Scorpion Rising

Twenty-One

What was that about?' Marcus asked, stepping out from behind an elder, and now who was spying on whom? Another one, Claudia thought, who'd been watching, hiding, sneaking around undercover! She folded the pleats in her gown between her fingers and thought, The question was, who had he been watching…?

'How sad, Orbilio, that that is your only opening gambit. One would have thought, you being a patrician and all, that your well-educated aristocratic brain could at least come up with a different question to ask. Such as the recipe for stuffed dormice or something.'

'Do you know it?' he asked, tilting his head on one side. 'Of course not,' she snapped. 'What do you take me for, a common cook?'

'No, I take you for someone who's trying to distract the long arm of the law from executing its duties, so perhaps I should rephrase the question in a way that brooks no misconstruction. Do you mind telling me what you and Manion were discussing just now?'

'Yes.'

'Claudia-'

'Now what! You asked me a question that brooked no misconstruction. Did I mind, you said, and the answer is yes, and anyway, how come a girl goes to all this trouble to get a bit of peace and quiet, as far removed from humanity as possible, yet within seconds the place is overrun with Security Police?'

'Hm.' For someone who'd just been told he wasn't welcome, Orbilio found a strange way of showing it as he hitched his pantaloons and sat down. 'You know, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were deliberately provoking me in the hope that I'd go away.'

Something lurched under her ribcage. 'Small hope,' she said. Surely he couldn't have heard? 'Isn't the leech your family emblem?'

'No, that's the weasel,' he laughed, stretching his legs out and crossing them at the ankle.

And were his eyes always that dark, she wondered, and had his baritone always been that rich?

It was the shock of finding Sarra that was responsible, of course. Sudden death has this horrible habit of bringing details into sharp relief, making them stronger, more distinctive, more precious- Wait. Did she just say precious? Claudia cupped her hands in the pool and splashed her face with the water. It was cold and clear. Qualities she really must learn to adopt! High overhead, jays chattered across the branches, a dunnock trilled in the willows and from the woods to their left came the sound of female chanting, their voices kept reverently low. Ridiculous, she thought, especially considering that Sarra, of all people, would never hear them. In fact, Sarra would never hear anything again. Not the song of the skylark, the hoot of an owl, nor the soft words of love from her sweetheart…

'Here.'

A spotless white kerchief was thrust under her nose.

'Don't need it,' she said, blowing into the linen. 'Though I'm surprised you had anywhere to keep it in those pants.'

'We men are such braggarts,' he quipped. 'And I've brought us some breakfast. You must eat.' He leaned out to fetch a knotted cloth from behind a boulder and laid it next to the spring.

'Not hungry.'

'Cheese, sausage, bread, ham and fruit.' He rattled off the list as he peeled back the cloth. 'I even squeezed in a couple of quail, but no beef, I'm afraid. I'm sick of the sight of that ox.'

'Not half as much as it's sick of you, I suspect.'

Marcus sank his teeth into a warm herby bun. 'Oh, please. I get so embarrassed when you flatter me. What did Manion want?'

'You don't give up, do you?'

'Persistence is my middle name.'

'Was it shortened to Sissy?'

'All the time, which is why I changed it to Tenacious. You were saying?'

She gave another hard blow and then sighed. 'Very well, if you must know Manion seemed to think I have some ludicrous fear of commitment, which is nonsense, because I was married to Gaius for seven wonderful years-'

'Excuse me?'

'Please don't splutter breadcrumbs, you'll bring the sparrows down, and you can scoff all you like but it was just as I told Manion. I can have any man that I please.'

'True,' he said, with a cluck of apology. 'But the problem is, you don't please any. Ouch!' He rubbed his shin where she'd kicked him. 'So… that was it?' he asked, and suddenly the twinkle in his eyes was extinguished. 'That was all you two discussed?'

All? she thought. The man whose eyes were neither green nor blue but some point in between had somehow managed to crawl inside her skin, rake over the most painful wounds possible then jumble her emotions — and Orbilio says Was that all?

'No,' she said levelly.

They'd talked about love and abandonment, which were clearly not connected, at least not in her case, Manion obviously didn't know his arse from his elbow.

'We talked about other things, too.'

What was love, anyway? I love blue, I love harp music, I love sunshine, I love honey cakes, I love dice. What has that to do with human emotions?

'For instance, we talked about trust-'

Trust is when the same man is always behindyou, to catch no matter how often you fall.

'And do you?' Marcus asked through a mouthful of sausage. 'Do you trust the man who calls himself Manion?'

