Black Salamander

by Marilyn Todd

  ‘You heard what she said,’ Gemma gulped. ‘No food, no water.’

  ‘Maria, you’ll have to give me a hand here?’ Dexter said, throwing an exasperated glance over his shoulder.

  ‘Why?’ his wife shot back. ‘You already have one more than you started with!’ And with that, she stomped off, leaving Dexter to comfort the girl as best he could.

  ‘We’ll camp here until the weather changes,’ Theo said, piling up sticks for a fire, even though it was only midafternoon. ‘When it does, we’ll set our course by the sun and move off.’

  ‘That could be days,’ Volso whined. ‘And what about water?’

  ‘We can eat the mules,’ Theo said, ‘and ration our water. Hell, we’ve seen enough rivers these past couple of days, there’s bound to be a stream nearby.’

  ‘The injured drivers are in considerable pain,’ Claudia pointed out. ‘The henbane ran out yesterday, and although I’ve applied poultices of comfrey and elder leaves, they’ve merely eased the swelling, not the pain.’

  ‘I might be able to fill that breach.’ Titus slung his backpack to the ground and beckoned Claudia across. ‘This stuff’—he pitched his voice low, so only she could hear—‘is called laudanum. It’s a narcotic, but I doubt they’ll become addicted in so short a time.’

  Claudia took the dark-coloured resin between her fingers. It was sticky and smelled sweet. ‘What do you do with it?’

  ‘Leave that to me,’ Titus said, fixing her with the one eye not covered by his fringe as he smiled his ambiguous smile.

  Claudia said nothing, and as she handed back the lump of gooey gum, she grabbed the spice merchant’s backpack.

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘Well, you never know what else might help. Cloves and turmeric work miracles on bruises,’ she breezed, ignoring Titus’s dilemma between snatching back his satchel or behaving in a gentlemanly fashion since the focus of half the group was upon them.

  But there was nothing inside his bag which remotely resembled a yellow deerskin pouch.

  The laudanum worked fast, draining the pain lines from the wounded men’s faces. In no time Theo had a roaring fire going, the sound of tinder crackling and the sight of clear blue flames leaping out of the plane-wood comforted everyone, not merely the wounded. Wild strawberries were gathered and a few mushrooms, while burdock roots made the basis of another dreary soup. Dexter sat beside a puffy-faced Gemma, droning on about the various documents he’d bound over the years—the painstaking restoration work on the Sybilline prophecies. Poetry for the great Virgil himself. Although, he confessed ruefully, the bread-and-butter stuff came from binding old senatorial archives, principally for the Treasury Department. Dull stuff, but sufficient to keep Gemma’s mind off her fears, while others sought solace in religion. On a rough turf altar, Clemens spread out hawthorn to invoke the custody of Mercury, god of merchants who protected the departing month of June. That done, he laid out birch upon his makeshift altar, an offering for mighty Juno, after whom the month was named, and finally he set oak leaves, sacred to July, all round the grassy mound and called upon Jupiter, who would be stepping in tomorrow to protect the coming month, to hear their prayers.

  Many, watching Clemens, believed him diligent. Claudia called it hedging his bets.

  ‘As a matter of idle curiosity, why were you searching Titus’s bag?’ Had the shadows not been swallowed by the sun, Orbilio’s would have cast itself over Claudia.

  ‘Me? Don’t be ridiculous.’ She pushed past him.

  He stepped in front of her. ‘And Volso’s, for that matter. Uh-uh, don’t try to deny it, I saw you. The instant he began making his devotions with that little priest, you were inside his satchel like a ferret.’

  Claudia pursed her lips. ‘Actually, Orbilio, if you want the truth.’ She reached for her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. ‘I’m scared.’ She snuffled silently into the linen. ‘I try so hard to hide it, but’—gulp—‘deep down I feel Gemma’s right and I’—sob—‘wanted to see what the astrologer had marked on his charts for our fate.’

  ‘Oh, sweet Janus, Claudia.’ Orbilio’s face was a picture of anguish. ‘I’m so sorry. I…had no idea.’

  Good. It worked.

