusion. Try as she might to contain the panic among both priestesses and initiates from this second violent death, she was powerless to prevent the shock and horror registering on their faces.

  'Pass the word,' she signalled to the other
four on the dais. 'There will be no show of public emotion.'

  'Agreed,' Dora signed back. 'We cannot allow the contagion to spread.'

  Beth looked round at the tears, the clenched jaws, bloodless cheeks and tightly wrung hands that were the universal symptoms of grief. It would not be easy, Sarra was a delightful and popular girl, but duty was duty. Nature was constant, the Hundred-Handed was constant. They stood firm in calm and in storm.

  'Sarra would still be alive if you hadn't insisted on not moving with the times.' Fearn rounded on the Head of the College. 'This is your fault and you know it.'

  'And how might that be?' Dora's face darkened with anger.

  'If you didn't forbid us to marry, prevent us from leading normal lives, people wouldn't be pushed into abnormal situations and I tell you, Sarra would still be alive.'

  'Rubbish!' The Oak Priestess was one step away from

  slapping her face. 'Her murder has nothing to do with adherence to tradition—'

  'Ladies!' Beth fought for control. 'Ladies, we are all distraught, but whatever our personal feelings right now, it is Sarra who should be uppermost in our thoughts.'

  'Quite right,' Luisa signed, sniffing back tears. 'Poor girl, no one deserves to die in such a terrible way.'

  'Best not to dwell on that side of things, dear.' A plump arm encircled the Rowan Priestess's shoulders. 'I'm sure Sarra would not have suffered.'

  Ailm snorted. 'Of course she suffered. Terrified and alone, she died in agony, let's at least be clear on that point.'

  'Your bluntness isn't helping,' Beth told Ailm firmly. 'Now once again, ladies, must I remind you that our private emotions are not for public display? This is midsummer, and if there is ever a time when we need to stand shoulder to shoulder and exude the strength, courage, stability and endurance that we preach in its name, then that moment is now.'

  For a beat of three, emotions wrestled with duty. As always, duty won.