Black Salamander

by Marilyn Todd

‘Dexter has?’

  ‘The Sequani king can’t make it, apparently. A toothache or something. Anyway it’s keeping him tied to his bed,’ she said dismissively, ‘but anyone who’s anyone will be there, and I tell you, Claudia, this will be a day to remember. Dexter will be able to secure contracts for his bookbinding business. I’ve told him straight he must make sure they know he intends to open a branch here in Vesontio. They’ll not want to ship their delicate documents to Rome, he must let them know we can handle the most sensitive issues—’

  ‘Junius,’ Claudia reminded her. ‘Have you seen him, Maria?’

  ‘Huh? Oh. Your slave. No, dear, I can’t say I have, but then,’ she let out a girlish laugh, ‘I’ve had other things on my mind.’

  Bugger.

  Claudia leaned over the balcony rail. ‘Junius?’ she called. ‘Get the hell back in here!’ But he was nowhere to be seen. Bugger, bugger, bugger. She ran down the stairs, calling his name as she went, checking the gardens, the kitchens and finally the slave quarters.

  ‘No, ma’am. Haven’t seen him. Sorry, ma’am.’

  ‘Junius!’

  Goddammit, this is no time to play hide and seek. She sped across to the cubbyhole where’d he’d slept and felt the concrete inside her flip over. Junius’s belongings were gone.

  ‘Are you really surprised?’ a deep voice asked in her ear.

  He was sitting on a maplewood chest, swinging his long patrician legs as he examined an object in his hands.

  ‘Orbilio?’ She pretended her heel had snagged in her skirt, and by the time she’d made the necessary adjustment, Claudia’s colour and vocal chords were under control.

  ‘You knew he was a spy, didn’t you? Sending information back to his people.’

  Ice chilled her veins. ‘Don’t talk tripe.’

  ‘Oh, come on.’ He tossed the object in the air, and she could see it was a carved figurine. ‘He’s a Gaul, head of your bodyguard, why do you think Junius stayed with you?’

  Claudia pictured the unsmiling blue eyes which followed her every move. ‘He’s a slave,’ she said flatly. ‘Where can he go?’

  ‘Slave.’ Orbilio rolled the word round on his tongue. ‘Mmm. Don’t I recall an incident where he was offered his freedom? And another when he was rewarded—by his mistress, no less—with a very respectable sum? More than enough, as I recall, to purchase his freedom thrice over.’

  ‘There are types of glass, Orbilio, which are manufactured in such a way that, when you hold them at a certain angle, the object you wish to view becomes magnified many, many times.’ Tipping her head on one side, she smiled sweetly at him. ‘Unfortunately, if I stacked a hundred such glasses on top of one other, still I would not be able to find a speck of interest in your pitiful ramblings.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’

  Dammit, did he really believe that by covering his mouth with the back of his hand she wouldn’t know he was smiling?

  ‘Listen to me, you slick bastard,’ she hissed. ‘Junius is not a spy for the Gauls, and I—I remember now. Last night I asked him to run an errand for me. In the rush to get ready this morning, I’d completely forgotten.’

  ‘You’ve forgotten to pin up your hair. But’—with his little finger he reached out and pinged one of her curls—‘Junius had no errand to run. Not for you.’ His eyes flashed across to the pallet on which the young Gaul had slept. ‘He’s gone, Claudia. Taken his pack and skedaddled.’

  ‘Yes. Well. That was part of the plan.’ Her eyes flashed defiance.

  ‘Hmm.’ With great leisure, Marcus replaced the carved figurine on its shelf. ‘This errand wouldn’t be connected with Ecba, would it?’

  Holy Jupiter! How the hell did he know about that?

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You don’t know Ecba?’ He heaved himself off the chest and dusted himself down. ‘My, my, my, you do surprise me. Perhaps that’s another thing that slipped your mind in the morning rush, so kindly let me refresh your memory. He has an office down by the waterfront—ring any bells? No? Suppose I tell you he’s a slave dealer? Not a profession which is overly admired, of course. Which possibly explains why someone felt inclined to slit his throat from ear to ear last night.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘For someone who doesn’t know the fellow, you seem pretty upset by his death,’ he said mildly.