  ‘Truly,’ he said miserably. ‘I had no idea you were such a terrible actress. Ouch!’ He rubbed at his shin. ‘What was that for?’

  ‘Pure pleasure,’ she purred.

  His eyes were still watering as he hopped after her. ‘That’s why we’ll have such a long and happy life together.’ He grinned. ‘Whenever I’m with you, words flail me.’ There was a count of three before he said, ‘Now give me your part of the map, Claudia. And tell me who else is carrying a piece.’

  A tornado began to spin inside her head. ‘Get this in your thick skull, Orbilio, I don’t have any map.’

  And yet… And yet…

  ‘Claudia Seferius, I know you and I know when you’re lying.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You open your mouth. Now for heaven’s sake, stop this charade,’ he hissed under his breath. ‘This isn’t a game, Claudia. The whole Empire is at stake, and people, goddammit, are dying.’ He rubbed at the figure-of-eight ring on his little finger. ‘I don’t know what line you’ve been fed, or what’s on the end of the hook you were baited with, but you have to understand what’s at stake here. There’s a plot to—’

  ‘Fire!’

  ‘—assassinate not only Augustus—’

  ‘Fire in the valley. Look!’

  ‘—but to overthrow the whole Empire and reinstate the Republic and—Janus, Croesus, what’s going on over there?’

  He strode to the edge of the clearing, where the plateau fell away to reveal what, under other circumstances, would have been a magnificent panorama.

  ‘There. Can you see it?’ Theo’s voice was filled with excitement and he was almost jumping up and down on the spot. ‘A plume of grey smoke?’

  ‘Blimey, you’ve got good eyesight,’ said one of the drivers admiringly, squinting into the distance, but then others looked where Theo was pointing, to the thin spiral which was growing ever larger as they watched.

  ‘A village!’ Theo laughed, kicking soil over the blazing campfire. ‘By Croesus, it’s a bloody village!’

  XIV

  As the last day of June was marked in Rome with the Festival of the Muses (a chance for the arty-farty-glitterati to gather at the Temple of Hercules and indulge in a spot of good old-fashioned fawning), there was much to debate in the Senate.

  Not least, the problem regarding the Emperor’s stepson.

  Why appoint Tiberius as Regent? they argued. Why not so-and-so? Most senators had their own man they wished to propose, and most could make a case every bit as sound as the one Augustus made for Tiberius—especially since Tiberius happened to be blissfully married to a girl who, like her husband, was no blood relative of Augustus, but who was also expecting their first child. The fact that she was the late Regent’s daughter made no difference. The link to the throne simply got weaker and weaker.

  However, those malcontents with ambitions of their own had reckoned without the Emperor’s wife. Even as the arguments raged inside the Senate House, Livia was quietly instigating formal divorce proceedings to sever her own son, Tiberius, from the marriage bond with his wife, while at the same time arranging a wedding between—that’s right, her own son and the late Regent’s widow, who was also heavily pregnant. And, er, who just happened to be Augustus’s daughter. With the Emperor’s stepson married to the Emperor’s daughter, any doubts about bloodlines would be wiped out the instant the marriage contract was signed. There was no time to lose.

  At some stage, Livia supposed, she ought to notify Augustus. And quite possibly Tiberius, as well…

  Meanwhile, as another senator rose to his feet to address the outraged assembly, a politician with buck teeth moved his chair closer to the thin man sitting beside him. The thin man smelled of liquorice.

  ‘You’ve seen the latest reports?’ he muttered.
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  ‘About the uprisings on the Germanic border?’ The invalid delved into the folds of his purple-striped toga for his cache of black pastilles. ‘Seven attacks on our encampments, one full-scale assault on the garrison and an attempt to burn one of the bridges crossing the Rhine. Oh, yes.’ He popped in a pill. ‘I’ve read those dispatches so often, they’re almost committed to memory.’

  A ripple of boos rang round the chamber as the speaker was shouted down. Within seconds, another took his place, punching his fist into the palm of his hand to emphasise every point and leaving the assembly to wonder whether it was the larynx, rather than the Senate, which was the noblest organ of the State.

