Scorpion Rising

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 glory 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.