  Claudia turned away so he could not see her face. ‘Not by the slave dealer’s demise,’ she said tartly. ‘More by the insinuation that one of my staff was in some way complicit. I suppose you have ruled out suicide?’

  ‘Not necessarily, although any help finding where he threw the knife while lying flat on the floor with his windpipe wide open would be greatly appreciated.’

  ‘Very amusing, Marcus. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a procession to catch.’

  ‘I’ll walk with you.’

  ‘I don’t want you.’

  ‘That’s irrelevant.’ And his hand clamped round her upper arm, as though he was worried she’d give him the slip.

  *

  Despite a pronounced Roman influence, Vesontio was very much a foreign city. Too much timber, too much thatch, only the major thoroughfares paved. In contrast to Rome, where wheeled traffic was not permitted during daylight hours because it clogged up the streets, here congestion was actively encouraged, to judge by the preponderance of jammed carts and blocked-in wagons. Claudia and Marcus were forced into the side streets, where deep ruts had dried out to leave ankle-breaking ridges, perfect for ensnaring slippery cabbage stalks and mouldy meatbones, broken belt buckles and scraps of tallow and, down here, everything but everything was made of wood.

  Houses, in particular. Stodgy, windowless structures reeking of beer and stale air, where goats, even in the heart of the city, were tethered to the doorposts in such a way as to allow them access indoors and out. It was like a walk back in time. A primitive land with primitive customs, where shaggy woollen tablecloths and coarse plaid tunics were draped over cumbersome clothes lines which crisscrossed the street, where trenchers, beakers, even spoons and ladles were fashioned out of wood and, when the Sequani did opt for pottery, it was rudimentary and plain. No sophisticated glazes for these people, no comic ‘Drink Me’ slogans here! Chickens scratched round the hive-shaped communal ovens, shawl-draped women sat spinning wool in the doorways or else their deft fingers wove multi-coloured withies, because it seemed that every other building sported wickerwork for sale, baskets, cradles, chairs. Dark, dingy shops sold hoods or leather jerkins, leg bindings or woollen pantaloons, and Claudia realized that it was not so much a desire to cling to the old ways which fired the Sequani, more a dogged refusal to accept change.

  Not in retaining their traditional dress. Stiff leather jerkins, for instance, kept out the rain, wind and snow, and the low buildings roofed with wheat thatch were designed not for style but to repel their worst enemy, the long and rigorous winters. Fair enough. But what she could not understand was their refusal to accept technological change. Why keep the old horse collar, for instance? Not only hard on the poor old horse, with its windpipe so severely constricted, but from a practical point of view, it cut down on efficiency. And why stick with the old-fashioned and highly ineffectual ard, when a modern plough can turn the soil over instead of just making a furrow?

  Considering Sequani metalworkers were some of the best in the Empire, churning out the most amazing filigree, and Gaulish boatmen had invented craft suited only to the Doubs, the Rhine, the Rhone, yet which, if required, could actually be seaworthy when fitted with sails, well, all this smacked of…

  ‘It occurs to me,’ Claudia said, ducking underneath a pair of green-striped pantaloons, ‘that the Sequani are sorely oppressed.’ She outlined her reasons, but far from scoffing, Orbilio nodded slowly.

  ‘The king is a good man,’ he said. ‘Not for nothing has he been awarded the title ‘Brother of the People’ by the Senate, he is a good ally to Rome, he understands the importance of the two nations working together in peace. It
was his father, remember, the old king, who asked for our help in the first place, after his disastrous fight for the Auverne.’

  Although this took place long before Claudia was born, who didn’t know the history, and whenever a schoolmaster needed to define the word irony to his class, he’d cite the Sequani. In an attempt to annex the Auverne, what was then a hostile, anti-Roman tribe called in more and more German mercenaries until they found they’d bitten off more than they could chew. The German army was suddenly larger than the Sequani’s, and now it was their turn to face annihilation. In desperation they turned to Rome and pleaded submission.

  ‘Why keep his people down, though?’

  ‘You’re assuming this is the king’s doing,’ Orbilio said. ‘This smacks of behind-the-scenes trickery by nefarious generals, cousins, nephews. You see, I have a nasty feeling about the Sequani. I think this cauldron has been boiling for a long, long time, and I don’t believe the Spider is merely grasping the moment. The men who came after us were trained warriors.’

