Scorpion Rising

Twelve

The rain had eased by the time Mavor's expert fingers began massaging Claudia's neck and shoulders with oils of fennel, thyme, cypress and marjoram, but thunder still growled round distant valleys. Clouds rolled in lower, and heavy. Typical midsummer storms, Claudia mused. But unlike Roman storms that trapped the heat and intensified the humidity, the temperature in this part of Gaul remained pleasantly temperate. Its proximity to the sea, she supposed.

Closing her eyes as Mavor kneaded and squeezed, her mind travelled away from these rolling, wooded hills fed by thousands of streams to the ocean that encircled the world. Bedevilled by whirlpools and demons, giant fishes and monsters, this watery universe was ruled by Oceanus the Titan, but what was this old man's parentage?

From the Darkness sprang Chaos, and from the union between them, Day and Air were created. From Day and Air, Mother Earth and the Sea were then born, and from Mother Earth and Air came forth the Titans. But so, too, did Anger, Strife, Vengeance and Fear, but always, yes always, it came back to Mother Earth. To the priestesses who preached peace through the worship of nature. But her grandchild — Oceanus's daughter — was none other than Nemesis, and Oceanus's own granddaughter was Venus herself. Venus, that oh-so-beau-tiful goddess of love, who rose from the ocean's foam surrounded by sparrows and doves, while the HundredHanded were universally beautiful and Mavor was the Priestess of the Birds 'I'm sorry, my dear, did I wake you?'

'No, no,' Claudia lied. 'Just drifting.'

Mavor took a step back and tapped her lip with her finger.

'I can't feel any change in you,' she said thoughtfully. 'Maybe I'll try a different treatment.'

'It's only been three days,' Claudia reminded her.

'Yes, but you should be showing some signs of improvement by now.'

'That pain in the neck seems to be under control.'

If Clytie's killer was among the male slaves, Orbilio would soon root him out.

'Possibly,' Mavor said, 'but my fingers aren't sensing a difference, suggesting your relief is merely psychological.'

When she reached up to pluck a bunch of downy wormwood hanging from a hook in the ceiling, the action accentuated the generous curve of her breasts. She laid the leaves on the hot stove with a sensuality she was probably unaware of.

'I think we should try moxibustion.'

'Does that have any connection with the word combustion?' Claudia asked warily.

'It does.'

'Then I think maybe we shouldn't try that.'

Because inventing a medical condition was one thing. Having it treated with burns was another.

'Nonsense.' A surprisingly firm hand pinned Claudia to the table. 'This will do your poor neck the world of good.'

'A noose would be quicker.'

And a damn sight more pleasant. No wonder wormwood deterred lice and beetles!

Mavor laughed. 'Don't tell me you'd rather suffer a painful spine than endure a tiny little unpleasant whiff! Now lie still, please. I want the heat to penetrate into your bones.'

Bones? It was penetrating the bloody table.

'Your boyfriend has a very high opinion of you,' Claudia said. 'Although not quite as high as the one he has of himself — are you all right?'

'The, er, oils on my fingers. Made the pot slip.' As she bent down to pick up the shards of the broken jar, there was a look of alarm — even panic — on Mavor's face, which she concealed, but not quickly enough. 'What did he say?' She tried to make the question sound casual.

'Basically that you were good in bed.'

'H-he said that?' Alarm was replaced by confusion.

'Not very gentlemanly conduct, I agree, but he also insisted that a man's hands are better suited to massage than a woman's, and suggested I speak to you for confirmation.'

Mavor let out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. 'Oh, you mean Swarbric'

Claudia recognized that sigh. She had let out a similar one, when he'd told her it was Ribolo…

'You may think it's because he wants to rub his hands over naked ladies, but actually he does have a point. I wouldn't disagree that men make better masseurs.' Mavor lifted the wormwood and replaced it with a new batch of heated leaves. 'And he blooming well ought to speak highly of me. I fixed his shoulder when it dislocated earlier this year, though between you and me, he yelped like a girl.'

The usual consequence of adding two and two together in a hurry, Claudia thought. Swarbric had been amused, because she'd used time as an excuse to leave, when the sun was patently obscured by the clouds. And when he said Mavor was good, he meant she was good — in her professional capacity.

Damn.

'Such an injury must need regular treatment,' she pointed out.

'Not at all.' Mavor pressed down lightly on the warm leaves. 'Luckily, I was able to treat the joint within minutes of the accident occurring and could keep him swaddled like a baby until the risk of ligament damage passed. That prevented any recurrence. Swarbric's as fit as a flea.'

