by Marilyn Todd
‘I still say we wait,’ said the mournful astrologer. ‘We know we can’t get past that tangle of fallen rocks and trees—’
‘Volso, you’re such a bloody defeatist,’ someone snapped, probably the slipper-maker. ‘We’ll never know till we try, will we?’
‘Be my guest,’ the astrologer said dryly. ‘Just bear in mind what happened to Libo.’
‘Ach, that was Helvetia,’ the glass-blower said. ‘The Sequani are very pro-Roman.’
Beside them, the river thundered through the narrow ravine, white and frothy, fast and furious, jumping over rapids and bouncing round rocks, and as the rain receded so steam began to rise from the thick vegetation—the ferns, the aspens, the alders and willows which grew so lushly along the riverbanks.
‘And you think that by crossing this bridge, you receive automatic protection from Helvetii attacks?’ Volso scoffed. ‘Or that having Roman blood in your veins deters a Sequani head-hunter?’
‘Oh, come on.’ The slipper-maker’s voice, however, had lost much of its stridence. ‘You can’t believe in that crap?’
‘I wouldn’t underestimate the tribesmen living in these remoter regions,’ Theo said sombrely, unbuckling his breastplate. ‘They’re a superstitious lot, the Gauls, especially in the more isolated hamlets. Those who live on the border, particularly, have to put up with the constant threat of invasion—raiding parties, rather than territorial skirmishes, I admit, but none the more reassuring for that. The collecting of skulls equates with strength and cunning to these wretched barbarians. To them, the head is the seat of all power.’
From one of the carts, a woman began to whimper like a wounded kitten.
‘Claptrap,’ Titus jeered. ‘Complete and utter balls.’
‘I agree.’ Theo removed his helmet and puffed up the plumes. ‘That’s why Rome is trying so hard to suppress this barbaric practice, but the fact remains that as long as the group sticks together, we can count ourselves safe. Stay or go, we should vote on it.’
‘Well, I’m for toughing it out,’ Volso said. ‘I have the utmost faith in the Emperor’s legions, I suggest we wait here to be rescued.’
‘Here, here,’ voices cried.
‘Suppose the water level rises further?’ someone asked. ‘It’s such a torrent, if it sweeps down this gorge, it could take the bridge with it…’
‘That’s not helping,’ Titus growled, shooting a glance from under the fringe which fell over one eye. ‘That’s scaremongering, and that’s not why we should push on. In my view, inactivity is not simply a waste of time, I believe it’s bloody dangerous.’
‘Here, here,’ the same voices cried.
‘Oh, for gods’ sake,’ Claudia barked, marching to the front. ‘All this wrangling’s getting us nowhere, and besides, the whole argument’s academic. We have to send out a burial party, and since that can’t be done tonight, you might as well stop squabbling and sleep on it, and I’m sure you chaps are adult enough to discuss it more calmly in the morning. Now why don’t you all get your bloody nags across this rickety thing the Sequani call a bridge and get a fire going? I am starved!’
Shamed into obedience, the convoy, incredibly, did as they were told, and soon horsemeat (poor old Hercules, his leg was broken anyway) was roasting away over a crackling log fire while wild strawberries were gathered by the wayside.
‘About Drusilla,’ said Junius, ‘now we’re settled for the night, shall I let her out of the cage?’
‘Hmmm?’ Claudia’s eyes were narrowed as she watched a pair of peregrine falcons circle over the rocky outcrops which jutted high above the trees. ‘Oh, yes. Let her out. She’ll be fine.’ Poor cat was well used to situations like this. ‘But before you do, Junius.’
‘Yes.’
The falcons screamed and dived in a spectacular courtship display.
‘Find out whose rig was protected by that overhang of rock up there, will you? The one I found Nestor’s body in.’
There might be no significance in it. Perhaps it was pure bad luck the killer had chosen that particular rig. But then again, it might have been carefully planned.
VII
‘Much more of that,’ Clemens said, settling on the bridge beside Claudia, ‘and we’ll have you elected as leader.’