'As it happens, I don't,' she said, breaking off a piece of cheese. It was yellow and nutty, with a flavour that lingered on the palate. 'For one thing, he told me he didn't know about Sarra being dead, but I don't believe that for a minute.'

'You think he killed her?'

'Process of elimination,' she said, reaching for another chunk. 'It couldn't have been any of the pentagram priestesses, they remained in public view on the dais-'

'Who says?'

The cheese turned to ash in her mouth. 'Weren't they?'

Orbilio leaned back and absorbed his weight on his elbows. 'What is it you ladies like to call it?' he said, looking up at the clouds. 'Comfort breaks? Well, all five took at least one, I assure you.'

Claudia pictured the ox on the spit. Not close to the dais — Dora wouldn't want her celebrations smothered in thick greasy smoke — but close enough for Orbilio to observe their comings and goings.

'I'm guessing our fragrant five weren't tempted by the makeshift latrines rigged up at the back of the field?' she asked slowly.

'Judging by the amount of time they were gone, I'm not sure they didn't use the facilities down in Santonum,' he laughed. 'But surely you can't suspect one of them of butchering Sarra?'

Claudia pulled a chive bun into tiny pieces and floated them downstream on the bob. Blood wouldn't show on Luisa's red dress, while Fearn was already a strong candidate for her own daughter's murder. Revenge on the lover who spurned her. And since Gabali was still hanging around the neighbourhood, it wasn't beyond the realms of possibility that Fearn had seen him and, in her obsession, mistakenly concluded that Sarra was meeting him.

'Clytie's murder was the result of calm and calculated planning,' she said.

Someone took the trouble to lure a twelve-year-old girl out of her dormitory, making sure the visit was kept secret from even her friends. They had also taken the trouble to bring with them a tray of cosmetics 'Whereas Sarra's was angry and vicious, the product of rage and what looks like unspeakable fury.'

And hell hath no fury like a pentagram priestess scorned.

'Yes, but both murders occurred on days central to the College's calendar,' he pointed out. 'First the spring equinox and now midsummer — and surely the oak where Sarra was killed isn't coincidence? By the way, who moved the body?'

His voice hadn't skipped so much as a beat.

'Clytie's?' she asked, and wished there had been a tad more conviction in the question.

'Sarra's.' His sandalwood pulsed through the sticky heat. 'Swarbric said that by the time he reached her, she was slumped about fifty yards from the oak tree where she was killed, with a long trail of blood from where she'd been dragged.'

It wasn't Sarra who'd been dragged, she wanted to say. It was Pod, who'd hung on to the girl 'Maybe the killer was moving the body the way he moved Clytie's and was disturbed in the act?' she suggested. And dammit, the conviction in her voice was even thinner.

'Yes, of course. I'm sure that's the explanation.' Orbilio looked for all the world as though he was suppressing a grin as he sat up and cradled his knees. 'Not that it matters,' he tossed out lightly. 'I get to the bottom of every dirty deed in the end.'

He knows something, the slimy bastard, she thought, watching him spike his fringe out of his eyes. Or if he didn't know, he sensed some kind of cover-up. The question was, was it murder he was referring to, the Hundred-Handed's secret, or her own role in the destruction of evidence? Somehow she had a feeling he meant all three.

'You know the stumbling block to every investigation?' he asked cheerfully. 'Apart from you, that is.'

'Very amusing.'

'I thought so.'

He did know, then, but how? Despite the sticky heat, Claudia shivered. Who could have told him she'd helped prise Pod away from Sarra? Who had been watching them?

'Motive,' he said, and she couldn't help noticing that his eyes had narrowed in suspicion. 'Motive is the key to any crime, and do you know what I think?'

'Do men think?'

'I think this whole killing thing stems from rejection.'

He polished off the last of the sausage, seemingly oblivious that she hadn't so much as taken one slice. And had turned as white as a sheet.

'Take Clytie's death,' he continued evenly. 'We know for a fact that the bastard who stalked Santonum raped and strangled his victims, probably at the same time, then painted their faces to make them resemble cheap whores.'

He plucked a blade of grass and began to chew.

'Suggesting that not only decent women had rejected him, but that prostitutes wouldn't have anything to do with him either. Santonum's stalker made them pay for that rejection.'

Claudia's nails were biting deep into her palms. She pretended she hadn't noticed.

'He arranged their bodies in a certain position, then left his victims in a place where they were bound to be discovered, because that was his signature, if you like, and he was proud of his work.'

'No great loss to society, then,' on the grounds that she had to say something.