Then why were you sneaking down to his hut? Why the alarm when I mention the word boyfriend? Why the relief when you know it's only Swarbric?

I know, the note on Claudia's table had read. I just cannot decide who to tell

Outside, the thunder rumbled that little bit closer.

'How well did you know Clytie?' she asked.

This time the reaction was no less pronounced. Except the emotion was cold rather than hot.

'Hardly at all,' Mavor said stiffly. 'She was still learning plant lore, which, on account of its complex medicinal aspect, takes a long time to master.'

'The birds and the bees come along later, then?'

The joke wasn't enough to soften the pinch to her sensuous lips. 'You will have to excuse me,' she said briskly. 'It's the solstice tomorrow and much preparation needs to be done for the ceremonies, but I need you to remain perfectly still to allow the after-effects of my manipulation to settle.' She notched a mark on a candle. 'Then I'd like you back here at dusk, please, so I can assess whether there's any change.'

There was change. Claudia's neck had never felt so stiff or uncomfortable.

'Before you go,' she said, 'as the Bird Priestess, does your protection extend to ravens as well?'

When Mavor opened the door, the flames on the candles angled forty-five degrees. 'My dear, I am responsible for all mother nature's feathered creatures.'

'Including the souls of your ancestors?'

Mavor's shoulders lost their stiffness. Her whole body slumped. 'Especially the souls of my ancestors,' she said hoarsely.

With the candles flickering, it was hard to tell. But Claudia could have sworn she was crying.

With the advent of rain, the birdlife of the forest burst into action. There was no need to shelter from the fierce rays of the sun now, or fear the shadow of predators. They were free to feast on the abundance of insects that were only yesterday flying too high to catch. Nestlings could start feeding themselves.

Watching this activity with his back to a birch beneath the palisade on the hill, a young man ran his finger down the spine of his arrow then trailed his nail over the cock feather. Thanks to his industrious agents, rumours were bubbling among the Druids faster than brews in a witch's cauldron and the mix was increasing in potency with every hour that passed. Again, thanks to his labours, tales were coming to their ears of men being reduced to blubbering simpletons after drinking the waters of the Hundred-Handed's sacred spring. Of virility being sapped, travellers disappearing, of clouds being conjured to cover the moon. See for yourselves, O Holy Ones. Cows, pigs, even horses are sickening without reason, as the Hundred-Handed cast their evil spells. Drunkards were being brought in from outside the area and thrown at the Druids' feet as evidence. The case was building nicely.

The Whisperer notched an arrow into his bow. A quail fluttered once then lay still.

'Bitch.'

A wood pigeon took off. He aimed at that. Another substitute priestess.

'Bitch.'

A jay next.

'Bitch.'

Then a crow.

'Bitch, bitch, bitch.'

But as his resentment grew, so his aim became weak. He laid down his bow. He must take care not to lose control, because leaders are strong, leaders are powerful, leaders are dedicated to their cause. He must not allow hatred to overshadow his judgement. This was war.

Glancing back towards the palisade, he thought of the tribes who embraced the Oppressors as allies and were genuinely indebted to the foreign troops who patrolled their borders. They kept our roads and our waterways free of bandits, they claimed, and if there were skirmishes to be fought, better their sons be mourned than our own. Really? How short their memories, the Whisperer thought. Don't they remember how their grandfathers had resisted Rome with a ferocity that had caught the invaders off guard? Their whole bloody army had proved no match for the Aquitani. A whole legion was cut down like rats in a run, while the soldiers Caesar sent to avenge them were also decisively routed.

What happened? he wondered. What had turned proud warriors into self-serving cowards?

What acid had rotted the heart of the Nation that was, until so very recently, a force to be feared?

What female poison made eunuchs of men?

The Whisperer adjusted the bandana round his neck and straightened the ring on his finger. So the Chieftains had allowed themselves to be seduced by profit and greed and then sold that concept to their own people! Who cared? Thank Lenus, there were enough patriots left who were willing to stand up for what they believed in.

Freedom.

Freedom to choose what wars they fought, choose who they died for, even who they paid their bloody taxes to, as well as the freedom to discipline women and children in their own home — and to hell with this bollocks about nature and peace, the Hundred-Handed had it coming.

Tower-sucking bloody bitches.'

