by Marilyn Todd
'I promise,' she called, though he was running too fast and she knew that only the forest had heard.
While the shadow of fear grew heavier still.
Deep in the shade of a lightning-split yew, eyes followed Claudia Seferius as she made her way back down the path towards the Field of Celebration. When the battle cry rose to unite Gaul in its freedom and the cobblestones ran red with blood, how sweet would it be to make that one his whore, the eyes wondered.
She, who marches along with her chin held high and her shoulders squared back, as though she owns the bloody place?
What would it be like to take her, he wondered, have her beg for mercy at the point of his knife, simpering, whimpering, not so high and mighty then, he'd be willing to bet, and where would that famous Roman pride be then, eh? Grovelling in the dust of her own bloody arrogance, that's how fast her self-importance would fall. She'd be begging and pleading, praying to gods who didn't exist, and he saw her licking his boots with the length of her tongue, and then let's see how sharp it was, that wit of hers, with the dust of Gaul in her mouth!
He'd have her do it naked on the end of a chain.
See how it feels to be enslaved to another. Do this, do that, can't do this, don't do that. Now you'll dance to my tune, you bitch. I will have Rome writhing at my feet, washing
them clean with its tears of self-pity, and pity you didn't think of anyone else except your own self-serving ends. Pity you didn't think of us before now.
Because you come marching in here, you seize our people, our soil, our traditions, our gods, ah, but you can't take our spirit, you bastards. Gaul is our homeland, Aquitani's our blood, and as we drive you out as we did once before, you will rue the day you set foot in this country.
And you, my pretty flashing-eyed Roman girl. What will you rue as I cut off your pretty Roman-style ringlets and hold a knife to your long Roman throat? Once your jewels and your clothes, your hair and your pride have been stripped bare at my feet, who will you call out to, I wonder?
Scorpion. Whisperer. What was a name?
But as I take you and take you and make you my whore, be sure of one thing, you bitch.
You will call me 'my lord'.
Twenty-Three
Claudia stopped in the path. Turned. And shivered. It was as though someone was watching, she thought. Boring eyes into the back of her head.
Ridiculous.
It's Sarra. Her murder was vicious and brutal, nerves were bound to be jangling, and besides fear is a normal reaction after death. Self-preservation always becomes more pronounced. With a toss of her head, and heedless of the hairpin that sprang loose from its moorings, Claudia marched down the woodland path and tried not to look at the trees that seemed to close in, or the shrubs that were suddenly pressing too close. In the aftermath of murder, it was too easy to get swept up in dark thoughts and see the ash as the tree that strangles its neighbours, rather than a good source of charcoal. Or forget about rowan's rich healing properties, and remember only its power to conjure up demons. It was too much, she thought. First this talk of spirits buzzing like bees, then this oppressive, gummy heat, and with death stalking the shadows, emotions that she might ordinarily have shrugged off were suddenly swirling on an eddy of grief.
Manion, probing her painful childhood rejections with a scalpel that pared to the bone.
Orbilio dangling friendship as the bait for his trap.
There was the trauma of finding Sarra, before Claudia had had time to come to terms with Clytie's death, so horribly reminiscent of her own mother's suicide.
And now Swarbric, risking everything for a pair of selfish lovers who would not thank him for his intervention.
Combined, these things were bound to induce suspicion, mistrust, a feeling of being watched, but let's keep this in
perspective, she thought. Simply because one girl has been butchered this morning doesn't mean there's a maniac stalking the woods. Sarra, like Clytie, had been killed for a reason ... even if Claudia didn't know what it was. Orbilio claimed motive was the key to solving a murder but if, as she feared, Sarra's death was nothing but a callous diversion, motive might well be the last thing she figured out.