  ‘There’ll be insufficient time to debate our foreign policies today,’ Squint murmured, ‘but I’m reliably assured that, come our next sitting, we are to be notified of the despatch of three of our most loyal legions from,’ he flashed a smug smile at the golden statue of winged Victory, standing by her altar in the corner, ‘safe provinces to quell the rebellion in the north.’

  ‘I assume that by “safe” we’re referring to—oh, well said, old man.’ He broke off to applaud the senator who’d just come to the end of a speech of which the thin man had not heard a word. They waited until the opposing speaker had a real good head of steam up.

  ‘Your assumptions are correct.’ Squint nodded. ‘Troops have been moved away from northern Italy, from Sequani territory and from the south and west of Gaul, although naturally Helvetia is still under full military order.’ He let out a snort of laughter. ‘No one trusts those war-mongering bastards.’

  ‘Can you blame them?’ The thin man sniggered back, and for the remainder of the address they lapsed into silence, amused by the irony of the situation they had created.

  Further, increasingly heated, debates followed on and the atmosphere inside the chamber grew distinctly rowdier. Outside, the voices from the populace who were crowded on to the platform and steps became louder and more raucous as they, too, were swept along with the arguments, audible because the double doors remained open throughout the proceedings in order for the public to have access to what was, after all, a democracy. Once or twice a brawl broke out—nothing serious, just a bit of pushing and shoving with a spot of name-calling thrown in—and sometimes this also took place outside the chamber.

  What more perfect cover for two politicians to chat, unheard, between themselves?

  ‘One small problem has come to light,’ the thin man murmured, reaching for another pastille. The physician was right, the liquorice did help his ulcer. Either that, or it was settling of its own accord. He glanced round the chamber, nodding curtly in recognition of his brother-in-law seated opposite on the upper row. The conspiracy had crossed the point of no return and the worry which aggravated the ulcer was no longer present. He’d gone past that stage and was reconciled now to the future. The coup would succeed, or—if it did not—he would die. And most assuredly, he had no intention of crossing the Styx even one hour early. His goal was to be part of the new triumvirate.

  ‘Problem?’ Squint prompted.

  ‘Maybe that’s too strong a word. It’s just that, if you recall, intelligence came back that the Helvetii had killed a tile-maker in the convoy to Vesontio, a man by the name of Libo. Since then, I’ve come to understand that Libo was an undercover agent, working for the Security Police.’

  ‘And?’ The cross-eyed senator adjusted his position and nonchalantly rearranged his toga. ‘Libo’s dead, isn’t he? Where’s the problem?’

  ‘As I say, maybe there isn’t one. It’s just that another agent has taken his place and it cannot be coincidence that his name is Marcus Cornelius Orbilio. The chap whose nose has been poking so industriously into the matter of the Treveri’s unrest,’

  As officials separated a pair of sparring senators, Squint considered the ramifications of this latest twist to the scheme. In terms of global strategy and the renaissance of a glorious Republic, he saw nothing in one man’s departure which could possibly alter the future and he made this point to his bony confederate.

  ‘Sending men—and indeed women—undercover is routine procedure, and not only for the state,’ he reminded him, and at the same time beseeched Jupiter to send him a little sprig of patience. He flicked an imaginary speck of dust from his shoulder, and from the corner of his eye studied the lump of skin and bones seated next to him and wished, not for the first time, that he’d been able to find a brighter, more ambitious, more ruthless co-conspirator, with the same wealth this wretched invalid had been prepared to splash out in bribes.

  ‘Spying’s a vital cog in every wheel, whether military, commercial or marital,’ he said in a low undertone, annoyed with himself that he had allowed personalities to get in the way of ambition. ‘And if, as you are apparently suggesting, Libo was despatched by our own agent in the convoy, rather than by some testy Helvetian, then I imagine that equally we can rely on our agent to sort out this second man—and I don’t necessarily mean with an accident.’

  ‘Aha.’ The invalid was beginning to see what Squint was driving at. The whole purpose behind the diversion was to stall for time, convince the rebel armies that the treasure map was on its way and that soon they’d be rich beyond their wildest dreams. With the entire State Treasury at their disposal, they were free to make war on any tribe they chose, annexe territories of their own, conquer lands to the north, to the east, and with Rome as their allies, those chieftains who had co-operated to overthrow the Emperor would be invincible.