'None whatsoever, but what I'm driving at is, men like that don't kill and leave clues because they secretly hope to be caught and punished for their wickedness. They kill and kill and go on killing, in the firm belief they will not be caught, because they're too clever.'

'Sarra's murder was nothing like Clytie's.'

'Indeed it was not.' He grimaced. 'You said yourself it was the product of rage, but rage is a classic outlet for rejection.'

'Goddammit, is there a point to this?' she snapped, and there were red weals in her palms from her nails.

'Yes there is, because do you hear that fluttering sound, Claudia?'

'No,' she said, straining her ears.

'You should, because that's the flutter of wings of an avenging angel,' he said. 'So why don't you just tell me the reason you're here.'

Claudia had been called many names in her life. Strangely, angel had never numbered among them.

'Orbilio, I'm a woman. I flutter eyelashes, not wings.'

'How true. You normally keep them well folded as you hang upside down in your cave at night.'

'Is that another crack that's supposed to be funny?'

'Guilty as charged, though a good lawyer should get me off with a fine.' He picked a sprig of wild chamomile and crushed it between his fingers. 'The point is, I've sensed a distinct change in your wing colour lately.' When he swivelled his head round to face her, his fringe flopped forward over his forehead. 'Why did you come to Gaul, Claudia? What made you come back?'

She took a deep breath and considered what she could tell him without it actually being a lie, while the scent of chamomile mingled with his sandalwood. Chamomile. For many cultures, this herb was sacred to the sun, though mostly these were eastern traditions. The Sons of Ammon, for instance, who placed boiled meats on an altar below a sandstone outcrop in whose cliffs the sun was believed to reside. The Persians, of course, some of whom sacrificed to the sun from chamomile on the mountain tops and who considered leprosy to be punishment for offending the sun. These peoples didn't cremate their dead like the Romans, since fire was part of their godhead, and this was what was needling away at the back of her mind. Fire and sun, sun and fire, to many peoples they were the same thing. Including certain Teutonic tribes…

Forget spring and midsummer. Both Clytie and Sarra had been killed at a time when sun and fire united, and she thought back to the rock where the life had leached out from a twelve-year-old child. From the outset, its flat shape had been reminiscent of an altar, and, with the exception of the Hundred-Handed, every culture Claudia knew had made sacrifice at some point in their history with blood. And a picture formed of a young German with prematurely grey hair and tight pants. Handsome, dashing, confident, funny The wings of the avenging angel fluttered behind her. Claudia re-folded them quickly.

'My dear Orbilio, if it wasn't for business, nothing on earth would bring me back to this dreary, depressing little backwater of the Empire. Unfortunately, last autumn I sold a consignment of wine to a merchant in Santonum and such was the profit, it was necessary to make a return visit in order to agree personal terms for annual shipments.'

'Ah.' He nodded in understanding. 'So you decided to investigate Clytie's murder at the College while you were passing.'

Dammit, that was the problem with fibs. You forget what you tell people, yet even though they were lying stark naked in the bathhouse at the time, they can still remember every word — and then have the cheek to dredge it up in your face. I'm staying there to investigate the murder of a twelve-year-old novice was what she believed she had told him, now that she racked her brains, and Claudia made a mental note to take more horseradish with her food. It was supposed to improve memory, and goddammit, Orbilio must wolf a whole root every morning for breakfast.

'In a manner of speaking,' she said calmly. 'The journey from Rome played havoc with my back and since the Hundred-Handed have an excellent reputation as healers, I decided to give them a try. Which is how I came to hear about Clytie.'

One lazy eyebrow tweaked upwards. 'In a silent order?'

'Kitchens carry gossip the whole world over, Orbilio, the College is no exception.' She had no intention of telling him they spoke aloud most of the time. 'And given that the murder remained unsolved since the spring equinox, I thought it was high time you started earning that preposterous salary of yours, instead of sitting around on your base end all day.'

There was a long pause, which Claudia put down to Orbilio's acceptance, until she realized he had simply been laying into the cheese.

'Nothing personal, then?' he asked, swallowing.

The feathers on the angel's wings fluttered again. This time she sat on them. Firmly.

'Does deafness run in your family, Marcus? If so, there's a place in the Forum that sells top-quality ear trumpets.'

He grinned as he rose to his feet. 'I'll bear that in mind, thanks, but just to recap. You stumbled upon Clytie's murder by accident. There's no personal crusade. You're not in trouble. You're not hiding anything from the Security Police, such as the reason Sarra's body was dragged from the oak, for instance. And naturally you're not holding anything back from me.'

