by Marilyn Todd
Why?
Perched on a rock, dangling her feet in one of the quieter pools as she dried her hair with a towel, Claudia studied the stranded assemblage. Much to Maria’s social chagrin, more and more clothing had appeared on the shrubbery, vivid scarlets and blues, yellows and white—gaudy blossoms along the green riverbank. Acceptance had now set in, the group was relaxed, almost happy, and even old Hanno was enough of a trooper to know that the best way to mourn his grandson was to be cheerful. So he was back to being the joker again, his prune of a face gurning, his wiry frame mimicking everyone from Clemens to Volso, even Drusilla could not escape his hilarious caricatures. Look at the way he cocked his nose upwards in disdain—the cat might have been looking at a mirror image of herself.
Maybe, thought Claudia, maybe I’m wrong about the saboteur being one of us. Take a look at the carnival atmosphere. Theo, out of armour and looking at least twelve years of age, clowning around with the muleteer, a clumsy stooge to the comedian. Iliona, belting out a tub-thumper of a song about the skill of Cretan archers as the younger wives clapped and danced, their long hair unbound and informal, their skirts whirling and swirling and revealing their knees. A couple of the older matrons smiled benignly as they scrubbed their linens on the rocks and wrung them dry and even the two injured drivers, suffering from the effects of dwindling henbane supplies, made an effort to tap with the lively rhythm. Other men fished or arm-wrestled, played dice or dozed, while Clemens and Volso argued their respective theological professions.
Maybe the landslip was Mother Nature’s work after all?
Steam and the delicious smell of mint tea drifted upstream from the cauldron, crackling over an aromatic fir fire, while sunlight filtered through the trembling aspens to make dazzling patterns on the fizzy waters of this wide rushing river.
Briskly, Claudia rubbed at her hair. Oh yes, a peaceful and contented scene all right, reminiscent of public holidays when city folk crowd into the Alban hills for picnics and bonfires and musical celebrations. Except this was no happy-go-lucky chaplet-and-garland day. The motive behind thirty-two people being trapped in this sweltering valley might be sinister or simply the result of prolonged, heavy rain, but the point is, Claudia reminded herself, whether the saboteur walks among us or not, one of our bunch is a cold-blooded killer.
‘Hey!’ The shout echoed along the ravine. ‘Up there! Look!’
Everyone followed to where Hanno’s gnarled finger was pointing.
‘I can’t see anything,’ Dexter said. ‘My eyes are too weak to see far in the sunlight,’ but nobody heard him, because by now they’d all risen to their feet in excitement and were yelling and pointing and squinting simultaneously.
Upstream on a bend and unable to see what the others could, Claudia felt her legs go weak with relief. The army. At long last, the army had found them. From now on, the convoy was safe.
‘Who is he, can you tell?’ the slipper-maker asked. His profile was slanting lower all the time, marking the company’s descent and Claudia frowned. He? Surely the slipper-maker meant ‘they’?
‘Not Helvetii,’ Volso said, shielding his eyes for a better view. ‘Or Sequani for that matter. They wear pantaloons, rather than tunics.’
They. That’s better.
‘He looks Roman to me,’ Titus said.
He?
‘And to me,’ piped up one of the drivers.
‘And me.’ That was Hanno.
The wooden bridge echoed with the rumble of footsteps running in greeting, but still Claudia couldn’t quite see. Then a bolt of white lightning shot through her. Sweet Juno in heaven, I’m hallucinating. Too much root of burdock, too little wine, those mushrooms must have been the wrong type. I’m seeing things.
But…surely she recognized that long patrician tunic? That mop of wavy, dark hair? A catapult ricocheted all round her ribcage. Someone sucked the air out of her lungs.
‘Trust him,’ she muttered to a brimstone butterfly. Of all the bravehearts sent to rescue us, it had to be him in the bloody vanguard.
Yellow wings fluttered closer.
‘Who?’ Claudia framed the question the little butterfly could not. ‘I’ll tell you who!’ Her voice came out in a hiss. ‘Marcus Fancypants Orbilio, that’s who.’
And I need him around like I need a kick up the bum. With her teeth grinding down to their gums, she launched a rock into orbit. Trust Hotshot to have to prove himself a hero. Him and his bloody ambitions for the Senate.