Fearn certainly had a motive, as well as the means and the opportunity, though proving her guilt would be difficult, if not impossible. Even so, she mustn't allow single-mindedness to blind her to what, in the end, might be false speculation. Lives were at stake, young lives at that, and she couldn't afford to overlook clues in her quest to prove Fearn a murderess, only to find she was wrong. Claudia slapped a mosquito that alighted on her wrist. For one thing, she hadn't ruled out Pod as a suspect, though it was unlikely the Hundred-Handed would be prepared to conceal his role in a murder. However much they valued a dwarf's healing powers, there was a limit to how far that loyalty extended - especially when the victim was one of their own! No, no, the more Claudia thought about it, the more she was convinced that Clytie's killer was close to the College's heart - of which the pentagram was its pivot.
All roads lead to Fearn ...
At the point in the woods where the track opened out, she could hear the singing and revelry from the Field of Celebration, as the people who relied on this forest for survival rejoiced in its ripeness and wisdom. There would be games for the children (she could hear them squealing), revolving around the dependable oak. There would be demonstrations of how to prevent weevils from making blotches and displays of the woodcarvers' skills. Dora, ably flanked by the Priestesses of Buckthorn and Broom, whose trees also favoured oakwoods, would be mingling among bargain-hunters at the Midsummer Fair, while her brown-clad novices danced an intricate jig round a board shaped like an acorn. But it was not to the festivities that Claudia's feet took her. Turning to the left, she was at Swarbric's hut within less than a minute and, staring up at its thatch, scenes unfolded like acts in a theatre.
It's early in the year. The trees are without leaf. An accident occurs, which results in Swarbric dislocating his shoulder blade. Mavor is summoned at once.
Despite the double tragedy that hung in the air, Claudia smiled to herself.
Between you and me, he yelped like a girl.
It was always the same, she reflected wryly. Heartbreak and comedy walk hand in hand. One rarely exists without a glimpse of its opposite ...
The actors on the stage moved again. Now Mavor is calming his pain with soft words and a potion. She manipulates the joint, clicks it back into place. Swarbric sweats with the pain, his face is waxy and grey, but now he is being bandaged tightly for his own good. Cold compresses cool him. A soft hand stokes his forehead. Breasts that another time would pulse sensual splendour have become a bosom of comfort and care. Long-forgotten memories surface as he lies helpless on his own bed. He is a child again, three years old, and this is his mother. His mother loved him, he remembers, he loved her in return, and now Swarbric is cocooned not in bandages, but in worship, and the more Mavor returns to tend to his shoulder, the deeper the young man reveres her. Through her tender ministrations, she has cured his pain and averted deformity, and in a way that prevents any recurrence of ligament damage. In his eyes, she is deified, and of course there was no affair. It would be an insult, an affront, to the woman he adores. Swarbric will do anything for her ...
Claudia sighed. Dammit, if he was sentimental enough to charge off in the hope of saving two infatuated lovers from the Pit of Reflection, Jupiter knows what cause the empty-headed fool might champion for a redheaded beauty!
. . what a mess, what a mess, don't you understand, we can't hide it—'
Mavor's voice inside the hut was full of anguish, but it was calmed by a male voice that was too low for Claudia to hear who she was talking to.
'Of course we can't hide it here, how could we? You're asking too much of Swarbric and too much of me—'
The man cut in again. His tone oozed sympathy, reassur-
ance, sorrow and doggedness, but above all, his voice remained calm and no matter how hard Claud
ia strained to listen, only an indistinct murmur came back. If the hut had had windows, perhaps she might have caught a few words. But nothing penetrated the walls or the thatch.
'You don't understand,' Mavor cried, and Claudia could almost sense her pulling away from the man as he attempted to calm her. 'Look, I know how hard this is for you, truly I do, but don't you see? I have no choice!'
With her ear pressed to the wall, Claudia had no inkling that Mavor had come rushing out until she rounded the corner. There was no time to feign a stone in her sandal but, with her face swollen from tears and her auburn tresses flying wild, the Bird Priestess was deep in a world of her own.
'I... was looking for Swarbric,' Claudia blustered, walking forward to meet her. 'Is he home?'
