Fleeced (9 page)

Aries beamed and rubbed his ears against her elbow.

Rose smiled down at him. “But if it were in a museum, like, any museum, anywhere, then I’d know about it. Believe me, Mum would have dragged me to see it from my pushchair years ago.”

“So it’s not?” said Alex.

Rose shook her head. “Someone somewhere must still have it.” She leaned back against the shelf.
“Maybe some old duke and duchess have it hanging on the walls of their dining room,” she went on, thinking out loud. “Or a Chinese emperor’s using it as a bedroom rug in his golden pagoda.”

Aries wrinkled up his nose at the suggestion of toes scrunching into his golden wool.

Rose shrugged. “Haven’t you got any clues or help at all?”

“Only this,” said Alex, rummaging in his bag for the Scroll.

It gave a grumpy rustle as it unfurled and looked at Rose through one of its ragged holes.

Rose stared blankly. “What is it?”

“An All-Knowing, talking Scroll,” said Alex. “Or at least it was before someone decided to eat half of it for his lunch. I don’t think there’s enough of it to work properly now. It’s probably useless.”

“It was useless before,” muttered Aries.

The Scroll harrumphed.

“Hmm,” said Rose, tracing one of the holes in the parchment with her fingertip. “I’m not so sure.”

She examined the Scroll, turning it this way and that, studying the edges of the holes, stroking the damage. Soon it began to purr like a cat and Alex felt himself brighten. Perhaps Rose might be able to do something? Rose would, of course, because just like
her mother – although she would hate my pointing this out – she was one of nature’s fixers and never able to see a problem without her mind worrying and fiddling and wondering how to solve it.

“I’m sure I could patch this up,” she said, handing it back to Alex with a smile. “But right now I have to go back upstairs.”

Alex felt a ripple of panic in his chest. “Why?”

“To tell Mum about the caryatid, of course,” said Rose, rising to her feet. “Otherwise Ron and Eric will freak out and then who knows what’ll happen.”

“But you will—”

“Come back?” finished Rose. “Of course I will! Don’t worry!”

Aries planted his head on her waist. “Promise?”

Rose stroked his muzzle. “Promise!”

“But what about the guards?” said Alex.

“Simple,” smiled Rose. “I tell Mum that the guards dealt with you and the guards that Mum dealt with you. As long as she fixes the caryatid and they don’t get into trouble, there won’t be a problem.”

(See, like I said, one of nature’s fixers.)

She turned towards the door.

“But what shall we do while you’re gone?” asked Alex.

Rose looked back over her shoulder. “Stay out of
sight and think about how I can help you. Okay?”

“Olives,” said Aries.

Rose exchanged glances with Alex.

“That’s how you can help me,” added Aries, seeing their puzzled faces. “Do you know, I haven’t eaten properly for days? Not unless you count a mouthful of withered oblivion bushes and a few furry biscuits from the bottom of Alex’s bag, which frankly I do not. Green olives would be nicest, if you can find them in this London place.”

Shaking her head, Rose turned away and began walking up the corridor.

There was a
clopping
noise behind her as Aries stuck his head out around the door. “And a few salty crackers to go with them.”

IX

C
UPS AND
S
ORCERESS

Unfortunately, as with many of life’s problems, green olives and salty crackers aren’t the answer. They’re not the answer to six times seven
17
, or what’s the capital of Venezuela
18
. They don’t help ghost rams and boys who are hiding in the basement of the British Museum and they’re completely useless for problems that sit at café tables in Rome, twisting a streak of violet hair around their white fingers.

Remember that violet streak? I thought you might.

And believe me, I am sorry for having to bring Medea into this story at all. However, you might recall that I have tried to be kind to you up until now, by dropping little hintlets about her unpleasantness to prepare you. Nevertheless, I shall try to make this as quick as possible.

Whilst Alex was busy scolding Aries for thinking about olives when he ought to be thinking about the mess they were in, Medea was sitting miles away sipping a latte in the Piazza Navona.

Bathed in the sunlight streaming through the café’s windows, she looked magnificent. Flawless, in fact. With skin as smooth as a shark’s tooth she appeared barely twenty-two of her
three-thousand-
eight-hundred-and-seventy-six years, which is what being an immortal sorceress will do for you,
Greek-witch
magic being a whole lot more effective than those anti-wrinkle creams they flog on the telly.

