by Marilyn Todd
‘Young man, I’m not sure this is a joking matter.’ Maria’s finger jabbed her rebuke every bit as sharply as her voice. ‘Our lives depend on this decision—oh, will you listen to the Blubber Family back there? Can’t you lot put a sock in it?’
Her scorn only served to fuel the sobs of Gemma and her parents, neither of whom had adapted at all well to life since leaving the body of the convoy. Far from adventure being the making of the man, the brick-maker had become a gibbering wreck, barely able to speak without quivering, and his agitation was reflected in the behaviour of his wife, who clung to her daughter, weeping noisily, leaving Gemma to gulp back her own sobs.
‘Right then.’ A tightly packed quiver on his back, his bow in hand, Arcas pulled his oak door shut and secured the cattle hide over the porch. A long sword hung from his belt in an ornate scabbard. ‘What’s it to be?’ He cast a judgmental eye over the jug, where only a thin trickle remained.
‘The woods,’ Theo said.
Arcas grunted as if to say of-course-it-is, then strode towards the nursing ewe, dozing with her lazy arching horns resting against the low wall of the roundhouse. Claudia’s eyes widened. She froze. Oh, no! She could see before any of the others what he was about to do…the drawing of the dagger, the separation of the first lamb, the moving of the second, the lifting of the mother’s trusting chin…
Blood spurted in all directions. Quickly, cleanly, Arcas slit the throats of the two baby lambs and left them where they lay.
Gemma said, ‘I’m going to be sick,’ and didn’t disappoint her audience.
Maria hissed, ‘Barbarian!’
Most simply stared.
Blood still pumped from the lifeless body of the ewe, seeping into the fluffy fleeces of her newborn lambs. Claudia swallowed hard and looked away.
‘I don’t know what you’re gawking at,’ Arcas growled. ‘They’re my sheep, not yours.’ His eyes caught Claudia’s and held them. ‘I’ve been shunned,’ he muttered, and she saw that explanations were a stranger to him. ‘What was I supposed to do, leave them to starve to death?’
He glanced back at the limp and bloodied corpses, at the roundhouse, at the sharp point of the thatch, and Claudia knew he was looking at this place in farewell. Goosepimples crept up her arms. The holiday spirit, she reflected, hadn’t lasted long.
‘Now in the name of Father Dis, will you get going?’ Arcas barked, snapping free the tether of his horse. ‘And for gods’ sake, keep close together. You.’ His gimlet gaze singled out Orbilio. ‘You had better bring up the rear. Make sure they stay in line.’
‘I’ll do that.’ Theo shouldered his way to the front of the group. ‘I have the training and experience.’
Arcas secured his rolled-up cloak over the pommel and swung into his saddle. ‘That’s another thing,’ he said. ‘There are too many of you to deal with individually. From now on, I deal only with the man in charge. Him.’ His eyes fell on Marcus.
Theo erupted like a volcano. ‘Now listen to me,’ he began.
‘I told you,’ Arcas said, swinging his horse away. ‘I listen to him.’
‘Not me,’ Marcus said amiably. ‘I design mosaic floors.’
‘Then the rearguard might provide inspiration for your work.’
‘Now you just wait a second.’ Theo was as puce as a plum. He snapped on his helmet to add weight to his argument. ‘I’m Rome’s representative here—’
‘Take your hand off me, soldier boy.’ Arcas’s tone was mild. The warning came from the eyes. The set jaw.
‘How dare you! How dare you humiliate me in public, you bastard? Theo shouted, and this time it was Volso who was forced to calm him down.
‘Croesus, lad, you told me not to antagonize the Silver Fox, look at you, you moron.’
‘Theo, it really doesn’t matter who brings up the rear,’ Titus reassured him, ‘so long as we reach Vesontio alive.’ He shrugged at Iliona, who shrugged back. They couldn’t see the problem. But Claudia could.
The Silver Fox was enjoying himself.
*
An hour’s ride from the roundhouse, the forest opened out to reveal glimpses through the trees of the tall grey sentinels of rock which towered over them, but here, Jupiter be praised, there was open space between the soaring, wooded cliffs for pasture. Wide acres for short-horned cattle to graze—small, rangy black beasts which resembled goats more than cows—chomping away on the lush water-meadows beside the silvery brook which cut through this valley. Not that Arcas led the group across the flower-filled meadows. Hugging close to the woods, he circled round.