The woodpecker flew on with its beakload of grubs, unaware of the arrow that thudded harmlessly into the trunk of an oak. The Whisperer swore, but lunch break was over. It was time to return to College business — paste on a smile — make all the right gestures — but not for much longer, thank Lenus! Replacing his bow beneath the overhang of rock, he wrapped his wrist grip in his bandana, tucked them both inside his quiver then concealed the lot with leaf litter and branches.

Damned bitches — he brushed the dirt off his hands — deserved everything they bloody well got, and closing his eyes, he pictured the flames of their thatches lighting the night sky. Imagined their screams carrying into the forest. Carrying, but where nobody heard… He would show them. He'd show them what women were really for. One after the other, after the other.

It was time to put an end to their power-sucking strategies.

It was time to give men their balls back.

'Can I tempt you with a honeycomb, my lady, now that the sun's pushed the clouds out of the way?'

A young man with a voice as smooth as the sweetmeat he was offering bridged the stream in one agile leap.

'Providing you join me,' Claudia said.

She recognized him immediately from the auction block yesterday, though for the life of her she couldn't say why. There was nothing about him that was particularly memorable. Average height, average build, even his eyes were neither green nor blue but some point in between, and, like the sea, always changing. But with his dark hair cropped short and the spring in his step, there was something compelling about this young man and it was easy to see why the Hundred-Handed had picked him. But not why he'd picked Claudia out 'With pleasure, milady.'

Perhaps it was a prerequisite of male slaves, but this one also wore pantaloons tighter than skin. Except whereas Swarbric had chosen fabric, these were cut from pale yellow deerskin. Soft, supple and smooth.

'Manion,' he said by way of introduction and, as he stretched out on the rock, she detected a faint smell of nutmeg. Being limestone, the rock was already dry from the midsummer sun and an earwig scuttled between the grass in the fissures. Maybe the storm was passing, after all. 'The new beekeeper,' he said with a chuckle.

'What happened to the last one?'

One indolent shoulder shrugged. 'Who knows?'

As he broke the honeycomb in half, she noticed a band of pale skin round his seal finger, as though it was missing a ring.

'Doesn't it worry you, being stung?'

He cast her a sharp glance from the corner of his eye. 'Perhaps they know I sting back.'

Claudia didn't doubt it. For all his oozing of charm and consideration, there was a predatory aura about Manion. As well as something teasingly familiar- Maybe she'd run into him last year in Santonum? Maybe it was his voice that sounded familiar? Maybe he just reminded her of somebody else?

But barely had he taken a second bite than he was springing to his feet.

'Leaving already?'

Seascape eyes darkened as he leaned over her.

'Only dead men do nothing,' he whispered.

With the edge of his thumb, he scooped a drizzle of honey from the side of her mouth and unhurriedly licked it off.

Watching him lope back up the hill, Claudia wondered why, if she didn't recognize him, she couldn't rid herself of the feeling that she'd met him before. And what slave ever had use for a seal? Not so much bees, she reflected, more a hornet's nest he was stirring up.

She'd never eat honeycombs again without thinking of him.

'What was that about?' Orbilio asked, striding down the path with a bundle of hay perched on his shoulders. Yet for all his jauntiness, the narrowing of his eyes and a strongly clamped jaw suggested he'd seen everything. And hadn't liked what he saw.

'Oh, just a slave bringing me something to eat.' She handed him Manion's half. 'Want some?'

He grunted, but she didn't think it was in everlasting and grateful thanks.

'He didn't say anything, then? Manion?'

'Ifyou must know, we enjoyed a riveting chat about bees.'

'Bees.'

'You know the things, Marcus. Fluffy buzzy creatures. One sees them all the time flittering round flowers.'

Marcus tore his gaze from the trees into which Manion had disappeared and stared at her. 'Are you referring to those fluffy buzzy male drones that do all the work, while the queen watches from the centre of the hive?'

Perhaps they know I sting back, a little voice echoed inside her head. Rubbish, she told it. Not everything has a subtext, sod off. Only dead men do nothing, the little voice wheedled…

'Have the Hundred-Handed branded you yet?' she asked cheerfully.

Orbilio wiped his sticky hands on the grass and when he looked up, the hardness in his expression was gone. 'They couldn't find an unbruised patch of skin, and with luck I'll be gone before they can.'

'Tut, tut, Marcus. The Governor is absolutely delighted that you and your ex-wife are about to become reconciled. He said take as much time to recuperate as you need, I quote his very words.'

'Yes. Well. As much as I find slave labour an excellent aid to marital counselling, there is the little matter of an uprising that ideally I'd like to prevent.'

