Marilyn Todd - Scorpion Rising

'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.

The very mention of the word June conjures up bright sun-kissed days and extended warm evenings, stars twinkling brightly and poppies nodding at the end of long velvety stems. It's when aubretia and thyme tumble down hills in thick purple cascades, when kingfishers dart, buzzards ride the thermals and mew, when brimstone butterflies vie with buttercups and flag irises for the honour of the brightest yellow. Midsummer is when leaves are at their greenest, grass at its lushest and skylarks are warbling over the meadows to take spirits soaring up there alongside them.

Now, it seemed, June was the season of death.

Or at least the condemning to death. July was when it would take place.

By the time dehydration and starvation finally claimed the pit's victim, the roses would be over, fairy rings would appear.

Marcus Cornelius would not be alive to see them.

There were no tears left. Her throat was raw from pleading, from threatening, she'd tried every tactic that she could think of, from bullying, hitting, scratching and biting to begging, bribing and blackmail.

Nothing penetrated the wall the Hundred-Handed put up. These were their grounds, these were their rules and they brooked no intervention.

Negotiation was not part of the deal.

'Listen, lady.' Gurdo sat by the empty shell that was Claudia Seferius in the cave and filled a stone grail with water. 'It doesn't matter if he's the Roman bloody Emperor, your friend killed a raven and the penalty for killing ravens is death.'

There was something about the smell of the water that made Claudia push it away.

'Drink it,' he insisted. 'It's black hellebore, which has already served Pod well today. It'll do you no harm to sleep deep at the moment.'

'I can't. I need to be there-'

'No, you don't,' Gurdo snapped. 'That's why I had you brought down here! You didn't want to watch while they threw him-'

'Yes, I did,' she wailed, hurling the grail at the wall. 'Don't you understand? It was me that brought him here in the first place, me that got him bloody well killed!'

'It was an accident, Lofty Legs, and accidents happen. You can't blame yourself any more than you can blame the raven for flying across that glade. There's nothing you can do about fate.'

Oh, Marcus, why didn't you listen to me? Why didn't you take that bloody horse from the stables and ride? Ride down and catch up with Swarbric?

Gurdo bent down to retrieve the vessel and filled it with water from the spring. 'You won't like what I'm going to say, but I'm going to say it anyway.' He let the trickle run over his hand. 'The best thing you can do for your friend is keep away from that place, do you hear me?'

'But-'

'But nothing, lady.' His mouth turned down in an inverted U. 'There's no trial, no appeal, you know that already. Nothing can change those priestesses' minds, and it doesn't matter whether they think the Pit is barbaric or not, this is one of the few issues on which there's no going back.' He paused and took a deep breath. 'Not that it matters. By now, they'll have thrown your friend down the cliff and that's why I say stay away.'

He knelt in front of her and placed his hands on her quivering shoulders.

'He'll have broken bones, internal bleeding, he'll be lying among the rotting remains of other poor sods,' he said, 'without food, without water and without anything to dull his pain.'

An animal sound came from somewhere close by. Claudia had no idea it was her.

'What he won't need is some woman weeping over him, making him feel even worse,' Gurdo continued steadily. 'Because physical pain is one thing, Lofty Legs. All you'd be doing is adding to it with emotional torture.'

At the bottom of the Pit, Marcus Cornelius felt something wet trickle down the side of his face and although he hadn't explored with his fingers yet, there was something badly wrong where his belt should have been.

It had happened so fast, that was the thing. One moment he was standing on the field, staring at the arrow sticking out of the raven. The next, rough hands had grabbed him, too many to fight, and he'd been carried yelling and kicking round the rock, up the hill, and flung into a fissure.

Vaguely he'd been aware of the priestesses' white faces, notably Beth's, which was carved of stone. But most of all he'd been aware of a wild animal howling, spitting, scratching, clawing at his captors as they climbed the hill, until half a dozen local Gauls pulled her off and carried her screaming off down to the river.

And now what?

High above, he could hear the song of a robin, but here it was blackness, hell come to life, and, among the rotting remains of other poor sods, knowing he was without food, without water, and with only a thin slit in the rocks through which he could see daylight, Marcus Cornelius rolled himself into a ball and cried like a baby.

His only consolation was that Claudia wasn't around to witness his ultimate humiliation.

'Orbilio, is that you skiving down there at the foot of that rock?'

Her voice sounded croaky, it must be the echo. He sniffed, cleared his throat and called back.

'Do you mind?' He blew his nose on his fingers. 'I'm mining for silver, if you please. It grows wild in these parts, I've been told.'

'Fiddlesticks, that's gold and you pluck it from trees.' There was a pause the length of two heartbeats. 'I'm going to get you out of there, you do you realize that?'

She'd have better luck picking nuggets from trees. 'I'm perfectly comfortable, thanks all the same.'

This time the pause was longer, and the voice was croakier still. It seemed an awfully long way away.

'Typical, Marcus. Always thinking of yourself, but I'll have you know there are fences to mend and pigs to muck out. The world can't wait while you pamper yourself, and don't tell me you didn't contrive this little charade so you'd add more bruises to your collection in the hope that the Hundred-Handed don't bed damaged goods.'

For a moment, he just couldn't speak.

'It's not the sex-slave part that bothers me,' he eventually called back. 'It's where they stick the tattoo.' He closed his eyes then opened them. 'Claudia.'

'M-Marcus?'

'Why did you come back?' He had to know. 'Why did you come back to Gaul?'

There was no reply for several minutes. He thought she must have gone away. 'Good grief, Orbilio, I wish you'd conserve your energies for something important, like climbing the rope I'll send down later, for instance.'

When he drew a deep breath, his ribs hurt.

'Don't you think it a bit odd that the entrance to this pit isn't guarded?' he said. 'There's no rope here long enough to reach, Claudia. There is no way up from this pit.'

'Then I'll ride straight to the Governor-'

'Claudia!' The pain that tore through him squeezed his eyes shut, but the pain had no physical source. 'Claudia, this is sacred ground. Even Rome won't go against their decision.'

For once nothing, not his wealth, his breeding, his family name or his rank, could extricate him from this, and whilst Rome might beat its breast over one of its sons — and who knows, maybe even erect a statue to him in some obscure square — Rome would not intervene in religious matters. It was imperial policy, he knew it and, judging from the time it took to reply, so did she.