Two flaws in that argument, priest. One: no matter how sound the advice, men never knowingly accept orders from women. And two: no way would Claudia take responsibility for this raggle-taggle bunch of boozers and losers. She said nothing, continuing to wriggle her bare toes above the swirling, white waters as she polished off her last piece of steak. Blue, almost black, dragonflies darted in and out amongst the water mint and a dipper, its white bib bobbing, braved the ferocious undertow for its supper.
‘Yes, yes, I like that idea.’ Chortling merrily, Clemens pulled his own sandals off and swung his legs over the edge, twitching whenever the icy splashes and sprays tickled the soles of his feet. ‘Especially with your Gaul acting as scout and interpreter.’ He paused. ‘I suppose you can trust him?’
Ah. So this is why you’ve joined me?
‘About as much as I can trust you, Clemens,’ Claudia replied sweetly, casting a sideways glance at this short, rotund priest. With his long white robes kilted up to the middle of his pale, pudgy calves and with his round, eager face, he transmitted waves of youthfulness way beyond his thirty-nine years. Not the way Theo did, of course, with boyish good looks. In fact, with his receding hairline contrasting sharply with the solid mound around his waist, handsome wasn’t the word which sprang immediately to mind. But nonetheless Clemens reminded her of…well, a slobbering lump of a puppy, actually. Not fully co-ordinated, but still incredibly eager. Sharp, too. He had to be, to be in the priesthood.
‘The reason I mention it,’ he said slowly, ‘is because before Junius set foot across this bridge, he sliced a piece of bark from an alder and carved some sort of symbol—it looked like horns—before tossing it into the water.’
‘Bull.’
‘No, honestly, I watched him do it.’
‘I meant, they’re bulls’ horns, Clemens. He does it in Rome, even. In fact everywhere there’s water to cross, he’ll throw in a stone he’s previously engraved with the horns, he carries them around for the purpose.’
In this case, his supply probably went down the ravine with the rig.
‘Bit…odd, don’t you think?’ the priest said. ‘I presume you do know what it means, the bulls’ horns?’ He shifted uncomfortably and tried not to frown when Claudia seemed more intent on a blue butterfly than on him. ‘One of the methods, you see, which the Gauls use to practise’—he gulped—‘human sacrifice is to pinion the unlucky person between the forelegs of a bull and…’ He left the sentence hanging.
‘Then I’ll make you a promise, Clemens. The next time I catch Junius tying a man to a bull, I’ll ask him to refrain in the future. How’s that?’
The little priest’s eyelashes drooped. ‘Oh dear,’ he said miserably. ‘You’re making fun of me, and I do so want everybody’s approbation. This trip is frightfully important for me.’ He looked even glummer. ‘My one big chance to acquire gravitas.’
‘Clemens, if we get out of this alive, you’ll be a hero,’ Claudia said, popping a shiny red strawberry in his little red mouth.
‘Really?’ His head jerked up. ‘This is so pivotal, this delegation. I need to show them back in Rome that I’m not a figure of fun, just because I’m short and fat—er cuddly, and my wife left me for a stevedore the same day I accidentally burned the house down by leaving a pan over the fire.’ He leaned close, and Claudia caught a faint smell of hops. ‘If I tell you my ambition, promise you’ll keep it a secret?’
‘Cross my heart.’
Swallows made graceful parabolas over the water.
‘I’m after the post of Jupiter’s priest.’
Oh dear. Claudia forced her cheeks to bunch into a smile, told him she wished him the very best, and didn’t mention he didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell
. Not because he wasn’t competent. Rather because the Head of the Security Police had earmarked this most prestigious post for his own twin brother and nothing, and no one, would stand in the way of that little weasel’s personal ambitions, his clump up the secular ladder.
‘I’ve learned all the taboos off by heart,’ Clemens said proudly, popping in another strawberry. ‘Test me. Come on, test me!’
Claudia didn’t have the heart to discourage him. ‘All right.’ She pretended to think, although she, like most other citizens, knew a mere handful of the complicated regulations. ‘Jupiter’s priest isn’t allowed to touch dogs, horses or nanny goats, neither is he allowed to touch wheat, beans or raw meat. What else mustn’t he come into contact with?’