Claudia popped the last corner of honeycomb into her mouth, confident that the Head of the Security Police wouldn't be playing Masters amp; Slaves if the whole of Aquitania was poised to explode. But why had he agreed to come here with her? Why so quickly, and with only a token protest? The smell of rat had slammed into her nostrils the instant he'd said yes. Rat, with a large helping of weasel.

'Then the quicker we solve Clytie's murder the better,' she breezed. 'Now then. Apart from the fact that tight pants are a bitch, what else have you discovered?'

Marcus hefted the bale onto the opposite shoulder. '(A) women are to be avoided, they're deadly and dangerous, (B) men have no brains or we'd steer clear of them and (C) that working with livestock,' he patted the bale, 'leaves indelible stains on a chap's kit.'

'It took you twenty-eight years to work that out?'

'I'm a slow starter.' His expression became serious again. 'You know, for three centuries, the Hundred-Handed have provided spiritual guidance for small, isolated communities in the surrounding countryside who rely on this forest for their very survival. In leading by example, the priestesses set high moral standards-'

'I hope that was a joke.'

'Far from it.' He spiked his fringe out of his eyes. 'Have you stopped to think what they give up?'

'Apart from their male babies at birth?'

'Including their male babies at birth. Claudia, I know you don't approve of their ways, but this is a far from easy life for these women.'

'Thus speaks the wisdom of a sex slave, Orbilio. I just knew you'd feel right at home here.'

'Mock all you want,' he said, 'because yes, I suppose every man does dream of being a sex slave — until that dream becomes a reality. But I'm serious. Times are changing, Claudia, Rome's seen to that. And thanks to us, the world has got smaller for the Gauls, and this world,' he indicated the College with a nod of his head, 'has to adapt. If it doesn't, quite frankly, it dies.'

'Are you saying the Hundred-Handed are under threat? Because if so, I really don't give a damn.'

He set down the bale then lay flat on the rock, resting his feet on the flat of the bale. 'Peace is a funny thing. You and I, we're part of the new generation who aren't content to sit back and put our trust in our elders and betters. We demand a say in our future and don't obey laws without satisfying ourselves first that those laws are fair.'

'That's the second time I've heard those arguments today.'

'Because independence is a hot topic in these parts at the moment,' he said, folding his arms behind his head and crossing his feet at the ankles. 'Hence my point about insurrection.'

This is not a good time to be a Roman.

'Nonsense. Those rumours have been rumbling for months.'

If the Scorpion intended to stage an uprising, he'd have started before midsummer, and no matter how well organized the rebel forces, they couldn't achieve much in the remaining three months of the campaigning season. The smell of rat doubled in strength.

'This business of challenging authority, questioning orders and not accepting what we're told without corroboration,' Marcus said, 'that's called democracy. And while you and I take it for granted, for the people of Aquitania, it's a whole new concept.'

'Then the quicker it comes the better.'

'Not necessarily.' He propped himself up on one elbow to face her. 'If change comes too fast, it's liable to have the opposite effect of what it's intended to do. It can destroy rather than build.' He paused. 'Why don't you give a damn?'

'Goddammit, Orbilio, if you'd been doing just a fraction of your job, you wouldn't be asking that question! It's monstrous! Barbaric! Utterly obscene-'

'What is?' he asked calmly.

'The Pit, Marcus! They throw the condemned down there alive, so they can reflect on their sins while they die slowly and painfully over a couple of weeks, and dear god, you say these women want peace, but I've never heard of anything so diabolical in my life!'

'I have.' His voice was still calm as he shifted position to sit on the hay bale, resting his chin in his hands. 'It was how the Spartans used to execute criminals. Only for the direst of offences, mind you. The punishment was intended as a deterrent.'

'Spartans?' Something about that rang a bell.

'The Greeks and the Gauls share an interesting history,' he said. 'The Greeks came to Gaul, the Gauls went to Greece, and not necessarily for the purpose of cultural exchange. However!' He grinned. 'Not all their legacies involved funerals, blood and smouldering ruins. You know what nereids are?'

'Sea nymphs who serve Neptune.'

The grin deepened. 'The Greeks believed these nymphs served the sea goddess, Thetis, and they founded colleges of priestesses in their honour. Fifty of them, to be precise. Moon priestesses, dedicated to a gentle goddess who could nevertheless assume, guess what? A hundred different shapes.'

Of course. The Dining Hall. Claudia had never visited Greece, but the structure of three sides round a courtyard was typical for mass catering at sanctuary sites.

