by Marilyn Todd
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.<
br />
Twenty-Two
Have you seen Sarra?' a little voice asked.
'We need to report in—'
'- only we haven't seen her for hours—'
'- and if she finds out we've been watching otters instead of taking our nap, she'll skin us alive—'
'- and hang our pigtails up on her wall,' Aridella finished with a poorly masked giggle.
Claudia looked down. Three unrepentant faces. Three bobbing blonde heads. Three small lives about to be shattered. Again.
'We couldn't sleep,' Lin said, her cheeks dimpling with pride. 'Not with Vanessia winning the contest—'
'- and the otter pups are so cuddly—'
'- though you have to know where to look—'
'- but if we don't report in to Sarra soon, Dora might find out—'
'- and then we'll get our hides spanked for sure.'
'I'll give you spanked hides myself, if you lot don't clear out of here,' a deeper voice laughed with a lilting Teutonic accent.
The girls spun round in unison.
'Oh, Swarbric, you won't tell on us, will you?' Vanessia pleaded.
'No, please don't.'
The young German scowled down at them, folded his arms over his chest and rocked back and forth on his heels.
'That depends on whether you reach the Field of Celebration before I do,' he said, pretending to consider. 'Suppose we say on three. One, two and—'
At the clap of his hands, the novices set off at a squealing run, their ceremonial skirts billowing behind them, their
acorn headdresses skew-whiff, as they pelted back down the path. The instant they'd gone, the easy grin dropped from his face.
'Best that one of their own breaks the bad news,' he said. That way they'll know who to turn to for comfort.' His shock of grey hair shook from side to side. 'Poor little cows,' he added under his breath.
Looking at him, his handsome face twisted in a picture of empathy and compassion, one could be tempted to take him at face value. Except that Claudia had overheard him in conversation with Connal the morning before, outside his hut ...
It doesn't matter whether you like it or not, he'd told him, shoving him against the wall. You bloody well do your job.
I'm not some sodding bear that can be forced to dance or be beaten to within an inch of its life, Connal had retorted, but Swarbric had contradicted him fiercely.
See these? He'd jabbed at his tight linen pants and the shirt that revealed most of his bared chest. This is the livery of a performing bear, he had growled, insisting the lad would get used to it in time.
And then later that morning - You enjoy your job, don't you? Claudia had asked on their way back from the Pit of Reflection.
Lets say I've become skilled at it, he'd replied, which was not the same thing. Not at all. We all have minds of our own, son, he had told Connal. It's our bodies that are in thrall
How often must a slave also be an actor? Claudia wondered. And what role was Swarbric playing now?
That he was embittered went without saying. Love! Do you think any of these women cares a copper quadran for you? They don't know the meaning of the bloody word, he had growled, and what happens to a caged tiger when it's had its teeth and claws pulled? Does it become less aggressive? The hell it does. It uses its massive paws like a club instead. The instinct to kill or be killed never dies ...
She picked a sprig of chamomile and held it to her nose.
'Don't your people worship the sun?' she asked.
'Fire, the sun and the moon, aye.'
All three of which played a crucial role during the two equinoxes and both summer and winter solstices, she mused grimly. And all of which required sacrifice.
'Nothing you can't practise here, then?' she breezed.
A lopsided grin twisted his face. 'Assuming I wanted to, there'd be nothing to stop me, of course not. But let me tell you something else my tribe hold great store by among men. Chastity. Even their most powerful warriors believe carnal knowledge diminishes a man's muscles and makes him feeble in combat.' He flexed his with comic ostentation. 'What's your opinion on that, Lady Claudia?'
'I don't believe the preachings of men who swill beer from their boots, wear horns on their helmets and knot their hair over one ear can be taken seriously, either,' she said. 'How are your investigations going?'
He frowned. 'What investigations?'
'Beth told me she'd sent for you,' Claudia said. 'I assumed it was to enquire into the manner of Sarra's death.'
'Can't imagine why,' he said, shrugging. 'My job as Guardian of the Sacred Gate is to ensure that no one breaches the College boundaries, and on that matter I was able to reassure her. It is for others to investigate the circumstances, not me.'
'Because you're not qualified?'
'Because I'm not a woman,' he corrected. 'The HundredHanded conduct their own investigations and, my dear Lady Claudia, no man is privy to that.'
'Unless he can read their sign language.'
'Possibly, though I don't know of any who can.'
I do, she thought. Pod. And the law of averages said he couldn't be the only man curious enough to want to decipher their silent code. Gurdo, for instance, was an obvious candidate. No man could have had the run of the place, and for so long, without picking up at least the basic signals.