  Visions flashed through Claudia’s memory. The bloodcurdling yells. The pointed lances. The chain mail, and banners. Scarlet and gold.

  And just where was her bodyguard? Would he really have upped and left without a word? It was, she acknowledged, a real possibility.

  ‘How come you never heard a whisper?’ she asked. After all, if several thousand men had been in training over the years…?

  ‘Suppose I say “wicker man”?’ he shot back. ‘The power of the Druids is absolute, far stronger than the king’s. Druids are not priests in the sense we understand the word. Admittedly, they take omens and,’ he grimaced, ‘sacrifice, but first and foremost their word is law. If sedition comes via the guild of Druids, you can bet your boots it will remain secret.’

  Fear of retribution would see to that. Claudia’s teeth began to chatter. Suddenly this city—no, this entire province—seemed altogether sinister and menacing and every unnamed terror she’d experienced trapped in the valley flooded back. Most of all, a feeling of impending doom—

  ‘I’ll tell you what I think,’ Marcus growled. ‘I think Remi was stitched up tighter than a kipper.’ He began to rotate the figure-of-eight ring around his little finger and Claudia saw there were tears in his eyes. ‘Maybe the chieftain’s son was after her plot of land, maybe she rebuffed his advances, maybe she was simply unlucky, I have no idea—but that girl was set up from the start. All along we’d been fed these drip-drip-drips of information, an uprising here, an uprising there, it was very deliberate rumour-mongering, very clever. Then someone wanted to up the stakes.’

  ‘And so they set up Remi.’ Claudia thought of a girl she’d never met, a redheaded firebrand, newly widowed, with two tiny children to raise, leaping at the chance for extra money and taking on absolute trust the word of the chieftain’s son.

  ‘Yes.’ His voice was a harsh whisper. ‘They set up Remi, bait for us Romans, and we fell hook, line and sinker. The Treveri played their part to the full, ensuring our legions were moved to shore up the holes, while the Helvetii wait quietly in the wings for their turn. Throughout this plot there’s been double-cross upon double-cross and it’s not over yet. The Spider is behind it, I can smell it.’

  ‘The Spider? Oh, come on, we’d never heard of him until a couple of days ago, and then it was only as a band of enthusiastic headhunters. You’ve been sniffing the hemp seeds again. It’s Galba, Orbilio. Galba who’s masterminding the plot to assassinate the Emperor.’

  They were close to the Forum by now, and he drew her under the awning of a bronzesmith’s.

  ‘That’s not the point,’ he said. ‘Galba hires the Treveri and the Helvetii, right? He plans to kill Augustus and his loyal followers on one particular night, taking advantage of the fact that the Treveri have kept the legions occupied in the north so that the Helvetii can swoop down on Rome. Hey presto, a new Republic is born. Except that very quickly, both tribes will realize that the gold he promised them is not forthcoming. Before they can regroup, though, Galba will set the entire might of Rome on them, and I tell you, Claudia, the Spider knows this. He’s known from the very beginning.’

  ‘So?’ Claudia shrugged. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t sent a courier back to the Head of the Security Police, because I won’t believe you.’

  ‘Of course I’ve sent the message,’ Orbilio said, and there was an added note of urgency in his voice. ‘That’s not the point. The point is, Ecba has been murdered. Don’t you see what that means?’

  Um…

  ‘Ecba was liaising between Galba and the tribes,’ he said. ‘We know that because of the salamander connection—’

  ‘Just as a matter of interest, Hotshot, how did you know about Ecba?’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you?’ he grinned. ‘Well, lacking the cooperation of a certain courier—’

  ‘Don’t look at me like that.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like that.’

  ‘I’m merely recounting events,’ he said airily. ‘How Marcus Cornelius was forced to apply lateral thinking. Start from the other end, as it were. Ask around about the seal of the salamander, and ho, ho, ho! Ecba’s name came up, because Ecba—surprise, surprise—has not only been supplying the good senator with slaves for many years, he is well-known for not asking questions. For instance, he never queries where his merchandise comes from. Which is mainly Scandinavia, by the way.’

  ‘Ugh.’