'What?' For a couple of seconds, Mavor was unable to focus, but three hundred years of training don't run through the blood without leaving their mettle. 'No, my dear, no,' she said, mustering a smile. 'In fact, I came looking for him myself, but ... but the door's locked.'
Claudia glanced at the entrance over Mavor's shoulder and tutted. 'Never mind, I'll just have to call back later, I suppose.'
Her eyes ranged over the priestess's rich russet robes. They were crumpled and creased, as though they'd been slept in, but through all the hundreds of crinkles she could not detect one spot of blood.
'Do you want to talk about what's upset you?' she asked. 'Is it Sarra?'
'Nothing's upset me, I was just next to some onions -what do you mean?' Mavor's face was with blank with bewilderment. 'What should Sarra have said to upset me?'
Claudia reeled. 'You ... haven't heard?'
'Heard what, my dear?'
'Sarra was found early this morning in a glade beneath an oak,' she said gently. 'She'd been stabbed a number of times.'
What little colour was left in Mavor's cheeks drained
away. 'She's dead?' She blinked in incomprehension. 'Sarra's
dead?'
When Claudia nodded, her shoulders began to tremble.
'Sweet Avita,' she muttered, hiding her face with her hands. 'Oh no, not this again, oh dear heaven, not this again.'
'Not what again?'
'This is terrible,' Mavor said, and there was no doubt she meant it. 'I don't know what he'll do when he finds out, I can't imagine—'
The rest of her sentence was drowned by four long blasts on a horn, but before Claudia could press her further, she was sprinting down the path like a hare with the hounds on its trail. It was a good morning for running, Claudia thought ruefully, and as a final blast on the horn told revellers that it was time to stop partying and prepare for the loosing of the midsummer arrows, she slowly walked up to the door and tried the latch. It wouldn't lift. She tried again in case it was stiff.
The door's locked, Mavor had said, but Mavor was lying. Caught off guard, she'd said the first thing that came into her head, and from then on, the door was in Claudia's sight all the time. She stared at the latch. Unless Mavor's companion had rushed out immediately after her and then took off down the other path, she'd have seen him - and how likely was that, if he'd taken such great pains to console her inside the hut? The odds were similar to the sun rising in the north, she decided.
Which meant that whoever Mavor was talking to a moment ago had locked himself inside and lay low.
On the Field of Celebration preparations were underway for the climax of the midsummer festivities, and the atmosphere was electric. It was the excitement that comes with all new beginnings, of course. An eagerness to interpret the omens and see what lies ahead for their future. But for Claudia, still in shock from discovering Pod bent over Sarra, it was hard to conceive that so much energy and life could be pulsating at a time when the corpse of a young girl lay cold on her bier. Shuddering, she glanced at the dais, where Beth stood smiling serenely, Dora reassured her squad of nervous novices
with a string of hilarious jokes, and where Fearn, Luisa and even Ailm now wore the brightest of smiles. How could they do it? she wondered. How could they stand there and pretend nothing had happened? Why don't these bitches care?
With a taste of bile at the back of her throat, Claudia nudged her way through the crowd, where fifty male slaves formed an orderly queue to collect a bow and an arrow apiece. Originally, she'd imagined that the reason the men weren't given their bows beforehand was because they couldn't be trusted with dangerous weapons. She'd had visions of mutiny, rebellion, priestesses held hostage, but now she understood. These weren't bows, they were treasures. Perfect specimens being entrusted to other perfect specimens, because even under cloud cover, their silver handgrips gleamed against the richly carved, well-polished yew.
' Aim true with this arrow, my friend.' Dora's voice boomed across the field as she addressed each archer in turn. 'It carries one of the Hundred-Handed's own favours, and through your strength and your accuracy, we will embed in the soil a part of ourselves. The cycle of life is eternal.'