Oh, Pod, if they ever find out you can cipher—
Sarra's reaction had been one of sheer horror, when she discovered Pod could read hands, which meant Swarbric was either covering up for his fellow slaves or the slaves weren't owning up. Either way, Claudia decided, ignorance did not wash.
'So if you weren't investigating Sarra's murder,' she said, 'why were you bent over the body?'
'Hardly bent,' he said. (Well, it was worth a try.) 'But having assured the pentagram that security had not been breached by outsiders, I -I went searching ...' He scratched his thick mop. 'Look, you haven't seen Connal by any chance, have you? Young lad, this tall,' he indicated with the flat of his hand a point just below the bridge of his nose, 'with fuzzy dark hair, only I sent him out on an errand around midnight last night and ... well, he hasn't returned.'
Several seconds passed, in which she studied the change in his customary wolfishness which had given way to a thoughtfulness that was entirely new. A thoughtfulness that some people, she thought, might interpret as cunning—
'You suspect Connal of killing Sarra?' she asked slowly.
Swarbric rubbed his hands over his face. 'Quite honestly, I don't know what to think,' he said at length. 'A girl's dead, he's missing, and so is the small canoe Gurdo keeps on the river for fishing.'
Claudia smoothed her robe and straightened her girdle. 'When was the last time you saw Elusa?' she asked.
'Foggoth Hillgund!' He slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. 'Foggoth bloody Hillgund, those two idiots have used the festival to elope, haven't they?'
'You'll need to check on Elusa's whereabouts first, but yes, I agree. It's more than possible.'
Another stream of Teutonic swear words spilled out as he slammed his fist into his hand. 'Fools! They won't get five miles before somebody spots them,' he raged, 'then it's the Pit of Reflection for them both.' He spiked his hair with his hands. 'Shit, shit, shit, Connal. What the bloody hell have you done?'
He ground his teeth and swore at the heavens, then spun on his heel back to face her.
'I have no right to ask this,' Swarbric said, and his voice was now calm, his manner composed, as though he had taken a decision on which there was no going back, 'no right at all,' he stressed quietly, 'but you've seen the Pit, you know how unforgiving it is, and if you care anything at all for those stupid, stupid children, I beg you not to tell anyone.'
He drew a deep breath. 'I need to find them, Claudia. They'll need help to escape, because if the Gauls pick them up and report back to Beth, you know what will happen. Once any matter has become official, there's no going back.'
'But—' Claudia blinked. 'If you leave the grounds
, what happens to you? Suppose the Gauls capture you?'
'You really think it matters what happens to me? I'm a slave, did you forget? There is no one in this place to grieve over my passing.'
'Oh, for gods' sake!' Claudia grabbed a fist of his shirt. 'You can't risk everything for two lovesick fatheads!'
Connal was passionate, impulsive, earnest and sincere, Elusa was genuine in her affection for him. But alone in the forest, living on berries and wits, whilst constantly having to glance over their shoulder, how long would love last?
'I give it a month, if they're lucky.'
'Better one month out there than twenty years stifled,' he growled, shaking himself free.
'Don't be a fool,' Claudia hissed. 'Out there, it's a case of two children playing grown-ups in the big wide world, and we both know they don't stand a chance. While in here, they're doomed the instant their first child is either swallowed up in the system or sold into slavery. For heaven's sakes, Swarbric, this is not a love that's going to stand the test of time.'
But he was already ducking the branches of alder and willow as his stride ate up the river bank.
'Just promise me,' he yelled over his shoulder, his reflection clear in the rippling stream. 'Promise you won't tell a soul about this. With luck I'll be back before the HundredHanded notice I've gone.'
Claudia stared up at the sheer grey rockface, where valerian danced in the sticky breeze and jackdaws made roosts on the ledge, and felt the shadow of fear crawl over her skin.
Do you know what they'll do to Elusa, if they find out what you 're planning?
The rest of his conversation with Connal flooded back.
Because they will, son. They always find out. These trees have ears, they have eyes, trust me, the Hundred-Handed know everything. They pool secrets the same way they pool
their knowledge of nature, the same bloody way they pool us, and what the trees don't give away, pillow talk does. Now for gods' sakes, Connal, grow up.
And now here he was, a young man with the world at his feet, risking his privileges, his freedom, indeed his very life to save a couple ofteenagers whose future was doomed from the start. Claudia rubbed her face with the palms of her hands, and perhaps it was memories of Swarbric's dashing theatricals, maybe it was his well-honed disarming smile or the charm he'd worked so hard to perfect, but as she watched the seams of his pants (the ultimate livery of the performing bear) stretch to their limits as he bridged the stream with one bound, she found herself cupping her hands round her mouth.