‘Easy!’ Clemens almost bounced on the spot. ‘He’s not allowed to touch a corpse, not even his closest family members, but—and this is what you tried to catch me out on, right?—he’s also forbidden to come into contact with ivy.’
‘Why?’
‘Because, like the vine, which the priest is also not allowed to pass under, ivy has tendrils which curl into circles, and Jupiter’s priest must avoid any coils, rings, even knots because these are symbolically binding and to serve the great Jupiter properly, he must have no encumbrances.’
He finished in a great rush of air and Claudia could just picture him, reciting each of the seventy-odd taboos every night and setting not a foot wrong in his service to his illustrious master. So conscientious, this little list-maker, Clemens would actually make an excellent choice for the post.
‘Back to more mundane matters,’ he sighed. ‘I’ve computed it out, and assuming we can reach at least half the dead mules, Theo is carrying enough salt and Titus sufficient spices for us to preserve the meat for three days (but no more in this heat), and with thirty-two of us stranded, and provided we hook some of those fat trout and perch in the deeper pools there, food won’t be a problem.’
My, my, a proper Happy Valley.
‘I gather you’re for staying, then?’ Claudia grabbed the last strawberry before his podgy fingers closed over it and wondered just how important it was to Clemens that the group stayed put for a while.
There were two distinct factions—those, like Volso, who were for remaining by the bridge, and the Titus camp, who were for forging onwards—did one of them have a sinister purpose behind it? She needed a pointer, something definite to bite into, especially as it was by no means certain that because one person spoke the loudest his was the brain behind the scheme. That was where the true skill of a mastermind comes into play. Rarely will he make a direct or vociferous instruction, relying instead on a convert for his mouthpiece, often working on him to the extent that the person actually believes the idea was his in the first place.
Claudia watched the group going about their business along the riverbank as dull daylight faded into duller twilight, encouraging the first of the bats out to forage. Over there—Hanno. Brushing the manes of his horses, which had been unhooked from the carts and tethered to trees, apparently none the worse for their experience. Iliona. Standing out like a jewel in a mud pool as she combed her long, glossy hair. Dexter. Uncertain whether the water was drinkable. The drivers, laughing as they tossed more logs on the fire and demolished the last of the roast.
Who better placed, Claudia wondered, to drip-drip-drip a suggestion into a willing ear than a tubby little priest?
‘Me?’ Clemens secured his brown leather sandals and scrabbled to his feet. ‘I don’t mind whether we stay put or push on. Either way the army will find us.’ And with that, he stumped off down the rickety bridge, leaving Claudia more confused than ever.
Because now she was coming round to the possibility that this diversion might have been organized from within this little group. Nonsense!. I’m spooked, and now I’m clutching at straws.
In the dimming light, she could see the cadaverous Volso rummaging about in his trunk, while Titus, stripped to the waist, was sluicing himself in the icy cold water, that hank of hair still concealing one eye. Neither exactly inspired allegiance—but then again, there was nothing to instil unease, either. Volso was a dry, dusty stargazer, concerned only with charts and birth signs and lengthy mathematical calculations, who made his living predicting the future of the poorer classes, who were unable to afford bulls for sacrifice or white heifers with long gilded horns. Titus, on the other hand, was an up-and-coming spice merchant, specializing in gums and resins from the East to supply the middle classes, and while he was a Roman citizen, Claudia detected a hint of Arab blood in him, which might explain his specialist cargo. Two more different men you simply couldn’t imagine.
‘Brrrrr.’ Unconcerned about the swirling torrents below, or paw-sized gaps in the bridge, Drusilla trotted confidently along the edge and began to rub round Claudia’s elbow.
‘Fearless little thing, aren’t you?’ Claudia began to scratch behind the cat’s ears and smiled to herself. Whereas most moggies knew they had nine lives to juggle, Drusilla went one stage further. ‘Ever since you learned that Egyptians, masters of your furry ancestors, capitulated to the Persians without firing off a single arrow simply because each Persian soldier carried a cat, you think you’re invincible, don’t you?’
‘Brp-brp.’
‘All right, then. Immortal.’ Claudia began to feed Drusilla the slivers of horsemeat she’d saved from her supper and wondered how the superstitious Gauls felt about felines… ‘If only we knew the motive behind this diversion,’ she said, ‘we might be able to work backwards from there.’