  What they didn’t know, of course, was that the fat man’s reading of the armed-forces situation was spot on. Regardless of who ran the Empire/Republic/call-it-what-you-will, no military commander would accede an inch of Roman territory, and instead of rebel chieftains sweeping across Europe like a plague of locusts, the mutinous bastards would be cut down before they’d even armoured up.

  The term, the invalid believed, was double-cross.

  For it was imperative no rebel laid his hands on any Roman gold or silver, which meant they must be stalled—at least until the Ides of July. Itself only a fortnight away.

  However, providing the undercover agent Orbilio could be convinced there was nothing suspicious about the convoy’s little diversion, that he came to accept that any tragic deaths which had occurred along the way were pure accidents, then his presence might well work to their advantage. His report would reveal them to be squeaky-peaky clean, while at the same time adding tremendous credence to the tale they’d spin to the rebels, since Orbilio’s integrity was not only well-known in military and administrative circles, it was also beyond question, and only a moron would imagine the Helvetii and the others didn’t have paid spies of their own to keep tabs on this situation.

  ‘Order!’ The presiding magistrate tapped the dais and bellowed across the chamber. ‘Order, gentlemen, please!’

  The unseemly scuffles died down and the protagonists resumed their seats on the tiers, for all the world like schoolboys looking to their tutor for guidance.

  ‘I think it’s safe to assume there’ll be no voting in here today.’ The magistrate laughed, diffusing the situation with his natural good humour. ‘And since the sun is threatening to sink below the rooftops, I intend to call an end to today’s proceedings, but before we leave, gentlemen, I would like to announce the official opening of the coastal road to Gaul.’ Hurrahs rang round the crowded chamber, rippling like an echo through the populace outside.

  ‘So the Helvetii are pacified at last,’ someone cried. ‘’Bout time, too!’

  ‘Those bastards are never pacified,’ someone else shouted back. ‘The word’s “subjugated”, you’ll find.’

  ‘Order.’ The magistrate’s rod boomed against the dais. ‘You can vent your feelings about the Helvetii, gentlemen, over a flagon or two later, I’m sure we all intend to celebrate this milestone in transport and communication!’ More hurrahs followed, as it became clear just how vital this link would be. No more overland treks through the Alps. No more
hazardous voyages by sea. Only one senator, an old bear of a man with great tufty eyebrows, didn’t seem pleased with the new open road, but then again he, as owner of a fleet of merchantmen, wouldn’t.

  ‘And finally,’ the magistrate announced, ‘I feel this is the occasion on which we should officially congratulate Senator Galba for his perspicacity and foresight in arranging the trade delegation to the Sequani tribe in Gaul, which I am delighted to report has now arrived safely in their capital, Vesontio.’

  He paused and shot a beaming smile at the glowing Galba.

  ‘This man—’ The cheerful faced official had to raise his voice for it to carry over the thunderous applause. ‘This man saw an opportunity and seized it with both hands. As you all know, in four years’ time we shall be celebrating our half century of living in peace and harmony with the Sequani, and how better, the Emperor thought, than to cement the alliance with a temple to the holy twins, Castor and Pollux? A true symbol of unity and friendship. It will, of course, take us those four years to build the temple in Vesontio, but it is thanks to Galba, here, that the inauguration ceremony will be followed by a trade fair the likes of which Gaul has never seen before, and I put it to the Senate, gentlemen, that if Galba is half as industrious in his role as Prefect of the State Treasury as he was in organizing this delegation, Rome will never want for anything again!’

  The bouncy magistrate waited for the cheering to abate.

  ‘Moreover, gentlemen, I would like it officially recorded that, in my personal opinion, Senator Galba will go far in this administration and I, for one, wish him the very, very best. Now for heaven’s sake, stand up, man—don’t be so modest.’

  His fat face suffused with pleasure, the treasury official heaved himself to his feet.

  Behind him, two senators applauded the loudest. One had buck teeth and the other was thin from an ulcer.

  Galba turned round and tipped each co-conspirator a broad wink.