Scorpion Rising

Twenty-Four

Lining up to collect his arrow, Orbilio weighted the ceremonial bow in his hand and took his hat off to the craftsman who fashioned it. Each silver handgrip was skilfully engraved with an emblem to reflect the birch, the moon, the fishes, whatever. Every aspect of nature was covered. Last night lots had been drawn to determine which slave fired which priestess's colours, and as he ran his finger over the exquisite etching, he could almost feel the gorse come to life in his hands. As an investigator, he did not believe in coincidence, especially where crime was concerned, but there had been no fiddling when it came to the drawing of lots and he did believe in destiny. That it was perhaps preordained that he should draw the bow of Clytie's mother as he worked to unmask the monster that took Clytie's life.

Not, to be truthful, that her death took priority at the moment.

Yes of course he wanted to avenge the girl's death and rid the world of a monster, but (back to coincidence) he didn't believe it was chance that left Clytie dead on the spring equinox and Sarra dead at midsummer. Unfortunately, more lives were at stake now than a sick killer's victims. The Scorpion was out of its cage.

What's the bastard up to? he wondered. What's he doing here, at the College, why at midsummer, and why attach himself to Orbilio? There was a distinct smell of fish in the air, but despite the amount of time they'd spent together, he was still no closer to understanding Manion's game. One thing, though. The bastard was dangerous. He didn't trust him an inch.

From the corner of his eye, he caught two hands wind milling above the heads of the crowd. That something appeared to be Claudia. He waved back.

There was only one explanation Marcus could think of to explain the Scorpion's presence. Rebellion.

'Gorse!' she yelled out. 'Gorse!'

'Thanks,' he mouthed back, holding up his bow, though he was surprised at such eager support. 'But you know me. Fearn's arrow today, Cupid's arrow tomorrow. Fancy pinning your colours to that?'

Forget the campaigning season, he thought. This was a man who'd been shunned by his tribe for speaking out against Rome but who didn't roll over under the shame. He went out and built up an army.

In Rome's eyes, it was nothing but a raggle-taggle bunch of boozers and losers, but at their head were two clever men. Together, Manion and his deputy, Ptian, had used crime to build up a rich seam of funds, and the money must have gone somewhere. Weapons, armour, food and supplies, they had to be as well organized as the crimes they set up and as smart as the false intelligence they'd sent back to Rome. However, with limited numbers, these so-called Saviours of Gaul couldn't possibly charge the legions head on. Orbilio's guess was that they'd use guerrilla tactics, striking when the enemy expected it least, and in ways it would not imagine.

'Not gorse, horse!' Claudia was making galloping actions. 'You need a horse,' she was shouting.

'I'm Taurus, not Sagittarius,' he laughed back, but it only served to deepen the scowl on her face.

Was it any wonder men did not understand women?

'Bit late, I'm afraid,' Manion puffed in his ear. 'Couple of things to sort out and time kind of ran away on me.' He made an intricate gesture with his bow in Claudia's direction. 'Have I missed much?'

Marcus doubted the Scorpion missed anything. 'Not so you'd notice,' he assured him with a smile.

'Hurry it along, you two, this isn't a mothers' meeting, you know.' Gurdo's temper wasn't improved by murder, it seemed. 'We fire at midday not bloody midnight.'

'Whoops.'

Manion jumped forward to collect the arrow tipped with

Fearn's gorse-coloured feathers. Orbilio took Luisa's red favours behind.

'These are the wrong way round,' he said.

'Does it matter?' Manion had already notched the shaft in its rest.

'Superstition among the Hundred-Handed says that to accept an arrow out of its allotted order brings bad luck.'

Though it didn't specify whether that bad luck befell the archer, the priestess or the aspect of nature that she protected.

'Want to swap back, Pretty Boy?'

'I'm not superstitious,' Marcus said, holding his gaze.

From the dais, Dora's voice boomed across the field as they turned round to take their positions to fire.

'Now, with the year at its zenith, we, the Hundred-Handed, give ourselves back to the earth that we came from, and with each favour, send out an arrow of peace. Are the archers ready?'

Fifty heads nodded, and at Gurdo's signal, fifty bowstrings were drawn back to their chests.

'Then let a simultaneous loosing of fifty arrows demonstrate the harmony of nature and of this order…'

A trumpet blew. Gurdo's hand came down. A rainbow of feathers flew into the sky. The crowd roared. It was over. The midsummer celebrations had come to an end. All boded well for the future.

Then a scream filled the air.

Piercing and protracted, it was a scream filled with agony. The whole field fell silent at once. Then a girl came rushing over, her face drained of colour, and Orbilio recognized her as the novice who'd won the dew competition. The crowd parted as Vanessia came forward.

'What on earth is it, child?' Dora asked, but with every step the girl took, the crowd drew back in horror.

Then he saw it.

In Vanessia's hands hung a bloodied black raven, from which one of the arrows protruded. Dora gasped. Beth gasped. All the priestesses and initiates gasped.

So did Marcus.

Mother of Tarquin, everyone in the Gaulish world knew that the souls of the priestesses were reborn as ravens. To kill one of these birds, no matter how, meant certain death, execution in the Pit of Reflection. He swallowed.

'Whose arrow is it?' someone rasped in his ear.

Orbilio couldn't answer.

He simply stared at its bright rowan-red feathers, sick in the knowledge that the arrow was his.