Still. Claudia scrubbed the feeling back into the two lumps of meat which had once been her feet but which had stayed too long in the icy cold river. When you’re rescued from a shipwreck, you don’t whinge about the quality of the blankets they wrap you in, do you?
As she clambered back over the rocks towards the riverbank, the numbness playing havoc with her ankle joints, she noticed Junius jogging up the road towards her.
‘Have you crated Drusilla?’ she asked. ‘Stuffed our bits and pieces back in the trunk?’
‘Um—’
‘It’s about bloody time the army did something useful for a change.’
Goodbye, outdoorsy life with your fresh air, open skies and whatnot. Roll on Vesontio’s theatres, dinner parties, dress shops and herbalists.
‘Ah—’
Give me stuffy streets and noisy tenements any day. Nothing beats the taste of dust from the hooves of the charioteer’s nags, the racket from a few brawling drunkards, the thwack of boxers’ knuckles connecting with chins. Claudia checked her satchel, the one which had never left her sight, not even at night when she used it as a pillow, and saw the seal of the salamander staring back at her.
‘Junius, why are you standing there with a face like a thunderclap?’ She rubbed at the pins and needles which had set into her feet. ‘Either we’re packed or we’re not, and if you tell me we’re not, you can expect to be served your own liver for tea.’
‘Well, madam—’
Claudia forced the icy blocks into her sandals. ‘Wells are for water,’ she snapped, without looking up. ‘Now what’s the problem? Don’t tell me you want to remain in this godforsaken hellhole?’
He was a Gaul, after all. Maybe one day she ought to check where he came from…
‘It’s not that, madam.’ Ideally he’d have paused, found time to phrase his words, but her glare wouldn’t permit such a luxury and therefore his words tumbled out in a gush.
As the sun dived behind a cottonball cloud, Claudia listened to her bodyguard’s report, only what he was saying didn’t make sense. She made him repeat it, just in case he’d been at the magic mushrooms too, but no. Both accounts, while jumbled, retained the same salient points.
‘Let me get this straight.’ Claudia ticked them off on her fingers. ‘There’s no army here to rescue us.’
‘Correct.’
‘Superman out there’—mobbed by the crowd, Orbilio had all but disappeared in the crush—‘has come here completely alone.’
‘Correct.’
‘Pretending, what’s more, to be part of the delegation.’
‘His story’—try as he might, Junius could not fully disguise the sullenness which spoiled his handsome face as he jerked a thumb in the direction of the man crossing the bridge downstream—‘is that he was taken ill in Bern and spent three days in bed, by which time the convoy was long gone.’
‘Having completely forgotten about one of its aristocratic members?’ Claudia snorted.
‘According to him,’ Junius said sourly, ‘he urged the soldiers and servants to leave. Said he’d follow on by himself.’
The story had more holes than a beggar’s tunic, Claudia decided, and a vicious kick sent a pebble winging into the river. What’s his game this time? she wondered, and for several minutes stood on the bank, staring into the swirling white waters as though the rapids might throw up some answers. They didn’t, of course, and she was damned if she’d go up there and pose the question herself. No way. He irritated her, this tall patrician. The way he tried t
o conceal his amusement with the back of his hand. The way he smelled of fresh sandalwood unguent. The way that little pulse beat at the side of his neck. The way, in fact, he looked right now, crumpled and filthy, his face grey with exhaustion. Barging past Junius, the traps and rigs and horses, Claudia bumped to a halt at the raucous throng which had clustered round the new arrival, some clamouring for information, others chronicling their own adventures, some (Maria!) bemoaning their fate. Carefully, Claudia scrutinized the hillside on the Helvetian side of the gorge, but saw nothing that resembled sunshine gleaming off a load of armoured bodies. No ropes. No mules. No provisions. And the air was distinctly short on hollered instructions…
Shit.
Dancing dark eyes homed in on hers. Shit, shit, shit.
The bubbly blonde wife of the slipper-maker (or was it the glass-blower?) grabbed Claudia’s arm. ‘Marcus has had an incredible escape,’ she gushed.
He has? What about us? Where’s the sodding rescue team?
