Black Salamander (11 page)

‘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 to 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 gawky 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.

The silver censor crashed to the ground as Claudia employed both hands to dig out the pouch she’d uncovered. You devious little bastard, Clemens. She jerked out the deerskin pouch and peered at the seal, her blood alternating hot and cold as she imagined what she’d do to the fat little worm when she laid her hands on him. Steal my bloody gemstones, would you? She rattled the pouch, then checked the seal, but the black salamander, praise be to Juno, had not been tampered with. Nimble fingers undid the buckles on the satchel round her neck. Strangling’s too good for you, you putrid lump of slugslime, I’ve half a mind to—

Uh-oh.

Claudia blinked, and blinked again. She was wrong. Clemens hadn’t sneaked her pouch out of the satchel when her head was turned to dose Orbilio with syrup of figs. The pouch was still there, where she’d left it…

This meant Clemens was carrying a deerskin pouch of his own.

Which happened to be absolutely identical.

XII

‘I don’t think Theo likes me.’

Orbilio had taken advantage of the lull to steer Claudia away from the main gathering, and they were sitting with their knees drawn up, facing each other on boulders under the overlap of a willow. Wispy clouds had moved in to cover the sky, settling an early twilight over the canyon. The fire, fierce to start with, had pretty well fizzled out now that the upper layer had burned through to damper branches which had not yet been dried by the sun, and if anything, the barricade looked worse than before. Not because it was higher, quite the opposite. But the combination of blackened rocks and charred, sticking-up branches produced a dark and sinister effect, sending out a sombre sense of foreboding.

When, from time to time, the pines spat and sparked, nerves jarred visibly.

Resting her chin on her knees, Claudia wondered whether others among the party shared her suspicions that the bodies of at least the two soldiers, and probably half of the mules, were unlikely to have been touched by the flames. That the fire, short-lived as it had been, had been no more than a gesture. A symbol. An observance of duty.

That Orbilio, in his assessment of the situation regarding the stranded group, intended it as nothing more than a discharge of communal liability. Let’s draw a line and move on, he was saying.

For move on they would, come the morning, because on one point Orbilio was adamant. The army were not coming this way to look for them. It was precisely as Titus had reasoned. Informed that the convoy had taken a short cut which had been subsequently blocked by a rock fall, the military had sent appropriate messages to Vesontio, telling them they should expect the delegation from the local road in from the south. A smug air hung over the spice merchant.