‘I don’t trust that man,’ Maria confided to Claudia. ‘I feel sure that any minute now he plans to rob and butcher us.’
‘Wouldn’t he have had more of an advantage on home territory?’ Claudia murmured.
‘Hmmm.’ That was Maria’s way of saying she had a point. ‘But I don’t go for that tripe about spiders coming out of their webs. I mean, how would he know?’
‘Possibly,’ Claudia suggested sweetly, ‘because he’s Sequani.’ Shunning, after all, did not entail being rendered deaf and dumb. Each village, under its petty chieftain, would have its jungle drums.
Ahead of them, Dexter was telling Gemma to keep an eye out for asphodel, it always worked for him when he’d been sick, and Claudia thought he might just as well tell her to wash her feet and drink the water for all the benefit she’d get.
She glanced at Maria, glowering at her husband’s back. Too often one had to remind oneself that the bookbinder’s wife was only thirty, she seemed every inch the matron, yet she was not an unattractive woman. Straight of shoulder, straight of talk, her complexion was good, heaven knows her face was handsome enough. Of course, if she kept at it the way she was now, in twenty years’ time her mouth would be a downward arch supported on pillars of deep lines, her eyes hard instead of comely. And what of Dexter? Hair which was floppy and brown in his early thirties would probably have receded into baldness, no doubt he’d be rubbing his head with wolf’s fat mixed with bitumen or something, and still moaning about non-existent ulcers, warts and coughs. Every day would be born another ailment, and still Maria would despise him—
Claudia wondered when they’d last had sex.
They weren’t a bad-looking couple, she thought. They weren’t even bad. Just mismatched. Grown apart. Neither finding support from the other and filling the vacuum the best they could. She with her snobbery, he with his hypochondria.
‘I wish he’d spend less time with that wretched human fountain,’ Maria sniffed, right on cue, ‘and cultivate the company of a merchant like Titus instead. He looks to have his wits about him.’
More than that, he looked to have his hand on Iliona’s bottom!
‘Gemma’s parents have let her down badly,’ Claudia said. The brick-maker kept mumbling over and over that he couldn’t go on, he wanted to die, those lambs were the very last straw. ‘They’ve all but gone to pieces, Gemma’s simply looking for a father figure.’
Maria cast a critical eye over the girl’s lumpy frame. ‘She’s already got one,’ she said.
Claudia’s head was throbbing, and not from the ride. Vigilance, she thought, is taking its toll, I am on my guard all the time. Could Was Dexter the traitor? Maria? Titus? Iliona?? You cannot rule out one half of a couple, because while the killer’s success hinged on working alone, a spouse gave an excellent alibi. Not, she felt, that the other party would be aware they were married to a murderer. Both Titus and Iliona would be doing this for the other, while in the case of Maria and Dexter, separate ambitions would carry them forward. As to those travelling alone, well, there was Volso—what price being acknowledged the Dictator’s astrologer? Oh, the fame! The accolades! Clemens’ target was the most influential post in the priesthood. Hanno could expect to run the commercial stabling side of the new Republic in return. Theo’s military training could have him heading the Praetorian Guard, promoted to general, maybe even given a province to run.
Then there was the glass-blower, the sli
pper-maker, the drivers to consider, the other tradesmen and their women travelling with them. Cliques had formed, even in a group as small as this, Claudia couldn’t befriend them all… She rubbed her aching head and wished she’d never seen that wretched salamander seal.
When they reached the river Arcas said that, for safety, they must follow where it wound round the canyon. The sky was beginning to break up, faint patches of blue appeared and disappeared, but it was sufficient to turn a dull brown ribbon of water into a stream bejewelled with silver and blue lapis lazuli, diamonds and emeralds and pearls. They stopped for lunch, the woodsman’s own smoked hams and great, flat cheeses wrapped in fir bark—not the heavy, crinkly parts, but the papery insides after the outer layer had been stripped off, leaving everyone to remember that nothing was ever wasted in this country. Swallows dipped and dived for midges, kites mewed and made circles above. The lowing of the cattle drifted on the gentle breeze, which brought with it the scent of thyme and yellow gentian.