‘He followed the directions given to him, but of course the road’s fallen away and he had to clamber all the way over that mountain.’ A little plump finger dripping with awe pointed up to the ridge. ‘Don’t you think that’s incredible?’ she said breathlessly.
‘The word was on the tip of my tongue.’ Goddammit, still those dark eyes bored into her. She resisted the urge to punch the twinkle right out of them.
‘You can see the poor lamb’s been through hell and back.’ A wistful rosebud mouth pursed at the purple caverns under his eyes, his drawn cheeks and ashen skin. ‘He looks terrible.’
‘Invariably.’
The blonde’s eyes popped wide. ‘You know him?’ She propelled Claudia through the clamouring crowd. ‘Then you must introduce me!’
‘Don’t build your hopes up,’ Claudia smiled sweetly. ‘He’s bisexual.’
One lazy eyebrow (masculine) arched in surprise.
‘Really?’ asked the blonde, producing the merest hint of a frown.
‘He buys all his sexual encounters.’
Orbilio turned a laugh into a cough.
The blonde turned away.
‘So then,’ boomed Volso, dragging Claudia forward, ‘you know young Marcus, I hear?’
‘Do I! Why, we practically grew up together, Markie and me,’ she said breezily. ‘His mother foisted him on to us. You see’—she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper—‘wee Marcus was never her favourite.’
‘Had lots of children, did she?’
‘Actually he was an only child, why do you ask? Oh dear, something wrong, Markie? Bad cough, that.’ She turned back to Volso. ‘Tragic childhood, really. His only other friends were imaginary, and unfortunately they wouldn’t play with him, either.’
By sucking in his cheeks and biting deep into his lower lip, the new arrival fought to recover from his respiratory problem.
‘So then, old man,’ the glass-blower asked, ‘what er’—he didn’t like to use the word ‘trade’ to the gentry—‘what do you specialize in?’
Orbilio pushed his dark hair out of his eyes. ‘I design mosaics,’ he said.
‘No one can hold a candle to our Markie, when it comes to getting laid.’ Claudia shot him the sort of smile which could have shrivelled the grapes on the vine, and delved deep into her satchel. ‘Now, about that cough. Here we are. Syrup of figs.’
‘Isn’t that for constipation?’ He frowned. Around them, eager faces shuffled closer as their makeshift physician removed the stopper from a small glass phial.
‘You cure coughs your way, I’ll cure them mine,’ she said sweetly, forcing the sickly liquid down his throat. ‘Now, why don’t you tell little Claudie all about your mountaineering experiences while I dose that persistent tapeworm problem of yours. Castor oil should do the trick.’
‘No, no, no, that’s cured,’ he said quickly, and she noticed both hands shot up, palm outwards to ward off more phial attacks. ‘Er, did someone say there were difficulties burying the dead?’
Neat, Marcus. Very neat. But I’ll get you next time, never fear.
Theo stepped forward, and Claudia noticed he’d slipped on his breastplate so the newcomer should know who was in charge. With military precision, he reported on their two unsuccessful attempts to retrieve the bodies, clearly hoping that, whereas previously he’d been among the merchant classes, now that a patrician had arrived on the scene, some weight would be added to his leadership qualities. Centurion status might have receded into the distance, but promotion to Mess Leader was still in his sights.
Claudia watched Orbilio’s professional eyes narrow as he gauged the blockage upstream, the tangle of rocks and branches and tree roots, then swivelled upwards to assess the damage on the hillside, the chances of making it down to the bottom. Finally he looked up and down the rushing river.
‘It’s hopeless,’ Theo said. ‘We can’t reach them.’
‘Apart from—who did you say it was over there? Nestor?’ Orbilio indicated the canvas-wrapped body lying on the Helvetian bank. ‘Apart from him, I agree we can’t return the bones to the family for burial, but soldiers don’t expect such a send-off, am I right, Theo?’
The young legionary nodded slowly, but already colour was seeping upwards from his neck into his cheeks.
‘Soldiers who die in the field are buried in the field, there’ll be no dishonour attached to those two, which only leaves your grandson, Hanno.’ He put his arm round the old muleteer. ‘How do you feel about…’ His voice descended into a whisper which only Hanno could hear, and to everyone’s amazement, his rheumy eyes lit up in hope and expectation.
