Black Salamander (14 page)

‘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/Re/files/05/71/16/f057116/public/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.

XV

Call that a village? Claudia goggled at the depressing cluster. That collection of beehives? She had hung back in the forest with the others while Junius, as interpreter, and Theo, as official representative of Rome, made their way down to the man-made clearing where six squat structures huddled together like virgins at an orgy. Assorted creatures scuffed and snuffled in the dust—tiny brown sheep which reached barely knee high, shaggy-haired goats with long, swept-back horns, heavy grey geese with bright orange bills, dirty children, barefoot and squealing.

‘Dear lord, what sort of people are they, these Sequani?’ Maria demanded. ‘Content to live like pigs.’

‘Among the pigs, actually,’ Orbilio murmured. ‘Each household keeps a menagerie: ducks, geese, dogs, sheep…’

‘And interbreed with them, by the looks of it.’ Maria sniffed. ‘Do you see the hair on the fellow they’re talking to? On his chest, his back, that ugly moustache—I refuse to believe he’s wholly human.’

Many more people had emerged from their homes, shuffling, suspicious, clutching their children tight to their hips, and it was obvious that whole clans resided in these thatched roundhouses, leaving Claudia to ponder whether it was sheep or goats which made the softest pillows, or perhaps it was a Gaulish custom to sleep standing up? All the villagers had long hair and dressed in shapeless woollen tunics dyed russet red from madder root or olive green from elder, some with stripes, others squared. The women braided their hair, while the men wore headbands and torques—bands of twisted bronze, which fitted round their necks, open to expose their Adam’s apples. Droopy moustaches seemed compulsory. Perhaps it was the only way to differentiate the sexes in the dark.

A faint smell of sawdust and boiled leather clung to the village, and woollen garments hung stretched over hazelwood frames to drip dry. An old woman, bent double and supporting her weight on a stick, stirred butter in a churn.

You’d think it would be simple, wouldn’t you, asking the villagers if you could buy some food while they pointed out the road to Vesontio, but no. From the preponderance of theatrical hand signals, Junius and Theo were experiencing difficulty in getting their message across, and Claudia settled down with her back against an oak tree while they thrashed it out. No doubt the Gauls had dialect problems, too—and if these were anything like the communication cock-ups which occurred so regularly in that melting pot of nations, Rome, then the wait would be considerable. She closed her eyes, and heard the distant echo of an axe.

Of course, the forest was these people’s living, they tapped its vast resources. They were expert carpenters, churning out everything from fruit presses to canoes as well as providing timber for house building and charcoal for burning. The forest would have other uses, too. Game would be hunted, and heaven knows the Gauls bred the very best in hunting dogs. They cultivated trees (nothing beats a good Gaulish cherry, black and firm and slightly sour), and these oak woods are perfect for herding swine. Seeing great heaps of withies, Claudia was reminded that the women here were expert wicker workers, too, weaving panniers and chairs, and didn’t someone tell her Sequani war chariots bore basketwork panels?

Claudia’s eyes shot open. These old hags would also weave the wicker man! A giant basket in the shape of a human, in which a living person would be burned alive to propitiate their brutal, heathen gods.

‘Isn’t this fun?’

Claudia stuffed her knuckles in her mouth to stifle the scream which rose up. ‘Iliona.’ She tried for a smile. ‘I didn’t hear you approach.’

‘Then you’re going deaf.’ Iliona laughed, stretching out her arms and rattling the bracelets. More than just Titus’s eyes picked up on the fact that, with the action, her breasts wobbled provocatively and while the men were disappointed when she sat down, out of view, their wives were not. ‘This whole trip is turning into one thrill after another.’

Claudia grunted noncommittally and tried not to think about the screams of men trapped inside a blazing wicker effigy…

‘Wait till we reach Vesontio and the others hear about our adventures.’ Iliona sighed. ‘Won’t they be jealous! And the fact that they’re rich merchants and patricians won’t stop them envying us, either. Mind you, the chap who I feel really sorry for is, oh what’s his name…you know, the one who turned back in Bern because he’d been robbed.’ Her pretty tongue clucked as she tried to recall a name which escaped her. ‘The perfumer. Began with a G or something. Had his samples stolen from his lodgings and, with no incentive to continue, he hightailed it home instead.’

Effigies began to recede from Claudia’s thoughts. ‘Why?’ she asked. ‘Why did he have to turn back?’ Surely a perfumer could set up his trade anywhere? It’s knowledge he needs, rather than samples.

‘Who knows what goes through people’s minds in a crisis?’ Iliona said. ‘That’s why I feel sorry for him, he was young, making his way in the world, desperately in search of adventure, and look at him. Back in Rome, where he started, flat broke.’

A little bird fluttered inside Claudia’s ribcage. ‘Broke?’

‘Borassic apparently. Boasted that this trip would make him a rich man, but he fell at the first hurdle, poor soul. Oh, what
was
his wretched name?’

Down in the village, geese honked noisily as Junius and Theo made their way back to the body of the group. Claudia didn’t know the perfumer, had never heard of him until—today, but without a shadow of a doubt, that boy had been carrying a yellow deerskin pouch. She knew that, as surely as if Iliona had just told her and the little bird inside her fluttered harder. Clemens was carrying a pouch, Claudia was carrying a pouch, and Orbilio was talking about pieces of a map…

Suppose the chinking was a ruse? Suppose she was supposed to believe she was smuggling gemstones to a dealer in Vesontio, when in reality they were a blind to conceal the map inside? Suddenly it made sense. Why else would the Salamander buy her entire production of last season’s wine? All too often it had troubled her that he was paying more for the stones than they could possibly be worth. The pieces were starting to add up—

‘We’ve got a problem.’

Tell me about it! But the voice had not come from inside Claudia. The voice was male, and belonged to a boyish-faced soldier.

‘It would appear, ladies and gentlemen, that we have a choice,’ he said. ‘We can either spend the night with the villagers, and try and make sense of their garbled instructions regarding the road to their capital city, and I have to tell you, neither Junius or I can guarantee the directions, since no two villagers seem to agree upon the matter, none of them actually having visited Vesontio—’

‘Or?’ Maria said impatiently.

‘Or we can take that track there,’ Theo pointed to a path through the trees, ‘which leads to a roundhouse a mile or so away, home to a man they call the Silver Fox. He’s a woodsman, and the chieftain assures us he will be able to guide us to Vesontio.’

Chieftain? Head of six miserable little huts, and he calls himself a chieftain? Then Claudia remembered how feudal the Gauls were, still, and in isolated communities like this it made perfect sense. No matter how small or how large the populace, we all need some kind of structure. Without it, there’s only anarchy and chaos. A chill ran through her as Orbilio’s voice echoed in her memory. Assassinate Augustus…reinstate the Republic. Anarchy and chaos.

‘Why can’t we do both?’ Titus asked. ‘Spend the night here, then take the guide in the morning?’ With daylight fading fast, it seemed a reasonable question.