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.
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.