  ‘Universally despised, are slave dealers. The perfect choice for a middleman. Anyway, there’s Marcus Cornelius, hanging around the warehouse as the herald calls three in the morning, when who comes along? None other than our cheerful companion, the glass-blower, unfortunately denied admission by the simple expedient of a locked door. This sets your intrepid hero thinking—or more accurately, putting his manly shoulder to the door.’

  ‘Whereupon he instantly slips in a pool of Ecba’s blood and thinks, goody, another case to solve, polish that seat in the Senate, boys, politics here I come.’

  ‘Is it, though?’ he asked, with a flighty twitch of his eyebrows.

  ‘You have “ambition” tattooed on your forehead.’

  ‘Not politics. I meant, is it another case to solve—or simply a continuation of the first? We already have one lyre-maker dead, Libo the undercover agent, Nestor, the brick-maker and his wife, not to mention an attempt on your own life—’

  ‘Volso’s, my dear.’

  ‘If you say so. Anyway, Ecba has been eliminated and suddenly I’m reminded of the game I used to play as a boy.’

  ‘Losing your marbles?’

  ‘Musical stools.’ The twinkle in his dancing eyes died. ‘Last one standing is the winner. Claudia—’

  He steered her away from the ears of the curious bronzesmith to the south side of the Forum. Tiered seating had been set up along the eastern and western sides, fronting the new basilica on one side and the Temple of Jupiter on the other. Maria was right next to the governor’s box.

  ‘Ecba’s job,’ Marcus said, ‘was to collect the pieces of the map and pass them on. He would not be privy to the information that certain portions would “accidentally” go missing during the course of the journey, therefore his role was, although distasteful, at least an innocent one. So who killed him?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘I wish I could, but Ecba’s murder makes no sense. Neither side wants him dead, it’s not in either of their interests, any betrayal of trust.’

  ‘You said yourself this was one double-cross after another.’

  ‘But not yet,’ Marcus stressed. ‘From Galba’s point of view, it’s vital his middleman passes on as many pieces as he can, evidence of good faith and all that. From the rebel point of view, they’re clearly expecting a full set and couldn’t possibly know, it’s too soon, that several pieces are missing. The couriers have barely set foot in Vesontio. Therefore I ask again, who killed Ecba, if not a third party?’

  ‘Marcus, Marcus, Marcus.’ Claudia was pleased with
the restraint she was able to show. ‘Granted our arachnid friend is a third party, but I don’t see how killing the middleman advances his cause. You’re trying to fit together pieces which are simply not meant to fit, so why don’t you abandon matchmaking for a while and ask yourself the question, not who killed the slave dealer, but why?’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ he said cheerfully, and Claudia had a horrid suspicion he’d been working up to this all along. ‘And to reach a suitable answer, first we need to establish who among our party was the agent in Galba’s employ.’

  ‘I don’t much care for the “we” part of that.’

  Crossing the open space of the Forum, she had the feeling hundreds of eyes could see the word ‘Sucker’ stuck on her back.

  ‘Can’t hear you.’ Marcus grinned. ‘For the elephant trumpeting.’ With a theatrical flourish, he offered her his arm. ‘Now then, milady, shall we take our seats for the show?’

  XXVIII

  Of the many fictions maintained, the one which informs us that class plays no part in modern-day living must be the largest. Or, if not, at least the cause of most mirth. Marcus Cornelius Orbilio, as befitted his aristocratic status, had been assigned a seat in the governor’s box, sending Maria’s eyes whizzing out of their sockets as it dawned on her that it was not Titus she should have been shoving her husband closer towards, but the designer of mosaic floors. The poor woman almost fell off her cushion when, after a muted exchange with the governor, Marcus excused himself, to park amongst the rest of the delayed delegation.

  ‘That’s breeding for you,’ she whispered to Dexter. ‘Refusing a seat in the imperial box. You be sure you sit next to him at the banquet tonight. Dexter, are you listening to me?’

  ‘My throat’s sore and the glands are right up.’

  ‘Never mind that.’ Maria turned and fluttered her fingers in Orbilio’s direction. ‘Marcus has contacts in all the right places, and if you play it right this evening, we might be talking of premises not just in Rome and Vesontio, but maybe Naples, Massilia, Byzantium. And for goodness sake, will you stop fussing over that lumpy tradesman’s daughter.’