Of course, she’d have been even prettier if she smiled occasionally but Medea hadn’t smiled for months now. Instead, she’d sulked and raged, smashing china and summoning up thunderbolts that split walls and wilted dahlias, not to mention using the sort of language that would curl your eyelashes. All of which Hex, her accomplice – or ‘familiar’ as they say in witchy circles – could have told you about (and shown you the bruises) except that he was at that moment hidden inside the carpet bag at her feet, a carpet bag that writhed and hissed. As you might now have guessed, Hex was a snake. However, what you probably haven’t guessed is that he was a black mamba – and a black mamba, for
those non-snake experts amongst you, is one of the deadliest snakes on Earth. Able to kill a man in minutes –
hiss, nip, thud!
– it’s also the fastest snake in the world and can zip through a classroom in under two seconds. However, unless you live in Africa, where mambas usually live, don’t worry about any black snakes you might see hanging around school, because despite their name, black mambas are grey. It’s the inky-black insides of their mouths that give them their name.

Now, back to Medea.

Since she left ancient Greece all those years ago she’d turned her hand to designing clothes. Not just any old clothes, but fabulous dresses and jackets, exquisite ball gowns that shimmered like tropical fish, wedding dresses as soft as snowdrifts and suits that made the dowdiest of men look debonair. For centuries, kings and queens, emperors and politicians, artists, musicians and several Hollywood stars had clamoured for her designs. Yet no one had ever connected her in any of her incarnations – as the seamstress at King Henry VIII’s court, the maker of Georgian silk pantaloons and white wigs in the eighteenth century or the modern-day business woman with a studio in Rome – to the sorceress in an ancient Greek myth with the same name. I mean
that would’ve been silly, wouldn’t it, for who in their right mind could imagine that such a fresh and glamorous young woman was really a witch? Or that she was thousands of years old? I mean, I bet you know some boys called Isaac, but did they discover gravity standing under an apple tree? How about women called Cleo? Did the one you know rule Egypt four thousand years ago? Well, quite. And just in case any smart old person with an even smarter memory might grow suspicious, Medea vanished for decades every so often, to return refreshed and ready to tempt a whole new audience with her catwalk collections of clothes. But for a very special few, shall we say her most
privileged
customers, Medea offered a special service where she herself took the customer’s measurements, cut and sewed the cloth, snipping and tucking and stitching until the clothes were, well, breathtaking.

It was for just such a lucky customer that Medea was at that moment sketching, adding layer upon layer of pink taffeta to the skirts of the prom dress outlined on the page in front of her. She shrugged off her nightshade-purple jacket to reveal a short-sleeved black dress that fitted her as snugly as the skin on a spider’s tummy, and took a sip of latte, glancing up at the café television, which was showing footage of
Hazel Praline arriving in London. Amused, Medea set down her sketch pad to watch as the screen filled with images of the young pop star stepping out of her pink-winged jet, adjusting her pink headband and throwing kisses to her screaming fans, her manager-father standing behind her, waving his white cowboy hat.

“Ooh,” hissed Hex, peeping out from inside the carpetbag. “That’s her, isn’t it, Mistressss?”

Medea sighed, scanning the other customers to make sure that no one else had heard before holding her pencil up towards the screen to check the proportions of the gown she was drawing against the girl on screen.

“Daddy’d make a good meal,” added Hex, slapping his lips with his black tongue. “Texasss hasssh!”

Medea shoved Hex back into the damp flannel-lined bag and jabbed him with the heel of her spiked boot, ignoring the muffled squeal of pain. Unfortunately, as Medea had recently discovered, black mambas, unlike black cats, don’t make good familiars. Despite their mean looks and reputation, they’re born daydreamers who’d rather snooze than squirm around a cauldron and spend most of their time lingering like a lost sock under the bed, which is hardly sorceress-chic.

“Breaking news,” barked the newscaster as the screen flipped to a picture of the British Museum, “from our London correspondent, where reports are coming through that a sheep – yes, you heard me correctly, a
sheep
– has run amok through the British Museum. Witnesses say that the sheep seemed to appear out of nowhere in Room 18, home to the Parthenon exhibits.”

Medea glanced up as the screen changed to a jittery video, clearly from a tourist’s camera, to see Aries looking back at her.

“According to those present,” the reporter went on, “the sheep was simply not there one moment but there the next, crashing into a caryatid from the Parthenon. A second vandal, this time a boy dressed as an ancient Greek, was accompanying the sheep, although museum guards now tell us that both boy and sheep have been removed from the premises and are being dealt with by the relevant authorities.”