Sluicing her hands and face in the clear mountain stream, Claudia turned to find herself staring into the tall boots and russet coloured pantaloons of their guide. From here she could see the intricate engraving on his sword—the product of sophisticated granulating and acid techniques, showing the tree of life between two rearing ibexes. The reason she could see them, standing so completely tall and still, was because he happened to be leaning on the weapon at the time.
‘Do you always serve lunch off the hilt of your sword?’ she asked. There was a sweet, sharp, almost fiery smell about him, which at first she could not place. Then it came to her. Mushrooms. Dried boletus mushrooms, carried in a pouch hung round his waist.
‘I’ll give you some advice,’ Arcas said, squinting into the distance. ‘Not that you, of all of them, need it, but I’ll tell it to you, anyway. Trust no one,’ he said. ‘Hear me? Trust nobody.’ He turned and flashed her a grin, the first she’d seen. ‘But as I say, you already know that, as does he.’ He jerked a thumb in the direction of Orbilio, nuzzling one of Arcas’s stock red horses. ‘Now I suggest we pack up and get going.’ She heard him suck in his breath as he sheathed his heavy weapon. ‘Very, very fast.’
‘Wh…?’ The question died on Claudia’s lips.
In the distance, a hoarde of shiny insects shimmered over the open green pastureland. The insects rode in war chariots, gesticulating wildly, the erratic sunlight glinting off their bronze armour and their broadswords, brandished high.
The armoured war band were closing that distance with alarming speed.
XX
‘If you all do exactly as I tell you, we can survive this attack,’ Arcas said. There was an urgency in his voice, but the tone remained level, pitched to carry over the screaming which had broken out. A pulse throbbed in his throat, at the point where his roped metal torque ended in a golden globe.
Beads of sweat had broken out on Theo’s pale face and a quick calculation between the approaching war band and the Silver Fox told him it would be wise for him to listen to Arcas. He shot a contemptuous glance at Orbilio, because the patrician had already worked that out for himself.
‘All of you, start running. GO!’ He pointed deep into the woods on the far side of the stream, then turned to Marcus. ‘Fifty paces in you’ll come to a sacred oak marked with masks and votive offerings.’ He spoke quickly, keeping his gaze on the approaching warriors. ‘Bear left once you’re past it, to the wild pear tree, then turn right. There’s an animal track which leads towards the rock face, follow that up to the overhang of stone, huddle in there out of sight and for gods’ sake, keep them quiet.’ As an afterthought he added, ‘Good luck.’
Without waiting to watch Orbilio usher the panic-stricken travellers over the river, Arcas grabbed hold of Theo’s arm. ‘You stay with me,’ he ordered, stringing the horses together. ‘And you, too, old man, I need your horsemanship. Together we’ll lead these buggers such a dance, it’ll rip the wheels off their chariots.’
‘Hanno’s too frail,’ Orbilio protested. ‘Titus, did you catch the directions?’ The spice merchant nodded. ‘Good. Then you lead them up to the overhang, and take Hanno with you.’ His face defied Arcas to challenge his authority, but the Silver Fox was already pulling Maria’s tunics out of her bag and tying the sleeves to the pack mules.
‘They’ll see us gallop off, they’ll see these colours,’ he panted, ‘with luck, they’ll think we’re making a run for it together.’
Leaping into the saddle, he dug his spurs into the little red stallion, who shot off as though it had been scalded, his hooves sending up great splashes of water, and by the time the last of the train was across the stream, Maria’s tunics flying from its rump like naval pennants, the fleeing pedestrians had disappeared deep into the woods.
Long before the rest of the party had reached the wild pear, they could hear the thunder of the hooves, the clatter of the chariots, the harsh yells of the warriors and remembered what travellers and historians reported—that the Gauls, like the Germans and Scandinavian tribes, used bloodcurdling howls to unnerve the enemy as they charged down. Today they understood for themselves that, as a technique of war, it worked bloody well. High-pitched and ululating, it sent shivers down the spine and froze every artery solid.