When he stretched, the muscles bulged out his linen shirt and pulled the tendons tight in his neck.

'Correct on all points. No wonder you were promoted.'

Something twitched at the side of his mouth. Jupiter willing, it was indigestion.

'I'd best get back to the Field before they miss me.' He rolled his eyes upwards and sighed. 'Lucky me, being tasked with passing round food, offering goatskins of wine, listening to the most god-awful gossip… If she was going to cuckold her husband, it wouldn't be with his spotty apprentice.'

Despite her concerns, his comic imitation made Claudia smile.

'The boy denied it, of course,' this was someone else's voice he was mimicking, 'but somebody saw them and sent the miller a note. "The lowest millstone grinds as well at the top". Couldn't be plainer, my dear.'

Marcus Cornelius blew out his cheeks and shook his head sadly.

Tine for you to laugh,' he tutted. 'You wait till you're reincarnated as a sex slave. It's no fun for a man, I assure you.'

'I have every confidence that you'll keep your end up, Orbilio.'

'That's what worries me,' he retorted. 'If I don't solve these murders before my bruises fade, there's no telling what will become of this poor boy so far from home.'

He was laughing, making light of the matter, but this was a man who took his job seriously and in whose eyes no job was more serious than murder. The taking of life by force and by violence. He would lay his own down before he gave up the cause.

And in her mind, she saw a twelve-year-old girl who'd had her face badly painted, and the bloodied remains of a fairy with an ethereal smile…

'Don't worry your pretty little head about it, Orbilio.' Claudia took care to keep her own voice carefree as she glanced at the sky where the sun ought to be. 'Another hour and you can loose your arrow into the zenith, after which you're free to go back to play in the pigsty.'

'How can I ever thank you for embroiling me in this case?' he replied with a low, sweeping bow.

'You'll cherish your office chair more because of it,' she called after him, and suddenly the valley seemed bigger, emptier, lonelier now that she was alone. Violent death again, she supposed, hugging her arms. In the same way it brought definition to details, making them sharper and more pronounced, it made a person feel unaccountably vulnerable. Why else would she feel empty once he had gone?

As swallows dived low in their search for flies, Claudia slipped off her sandals and dangled her toes in the pool. Deliciously cool from where it had run its course through the rock, the surge of the water acted as a massage and she could see why the Hundred-Handed's reputation had grown. And why their gentle philosophies had taken hold. For people who relied on the forest for survival, nature was something they could put their trust in, for nature was everlasting. They had no need to fear her whims and vagaries, for there was a College of Priestesses to guide them through good times and bad, and three hundred years of observation had not let them down. To the Gauls, the Hundred-Handed had proved themselves honest and steadfast, and at a time when their world was changing almost beyond recognition now that it was under Rome's administration, it made sense that they would be drawn closer to those who provided the most comfort and support.

Yet the very qualities that they looked to from the priestesses were tearing the College apart. Modernizing, Beth had called it, with a large faction pressing for normality through marriage, little realizing, idealists that they were, the great paradox of that. Namely, that marriage was itself a blight on normality. Sitting on the stone and wriggling her toes in the water, Claudia recalled her first encounter with Beth and how relieved the Head of the College had been to see her. Dora had been equally happy and that, she'd concluded, was because from the minute she'd arrived no one here had swallowed that cock-and-bull tale about a pain in the neck, Mavor's professional hands least of all. From the pentagram priestesses downwards, she'd suspected the College had had her pegged as an agent of Rome and for that reason had welcomed her with open arms. That was why Beth's top priority hadn't been concerned with the Druids. These priests might be a threat to the Hundred-Handed's existence, but the Druids needed the backing of Rome and so when Rome sent an agent in the form of Claudia Seferius, this was their chance to convince the administration that they weren't witches.

And yet…

Despite the pressures put upon the College by the Druids, by modernization, by a potential uprising, there was a deeper tension hanging over the place. The Hundred-Handed were hiding something — and Claudia still had no idea what it was. She wished she could confide in Marcus Cornelius, but to unburden her fears about Fearn, about Swarbric, about the poison-pen letters, would mean owning up about Gabali and the Scorpion. She would rather roll naked in nettles.

She cupped water in her hands and drank.