Standing at the foot of the podium, tasked with dispensing the arrows, was Gurdo. His face showed no signs of strain as he laid one sacred offering after another in the men's outstretched palms, and she was just wondering where he'd managed to hide Pod when she noticed a familiar face close to the dais. Elusa? That blonde, almost white hair, was quite unmistakeable and something flipped in Claudia's stomach. Swarbric was right, Connal had gone - but not with his lover.
No more talk of escape, right? You've only been here a year, son, you 're still learning.
A year, Swarbric said. A year in which a youth with fire in his belly had come to resent bitterly the chains he was forced to wear. A lump formed in her throat that would not go away. Swarbric, Swarbric, what have you done? Young and sentimental, he was chasing what he thought were runaway lovers, little knowing he was chasing a killer. What would happen? He'd gone armed with his short sword and dagger as always, but Connal, he thought, was a friend. A vulnerable youngster to take under his wing. Connal's knife would be in his ribs even while he embraced him ...
Stupid, she told herself. You should have guessed— Dammit, from the outset she'd considered rage as a motive for Clytie's murder. Sacrificed on an altar of despairing male principles, she had said, seeing the shape of the rock. So why didn't she realize? For gods' sake, why didn't she see what was in front of her own bloody eyes? A Briton in Gaul and enslaved to women, subjection hit at the very core of Connal's masculinity, and for a young man desperate to be with a girl in a society where everything was shared, including lovers, he was the perfect candidate for exploding anger. In a bid to stamp out the nits before they grew into lice, he'd killed one of the novices. He had disguised his motive by painting her face, and no doubt hoped to eliminate the rest of the nits when the opportunity arose. Or when his anger could not be contained—
I'm not some sodding bear that can be forced to dance or be beaten to within an inch of its life.
Ironically, Swarbric was the trigger. Frustrated by the knowledge that that's exactly what he was, that he was trapped and forced to perform, Connal exploded again. And this time he didn't try to disguise his anger. Sarra took the full brunt of his fury ...
Her eyes were stinging, there was a lump in her throat. Oh, Swarbric, you bloody damned fool. Through the heads and shoulders of the cheering crowd, she scanned the archers as they lined up in front of Gurdo.
'Aim true with this arrow, my friend.'
Dora was addressing a long, lean hunk with a small goatee beard as though he was the only man in the world.
'The cycle of life is eternal - '
Orbilio was standing fifth from the back, but what the hell could he do? Claudia pushed her way forward.
'- carries one of the Hundred-Handed's own favours - ' the Oak Priestess had turned her attention to a young Arabian slave with rippling muscles and shoulder-length, oiled black curls - 'and through your strength and your accuracy—' Claudia waved her arms to attract Marcus's attention. As the oiled black curls moved away, another archer stepped forward, one whose curls
were short, dark and fuzzy. Look at me, dammit, she willed Orbilio. Look this way, for gods' ... DARK AND FUZZY?
embed in the soil a part of—'
She peered through the crush, but her eyes hadn't deceived her. Dora was indeed addressing the young Briton and if there was any doubt left in Claudia's mind, it was the smile of pride on Elusa's face. But ... She tried to think. But ... if Connal was here and Elusa was here, what made Swarbric think they'd run away? Their conversation replayed at speed through her head.
They always find out, he had told Connal. These trees have ears, they have eyes, 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.
Swarbric knew. Whether he'd known all along or found out through other means didn't matter. The point was, he knew Claudia had been eavesdropping on him and of course it wasn't Swarbric who suggested Connal had run off with Elusa, he merely said that he couldn't find him. It was left to Claudia to put the pieces together. Claudia who came to the conclusion that they'd eloped. Claudia who couldn't look past her stupid nose! And as another slave moved up to accept the sacred arrow, ice ran through her veins.
She had fallen straight into the German's trap. Too busy trying to pin the murder on Fearn, she had allowed Swarbric to manipulate her and let his charm blind her to common sense.
As the crowd cheered and applauded, she felt herself sway, sick to the stomach with guilt.
Thanks to her, the bastard had just escaped justice.