‘That would be grand,’ Hanno said, with a catch in his voice. ‘It drives nails into my heart, knowing his rotting corpse lies just out of reach and there’s nowt I can do to prevent him being pecked at by birds and nibbled by rats. We’re humble muleteers, we don’t expect no fancy burials, but that,’ his wizened arm pointed upstream, ‘that isn’t right—and, son, if you can do what you say you can, why…’ The emotion was too great for him to continue.
‘Do what exactly?’ Worry lines were etched deep in Theo’s freckles.
Orbilio ignored him, and Claudia saw a flash of anger, of resentment, and of something she couldn’t identify pass over the legionary’s face. ‘Does anyone have an arrow?’ Marcus asked. Theo wouldn’t, of course, he was a soldier, not an archer, but often the drivers used them for protection. Orbilio selected one from the quiver and notched it to the string of the bow.
‘Right.’ He took aim, and with a twang the arrow landed amongst the landslip’s debris. ‘About there?’ he asked.
‘Bit more to the right,’ Hanno said, squinting. ‘Say two paces.’ Orbilio let fly another missile. ‘I reckon that’s it,’ Hanno said, and the excitement in his voice was palpable now.
Everyone was staring upstream, curious to see what it was this patrician newcomer could achieve that they could not, even the two wounded drivers were up on their feet. In fact, so intent were they on straining to see that only Claudia observed him walk across to where the cauldron bubbled with mint tea.
First one flaming arrow shot through the air, then another, then another, then another, until whoosh! Resinous fir trees which had been exposed to the hot sun for two days took very little persuading to ignite and soon the whole lot was ablaze, they could feel the heat on their faces. Someone said, through the cheering, what about the trees on the riverbank, won’t they catch fire? but it soon became obvious that, although the alders shrivelled and scorched, there was too much green wood for them to do anything other than smoke, while the landslide had left the far bank just bare rock and earth.
Had Claudia been able to spit feathers, the bird life in this valley would be bald. Supersnoop had turned himself into a hero, and he’d only this minute arrived! Serve him right if his skin turns black and blue from bruising, with everyone clapping him so hard on the back. Except Theo, of course. Claudia moved round for a better view of the man who suddenly no longer resembled a gaw
ky adolescent. Hatred burned in his eyes, and he looked like a man, not a boy. Moreover, a man who’d just been deposed…
‘Shit!’ Clemens danced around as though he’d stepped barefoot on a scorpion, slapping his palm against his forehead. ‘Those bodies are cremating,’ he cried, his face white with agitation. ‘Instead of watching, I should be conducting their souls to the underworld, making purification, I should— Oh, hell. Does anyone here play the flute?’
‘I do,’ Iliona said, calming him down and, as the little priest launched into a garbled service, she piped out a tune, although whether a Cretan love song was quite the answer, no one said and Clemens didn’t notice and Hanno, most definitely, didn’t care. Thin, silent tears trickled down his weathered face, and Claudia knew that from now on, he’d walk on fire for Orbilio.
‘Holy Neptune, the incense,’ Clemens squealed. ‘I have to purify their souls with—’
‘I’ll get it.’ Claudia laughed. Poor Clemens. It’ll torment him for weeks, being caught on the hop like this. Him, who lays out his clothes, his food, his utensils so carefully. Who can recite every taboo of Jupiter’s priest, who makes lists and notes with such painstaking care, who even sorts his coins into size and denomination. Still chuckling, Claudia reached into the tubby priest’s rig and flipped up the lid of his trunk. Why, I’ll bet he counts the stars every night and calls out a register. Lucifer? Present. Sirius? Present. Vega? Vega, where are you, Vega, I know you’re there somewhere, you little monkey… She grabbed the silver censor, redolent with incense, and was just about to close the lid, when she realized the chain had caught on a shoe deep inside the trunk. Come on, come on. Claudia unhooked the link from the sandal strap and shoved the shoe down the side, wondering what Clemens would make of the muddle, when she realized that the shoe was going nowhere. It had stuck. Damn. Scrunching his spare tunics to one side and careless of the crumples, she shoved the obstinate sandal into the hole she’d created, then noticed what was causing the obstruction.