Hunkered down and chewing on a bit of gristle, Drusilla gave no answer, and far in the distance a lone wolf howled to a moon it couldn’t possibly see. Claudia remembered the bear cult (hell, Bern meant ‘city of the bears’) and she thought of the savage creatures which roamed this wild and lonely place. Bears. Wild boar. Wolves. While all we have to protect ourselves, she thought, from them and any hostile tribesmen, are daggers and a couple of swords.
Why, oh why, have we been brought to this godforsaken valley? Surely if the Helvetii wanted us dead, they’d have swept down by now, it would have been as easy as squashing bugs in a beaker. And sure, in the past, the Sequani had been known to take hostages for ransom, but no attempt has been made to capture us. Her eyes flickered round the dark pines. Were other eyes watching back?
Reverberations along the planks made her jump.
‘Junius! I’ve told you before, never creep up on me like that.’
‘Creep up?’ he protested. ‘I’m wearing hobnailed boots!’
‘I may have my faults, Junius, but being wrong isn’t one of them. Now have you discovered whose cart Nestor was killed in?’
‘I have indeed.’ The young Gaul’s mouth twisted down at one side. ‘The rig’s Volso’s,’ he said.
VIII
Nobody disputed the importance of retrieving the dead. The problems seemed to revolve more around which method would prove the most effective considering the paltry equipment available, and it was getting on for midday before the squabbling subsided and the detail finally set off.
Claudia had no idea whether this mattered to Nestor’s killer or not, but on the pretext of wanting her horoscope cast, she made her way down the line to Volso’s rig, only to be disappointed. He’d had an appalling night, he said (crumbs, who hadn’t?), and today, he was very sorry, but he just didn’t feel up to it. Peering closely, Claudia was inclined to agree. Cadaverous to start with, even poor dead Nestor looked in better shape than the astrologer. As she turned away, she noticed Dexter approach from the opposite end of the cart, offering Volso some of his sulphur and garlic pastilles…
Six long hours later, the bedraggled party returned. Not with Hanno’s grandson or the two soldiers. Not with supplies retrieved from the pack mules. Not with any mule meat hanging from poles. Instead they were carrying two of their own!
The eventual consensus had been that the best way to recover the bodies was not to try and cross the ferocious rapids and work u
pwards, rather to backtrack up the gorge and work down, and in this the party had been successful only in that one of the drivers had broken his arm scrambling down the hillside and another had sprained his ankle coming to his aid, and it didn’t help there was no doctor in the convoy.
An awful lot of told-you-so’s rippled round the group.
With her knowledge of herbs and the aid of a few essentials packed in her trunk, Claudia dosed the injured men with henbane, which at least dulled their pain and made them sleepy, but morale had hit rock bottom. The dead still lay where they’d fallen, there had been no sign of the army, and without mule meat, where was their supper?
‘I know we’re short of horses,’ Theo said, washing the dust off his face, ‘but Hanno, you’ll have to sort out which one we can best afford to lose.’
However, the old muleteer didn’t hear. Wracked with sobs, his old bony body hugged itself, keening quietly in grief and despair, as he pictured his grandson’s corpse mouldering in this humid valley, being pecked by buzzards, gnawed by rats…
Theo did not press the point. No one had an appetite, anyway, and when one of the mares whinnied softly, she didn’t realize how lucky an escape she had had.
A camp fire was lit, for comfort more than for light.
And so a second night passed.
IX
‘I’m sorry, but this isn’t good enough!’
Maria’s voice punctured Claudia’s sleep, the first few decent hours she’d been able to snatch. She resisted the urge to reach out and strangle the old bat. We each cope with pressure in different ways, she reminded herself. For once, let’s be charitable, eh?
‘What’s your problem this time, ma’am?’ Theo sighed, scraping his razor over his stubble.
‘Less of your sauce, young man.’ Maria snatched the mirror out of his hand. ‘The problem, as you well know, Theodorus, is food. Goddammit, the horses are eating better than we are. Why can’t you organize a hunting party, bring us back a stag or something?’