Medea stared.

It couldn’t be, she told herself, the image of Aries emblazoned on her mind. It simply could not be him. Except, as her icy brain pointed out, how many other enormous bald rams with horns like bedsprings were there on the planet? Or, in fact, usually in its Greek Underworld.

None.

Flipping shut her sketchbook, she knocked her coffee cup to the floor.

“Mistressss?” Hex edged his snout up and stopped, startled by her expression.

She was smiling, actually smiling. Hex blinked to make sure. But seeing the corners of her mouth lift upwards turned his tepid reptile heart to ice cubes. Medea smiling, you see, was always more dangerous than Medea sulking.

“Mistressss?” he murmured, sinking back into the bag.

“Mind your own business,” snapped Medea, dropping her sketchbook on top of him.

Snatching up her coat and bag, she hurried out of the café, as erratic as a startled scorpion. She didn’t care about the muffled
ouches
as her bag knocked into one chair after another. Nor did she notice the customers nudge each other and whisper as she strode past them, out into the square where now, wholly oblivious to its baroque architecture and magnificent fountains, she hailed a taxi to Leonardo da Vinci airport and her private jet.

X

S
NACKS AND
B
UGS AND
B
ROKEN
S
CROLLS

Well, that’s enough of her.

Let’s talk about someone nicer instead: Rose.

Now, as you might have guessed, Rose’s mother didn’t have much time for television news. No, I’m afraid Dr Pottersby-Weir didn’t have much time for holidays, cinemas, sunbathing in the park, trips to the London Dungeon, cream cakes, bicycle rides or, if you’d asked Rose, daughters, either. And so when Rose found her mother that afternoon she wasn’t remotely surprised to discover her engrossed by something small and twinkling at the end of a microscope, her elbows red from leaning on the desk.

Rose pulled up the stool beside her mother and sat down.

“Two ancient Greeks turned up in the Parthenon room this afternoon,” she began.

Her mother continued to peer down the lens. “Really?”

“Yes. Both been dead for years.”

“Uh-huh,” muttered Dr Pottersby-Weir, straightening up.

She slid her black-framed glasses onto the top of her head, pushing back her hair, which was the same mass of red curls as Rose’s, but cut to a sensible shoulder length. Then she picked up a pair of tweezers and plucked the artefact from under the microscope, a small disc of gold that gleamed in the light of the desk lamp. Laying it gently on her gloved palm she held it out to Rose.

“Take a look at this.”

Sighing, Rose stepped closer. It looked like a gold charm, the sort you might find on a bracelet, but this one was crumpled with age and carved with a picture of a giant beetle, its huge mandibles holding something round.

“It was found in the black soil of the Amazon basin,” said her mother, stroking it with her gloved fingers. “I’ve dated it to around 1650. Rose, that suggests there were tribes on the Amazon much longer ago than people think. I’m going to publish!”

“That’s great,” sighed Rose.

Unfortunately, life with her mother had been like
this ever since Rose’s eleventh birthday, which was when her father, who’d been an archaeologist too, had left on an expedition to the Amazon jungle.

And never returned.

People deal with grief in lots of different ways and Rose’s mother’s way had been to devote her time single-mindedly to finding one special artefact from the Amazon rainforest, one unique and amazing thing, to research and name after her lost husband. Ever since he’d vanished she’d taken jobs at museum after museum, in city after city, towing Rose through school after school whilst she hunted for what could be the Theodore Pottersby-Weir’s Arrowhead, the Theodore Pottersby-Weir’s Chieftan’s Crown or the Theodore Pottersby-Weir’s Jaguar Mask. Rose glanced at the beetle on the crumpled gold disc and hoped that wasn’t it.

Perhaps some of you might be a bit shocked by Rose’s attitude? Don’t be. Rose wasn’t a harsh or mean-spirited person and she loved her mother dearly. And of course she understood that her mother’s obsession with work distracted her from an overwhelming grief. She just wished it didn’t distract her quite so much from noticing her daughter.

Rose missed her father desperately too. She still thought about him every day, missing his warm
chestnut-brown eyes, his smile, his raucous laugh that filled a room, his bear hug that swept her off her feet. And, as she reminded herself now, she missed the way he’d have listened properly if she’d told him about Alex and Aries.