'And we all know who the son of Thetis was,' Marcus murmured.

Achilles.

'If you're saying the Pit of Reflection is their Achilles heel, I still don't care about these bloody women.'

'In Sparta, the prisoner would be dragged in chains through the streets, where he'd be whipped and humiliated by a line of his peers. Shamed,' he said, 'anguished,' he paused, 'and degraded.'

'And if the moral of that tale is that the Hundred-Handed have evolved with a soft spot, you're still wasting your breath.'

'Strange how often this becomes the case when I'm talking to you.'

'Whoa, there! I paid my back taxes.'

That was the reason she was in this wretched mess, and damn those greedy bastards for taking advantage of a poor grieving widow struggling with a mountain of debts.

'So…'He scratched his chin. 'No outstanding frauds, then? An end to the forgeries? No more-'

'You were talking about the Pit,' she snapped.

'Indeed I was,' he said turning away, and from this angle, it looked like his shoulders were shaking. 'And I'm saying that the way the priestesses distance themselves from the physical act of execution suggests cowardice.'

'The word, Marcus, is callousness.'

He leaned across, plucked a blade of grass and chewed on the juicy end. 'Cruelty isn't quite so cruel if you don't witness it personally.'

'Closing eyes and closing minds. Yes, I'm starting to see how they're really nice people.'

'I didn't say I agreed with it, but the fact that Beth believes Clytie's killer is a copycat, Dora thinks it's an experiment and that only the souls of the truly evil are thrown to the three-headed dragon suggests a certain amount of optimism to me. That the Hundred-Handed always think the best of people and need to be convinced beyond doubt of their dark side.'

So he had been doing more than just a fraction of his job, then.

'Beth took over at the same time as Rome officially took office,' she told him.

'Is that important?'

'You tell me.'

'Actually, I was rather hoping there was something you might want to tell me.'

'Such as?'

'Well, let's start with the reason you came back to Gaul. The reason, in fact, why you're here.'

The Security Spider luring the fly into his sticky little web? Honestly, Marcus! Does it look like I have wings?

'Providing you tell me why you're here,' she said sweetly.

'Because you asked me.'

'If I asked you to jump in the river, would you do that as well?'

He looked at the stream.

'My ankles would get awfully wet, but I suppose I might make the sacrifice.'

The twinkle died in his eye.

'Claudia.'

He leaned so close that she could smell his sandalwood unguent even over the smell of livestock and hay. And, she thought, maybe a faint hint of rosemary.

'For someone who flies in the face of male chauvinism herself,' he said, 'you're surprisingly antagonistic towards these priestesses and alarmingly passionate about solving this child's murder. Don't get me wrong, I find it admirable, but at the same time I can't help wondering — what does Clytie mean to you?'

There it was again. Thirteen long years ago, climbing the stairs

… opening the door…

Dammit, no matter how many times that memory flashed, it never changed and never softened. Not even in her dreams — in her nightmares — had Claudia walked into that room to find her mother laughing and happy, arms outstretched in welcome, sober and delighted to see her. The memory had stayed true in every respect. Her mother remained limp. Waxy. Somebody else.

And there was never a note beside the body.

Suddenly, the stench of congealed blood overwhelmed the scent of sandalwood and now all she could hear was the buzz, not of bees, but of blowflies. Bluebottles, gorging themselves on her mother's spent life She looked at Marcus with eyes that were as dead as her mother. As dead as the life she'd left behind.

'Nothing,' she said coldly. 'Clytie means nothing at all.'

From deep in the undergrowth, a pair of eyes that were neither green nor blue but somewhere in between followed the exchange with interest. Too far away to catch the exchange, enough words drifted across to convey the gist. That bit about insurrection was particularly interesting. As was the part about the pit.

Hidden by the thicket, his crouching figure went unnoticed by the girl as she went striding past, and half a minute maybe more passed before Pretty Boy eventually stood up, hefted the bale on to his shoulder and marched off down the path, whistling under his breath.

The eyes in the bushes might not be either truly green or truly blue.

But truly they were smiling.

The Scorpion slipped his ring back on his finger.

The hinge of the writing tablet flipped quietly open. With painstaking care, the stylus scored deep into the wax.

No secret can ever be safe.

The pen hesitated. Should it, or shouldn't it, add anything else? It tapped against the lip of the writer while it weighed up the consequences. Then, without bothering to etch another syllable, it positioned itself diagonally across the open wooden tablet.

The author took another long look round Claudia's room and, nodding in satisfaction, withdrew on silent feet.