Hoping, praying, the others were safe, Orbilio glanced over his shoulder and noted with horror how much ground the war band had gained. Too clearly for comfort, he could see flashes of red and of gold. Riches through blood… The chariots were primitive, he thought, but by Croesus, they were fast. Two wheels, two ponies, two men, it made them light and agile—but only on flat ground. To save the group, Arcas had despatched them to the nearest place to shelter and was relying on a diversion, which, in order to succeed, entailed racing through the valley for as long as he could before the war party could see that the tunics had no bodies in them and then riding hard up the mountainside and over the crest where the pursuers couldn’t follow, except on foot, which would not be fast enough.
In theory, Marcus thought, it sounded fine. But the Sequani chariots were shifting. He could see clouds of dust kicked up, their coats of mail, their shining helmets, even the glint of metal bosses on their wooden shields. Sweet Jupiter, it only needed one judicious arrow to bring down the rear mule for them to realize they’d been duped. And before Orbilio had a chance to cut loose and turn his horse round, half the war band would have backtracked to massacre the women fleeing for their lives…
‘Gee up!’ Even without spurs, his horse had got the message, and he bent low to duck under overhanging branches. He could smell the horse’s sweat, his own sweat, too, and wondered if this was the last thing he would ever smell. Mighty Father Mars, he prayed, look after her—
Glancing back, he saw the enemy chariots had trouble with the boulders that littered the riverbed. For the first time they were gaining on their pursuers. Suddenly his heart lost the vice which had been gripping it. She was safe—
‘To the right,’ Arcas yelled. He pointed with his spear. ‘Keep going, and don’t look back!’
But both Theo and Orbilio were soldiers. They both looked back—and too late saw the hail of arrows raining down.
‘Shit.’ Theo said. ‘That was close.’
Then they were in the trees, charging up the incline, looping left, looping right to avoid the trunks. A horse screamed when it slammed on to its side, but Arcas doubled back, hauled it upright and off it galloped, more scared than hurt.
‘Wait.’
He stopped the little train and cut free Maria’s garments with his knife, ramming them into saddlebags, anything, even his shirt. Theo and Marcus followed suit, ensuring no material was left to catch on twigs to give the game away, or to fall off, or for brightly coloured fabric to be visible through the undergrowth.
‘This way,’ Arcas said puffing.
And now they clip-clopped up the exposed grey rock, Arcas leading the way with a confidence which even Theo couldn’t help admire. Grudgingly he looked at Orbilio, and felt it woul
d have been better, this escape, just him and the Silver Fox and Hanno. Why couldn’t he have just led the bloody civilians to the overhang? Not him, he has to be a bloody hero, doesn’t he?
Hours later, when they were sure they’d given their followers the slip, they circled back to where the convoy huddled in admirable silence, despite the passage of so much time.
‘How did they know?’ Maria demanded, gaping at the tatters of her ruined wardrobe. ‘How did they know to come after us?’
But Arcas was exhausted after his ride and his reply was both in Sequani and terse to the point of rudeness as he flopped down on his back. It was left to Junius to translate.
‘He said that news of thirty-three Roman citizens wandering in the Spider’s little onion patch soon gets around.’
Maria shot the guide a venomous glare. ‘He said something else as well.’ No fooling her.
‘I did indeed,’ Arcas replied dryly, his eyes still shut. ‘I said these men were after trophies, but may Dis help them when they take your head, madam, the bloody tongue will keep on wagging. Now quit your prattle, the lot of you. If we’re to avoid ending up as keepsakes on a shelf, I need to think.’
*
As moonlight showed silver through the scudding clouds, the murderer thought, ‘This is going better than I hoped.’
True there had been times this afternoon when naked fear outweighed the prospect of a new Republic and the riches that went with it, but everyone’s familiar with the saying: no pain, no gain. How very true. To achieve one’s ambitions, sacrifices must be made—although when that bunch of savages came charging down this afternoon, even Galba’s agent had wondered whether they might not end up the sacrifice themselves.
However, there’s another saying, isn’t there? All’s well that ends well—and goddammit, if this doesn’t prove to the rebel chieftains that the diversion wasn’t for real, then Nestor’s killer would eat the Silver Fox’s roped gold torque.
In fact, I owe that white-haired woodsman a lot, the agent thought, allowing a warm glow of satisfaction to wash over. More than he’ll ever know.