“One was a talking sheep,” said Rose who now found herself speaking to her mother’s back.

Slowly Dr Pottersby-Weir laid the charm on a velvet-lined tray and turned to face her daughter. “That’s an amusing story, Rosie. But you’ll never make an archaeologist if you don’t stick to the facts.”

Rose rolled her eyes. “Look, what I actually came to tell you was that they damaged a statue when they arrived.”

“A statue?” Her mother leaned forwards, suddenly interested. “Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place? Which one?”

“The caryatid,” said Rose. “I told Ron and Eric that you’d know what to do because they were totally freaking out. I said you’d help them. They’ve dealt with the, er, vandals.”

But her mother was barely listening. She stood up from the stool, the charm temporarily forgotten, and began pacing between the table and the wall.

“Now, let me see… Athenian marble… dating from 490 
BC
… weathered for three thousand years.
Hmm, she’ll have a porosity of three-point-four to three-point-five, just like an old tooth. Structure and density will need confirming.” She counted off her fingers as she spoke. “I’ll need to consult Professor Spyros Papadakis in Delphi to formulate the exact marble compound resin to rebuild her, contact the museum’s insurance holders to cover the costs of my flight and materials, issue a notice that all is in hand to the press, inform the Greek government.” She reached for her BlackBerry. “Rose, sweetie, I’m going to be busy. Can you amuse yourself for half an hour?”

Rose nodded. Her mother’s ‘half-hours’ were always at least three hours long. And, whilst Rose usually resented this, today she was grateful. Grateful because Alex and Aries needed her mother’s exceptional talents to restore the caryatid to perfection so that they would be able to return home. After all, if anyone understood what it meant when people were lost far from home, it was Rose. Collecting her rucksack she slipped out of the room and down the museum’s back stairs, out onto the street and heading towards the nearest supermarket.

Three jars of olives, two packets of salty biscuits, four rounds of cheese sandwiches, six bags of salt
and vinegar crisps, an entire box of iced cakes, two bottles of pop and a bar of fruit and nut chocolate later, Alex and Aries felt much brighter. Whilst they had been eating, Rose had been busily rootling around the shelves, trying to find some suitably old paper to try and patch up the Scroll. She’d felt certain there’d be some old scrap of papyrus or calfskin lying around down here, but ten minutes later all she’d turned up was a faded teen magazine, jammed between two suitcases that had probably been left behind by a bored archivist years ago. Had her mother have been there, she would have instructed Rose to be put the magazine back, be patient, find the appropriate materials, match the gaps exactly and use a special acid-free glue. But she wasn’t. Consequently, Rose, never the most patient girl in the world and hugely excited to be holding a real actual All-Knowing Scroll, had mended it her own way. I use the term ‘mended’ loosely, because as Rose now held it up to admire her handiwork, the Scroll hung in crumples, one corner higher than the other, a patchwork of parchment, sticky tape and glossy paper.

“And this can really tell you the answer to any question?” Rose said, hardly believing the words herself.

Alex looked up and frowned. “Well, it used to,” he said uncertainly.

“Brilliant!” said Rose, her heart beginning to drum behind her ribs. Drawing the Scroll up to her mouth she took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “Scroll,” she whispered, “please tell me what happened to my fath—”

“No!” Aries knocked the Scroll out of her hand with his horns. It gave a little yelp, tumbled to the floor, snapped shut and rolled under the nearest shelf.

Rose snapped open her eyes, shocked. “What did you do that for?”

“
Four
questions!” muttered Aries, hunching down to peer for the Scroll in the dusty shadows. “That’s all it’s got. We can’t afford to waste them.”

“It wouldn’t have been a waste,” said Rose.

“Not to you,” said Alex gently, noticing her glistening eyes. “It must have been something important?”

Rose stared at the floor in silence.

There was a clattering as Aries pulled the Scroll out from under a shelf and rolled it back towards Alex. Seeing Rose’s face he sank his head onto her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he said, pressing his muzzle against
her ear. “But if I’m going to find my fleece we need all the help we can get.”

Despite her disappointment, Rose smiled. After all, it’s not every day you have a talking ram apologise damply in your ear and, quite apart from the novelty, it tickles deliciously.

“Look,” said Alex. “Tell you what. If we can find the fleece in three questions…”

A smile lit Rose’s face. “You’ll give me the last one?”

Alex nodded.

“Then I’ll help you,” said Rose. “I know far more about Earth than the Scroll can tell you in so few questions.”