That the Scorpion was slippery went without saying, but even so, the authorities would know all about him. But Claudia knew how the mind of the Security Police worked, and however charming and urbane he might appear on the surface, Marcus Cornelius had his sights on the Senate. It was true, she reflected. You can take a man out of the Security Police, but you can never take the Security Police out of the man…

By confessing that she'd double-crossed the Scorpion, Orbilio would cheerfully overlook fraud if capturing him took him several strides closer towards the donning of the broad purple stripe, and parading the self-styled liberator of Gaul round the streets of Santonum would certainly ensure that. But equally Orbilio would expect Claudia to be the bait in his trap, since it was virtually impossible to trace the Scorpion's crimes back to their source otherwise. She was the only link. So far, so good, she thought. She could cut a deal with him there. The trouble was, Orbilio wasn't remotely concerned with her desire for longevity, and that's where things became a little tricky. Even in chains the Scorpion could still give out orders and for double-crossing him over the wine then ensuring his execution, Claudia would be dead before the first manacle snapped round his wrist.

As always, she thought, she was alone. Had she ever known anything else?

Who abandoned you, I wonder? Your father? Your mother-?

What does Clytie mean to you?

Do you hear that fluttering sound, Claudia? That's the wings of an avenging angel.

Ever since Gabali stepped out of the shadows, she'd been unable to rid herself of her nightmare. Of her father's whiskery cheek pressed against hers, as he marched off to war but never marched home. Of walking in and finding her mother, the blood drained in a lake from her wrists. While neither could be bothered to leave a note of farewell…

Clytie deserved more. Claudia had never seen her, didn't know her and by the sounds of things she wasn't that nice a child, but the little novice had been lonely and lost, a misfit like herself, and she'd bled to death before her life had begun.

'So what if I need to find that poor little cow's killer?' Claudia sobbed to the wind. 'What's it to you, Marcus Cornelius? All you want is accolades and promotion, and you don't give a damn who you tread on to get them.'

And if she hadn't confided in him, then so what? All right, she'd asked him to help, because at the time she'd been concerned with finding the killer in order to get Gabali off her back and knew that Orbilio's sense of justice wouldn't refuse her. (That, and the fact that he never turned down the chance to catch her in the act of fraud, forgery or tax evasion, either!) But that was then, before cold reason set in and she saw the Security Policeman for what he really was. Detached, ruthless, efficient and professional. He was certainly not the friend he purported to be, which left vengeance as something to be sorted out privately. Privately and alone…

As a result, there was nothing to be gained in disclosing the conspiracy that existed inside the College. It had nothing to do with poison-pen letters, Druids or even the mutiny from within.

Devious bitches, she thought. They deliberately set out to manipulate Rome through its agent, and by opening themselves up to discussions about Clytie, they intended to put the matter officially behind them by 'solving' the case with the agent's help. By fielding two opposing theories — Beth's copycat and Dora's experiment — it cleared the College of any charge that they knew what really took place on the spring equinox, which Claudia was convinced was what lay at the heart of their secret. She was sure the Hundred-Handed, or at the very least the pentagram priestesses, knew who killed Clytie and were covering it up, but how did that tie with Sarra's murder?

One possibility came to her colder even than the water round her feet, and something primordial heaved in her stomach.

Suppose Sarra's death wasn't connected to Clyties?

Nonsense, she argued, it had to be. Look at the similarities. Huge amounts of blood spilled at both murders. Both killed with a knife, and the places where their bodies had been found were not accidental, either. The altar block for Clytie, the oak for Sarra. They had to be the same hand.

Not necessarily, a small voice argued back. Yes, blood was a common denominator both times, but Clytie was lured to her death, she didn't put up a fight (why not? had she been drugged?) and her wrists were slashed in a manner that could almost be described as peaceful.

Whereas Sarra was stabbed at least twenty times in a frenzied attack where she fought back until her very last breath, suggesting passion, rage, but maybe also desperation, and leaving Fearn as the number one suspect.

But!

Suppose Sarra was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time?

Clytie's killer sees her standing under the oak tree and knows that she's waiting for Pod. Inspiration strikes. Oak tree? Midsummer? In the grey light of dawn there's the flash of a knife blade. A struggle ensues. Blood gushes out. But surprise is the killer's best weapon. In less time than it takes to boil a hen's egg, a girl lies dead at the edge of the glade…

The notion was nauseating, abhorrent, sickening and obscene, but suppose Sarra's murder was a callous, but quite deliberate, distraction engineered purely to throw the investigation off the scent?

Claudia tasted bile in the back of her throat. This was no ordinary enemy she was dealing with now, for what twisted mind would treat life so cheaply?

How cold must the killer's heart be?

Cold or not, twisted or not, Sarra's killer drew great satisfaction from a job well done.