Marilyn Todd - Scorpion Rising

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 Claudia 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.