“Let’s make a start then,” said Alex, gently unfurling the Scroll. Holding his face in a suitably solemn expression, he began.

“Scrollius lapidus, exalto Greco…”

“Ancient Greek,” whispered Aries to Rose. “I don’t know why he’s using that since the Scroll speaks all languages. Probably showing off.”

“Do you mind?” snapped Alex. “I am speaking to the Scroll in Ancient Greek to comfort it after its traumas.”

“Don’t bother,” moaned the Scroll. “It’s too late for that.”

Aries stuck his nose underneath the bottom of the Scroll. “Where’s the fleece?”

There was a rustle followed by a wisp of silver smoke.

“
My talents now are sadly skewed, from having all my best bits chewed,
” said the Scroll in a wobbly voice.

“Awesome!” said Rose.

“Get on with it,” muttered Aries.

The Scroll fluttered beneath Alex’s fingers.

“
The tufts of gold are near you now, much closer than you think. You’ll find them hid— oh, oh…
” The Scroll wheezed and stretched taut.

“Near!” boomed Aries, sticking his muzzle in Alex’s ear. “Did you hear that, Alex?”

Alex tried to push Aries away, but the ram stuck his head under Alex’s elbow to nuzzle the bottom of the parchment. “Tell Uncle Aries what you mean, you sweet little scrolly Scroll!”

“
It’s hidden in—
” The Scroll coughed and tailed off.

“In?” snorted Aries.

“
In, in, in, n-n-n—
” The Scroll snapped shut and open. “
Don’t stand sobbing by the sink, or gaze in sad dismay. For teenage spots, try new Wash Pink! And rinse your cares away!
”

“Wash Pink?” stammered Aries. “What’s it on
about?”

Rose bit her lip and pointed to a photograph of a bottle of face wash shown on one of the scraps she’d torn from the magazine page. “It’s the advert, isn’t it? See: ‘Wash Pink – for teenage skin.’ I think the magazine’s interfering with its vibes.”

“I’ll interfere with its vibes,” growled Aries, “if it doesn’t tell me something useful soon!”

“Scroll,” coaxed Alex, drawing the Scroll towards him, “we’d like you to try again.”

A waft of putrid smoke curled from the Scroll’s edges and hung stinking in the air.

“
Beneath… Midnight Shimmer,
” said the Scroll and burped loudly. “Oh, excuse me!
Shimmer your way into the spotlight with Glitzy Girl eyeshadow! Close to… fizz up your life with Mango Whizz — the zippiest lip gloss around!
”

The Scroll spluttered and snapped shut.

Rose bit her lip. “Maybe my repair wasn’t as good as I thought.”

“And now we’ve used up a question,” sighed Alex.

But Aries wasn’t listening. “Did you hear what it said? My fleece! Closer than we think! We have to start looking.” He thumped his shoulder against the door and stepped back again, lowering his horns, ready to charge through it.

“No!” cried Alex and threw his arms around Aries’ horns, trying to hold him back. “The Scroll’s too damaged,” he gasped, jerked along the floor behind the ram’s rump, “to guide us safely.”

“Let me go!” Aries squirmed and twisted, his hooves squealing on the tiled floor.

Alex pulled Aries’ head round to face him. “You wouldn’t stand a chance up there!”

Aries frothed. The tendons in his neck strained. “The Scroll said it’s near. So, it must be in the museum somewhere.”

“It’s not!” said Rose. She knelt down and looked into Aries’ frustrated face and laid a hand on his pulsing neck. “The fleece is not an exhibit here. It never has been.”

“So what did it mean?” sighed Aries, slumping onto his haunches.

He stuck his bottom lip out and stared at the floor. Behind him, Alex shook his head at Rose, giving her a look that said that there was no point reasoning with a moody ram.

Rose glanced at her watch and sighed. “The museum closes in about ten minutes,” she said. “I’ll have to go.”

“What about us?” said Alex.

“You’ll be safe as long as you stay down here,
okay? No one will come in here overnight. I’ll come back first thing tomorrow and then we’ll get somewhere. You’ll see.”

And, as the author, I can tell you that Rose was absolutely right: the next day they certainly would get somewhere. However, as she hurried down the museum’s front marble steps and Alex and Aries fought over the blanket before settling down to sleep, none of them could have imagined just where that was and how dangerous and unpleasant it would be.

Which was just as well, really.