Marilyn Todd - Sour Grapes

She had spent the past week praying to the gods of the sunrise, but the gods of the sunrise were powerful gods. They'd be too busy answering the prayers of rich men and priests to bother with an old woman like her. So she'd turned to the deities of good fortune to the north, for fortune is notoriously capricious and rash, and who knows what games the gods might be playing this time on mortals? But as the old woman waited, she'd received no signs from the north wind. What little breeze there was blew warm from the south, and Etha took that as an omen. With tears dribbling down her wrinkled cheeks, she lifted shaking hands to the sky.

'O wolf-headed Aita, who makes thy home at the edge of the Universe and presideth over the Dead, I offer this wreath of myrtle.' Myrtle was the death tree. Aita would understand. 'But before I open my heart and let Deathmist enter, I beg thee to speak to the gods of the south, that they might be persuaded to give up my grandson.'

If he's dead, let the earth no longer conceal his body. Let Horta, Fufluns and the rest of the gods who dwell therein surrender his corpse that Etha might send Tages to the Afterlife with the proper rites, and though it weren't in the Order of the Cosmos for the old to bury the young, it weren't right, neither, that his soul be denied entry to the Hall of Purification. Despite the pain in her arthritic bones, Etha bent low to the damp soil and kissed it.

'If my boy's dead, as I accept he must be, at least grant him a resting place where the Guardians of the Graves can watch over his immortal soul,' she begged the earth. 'I ask this for Tages, thou understands. Not myself. But I beseech thee, with all my heart I beseech thee, don't deny the poor lad.'

The earth gods were good gods. Even as she was reaching for her stout laurel stick to straighten up, she heard footsteps on the path. The footsteps were heavy. Etha turned and saw Philo, her neighbour, and though his face told his story, it was not at his face that Etha was staring. It was at the blanket-covered bundle he held in his arms.

The heavy rains of the night before had washed away the earth from the boy's shallow grave.

The Guardians had a place to stand watch, after all.

If there was one thing Orbilio had noticed about Mercurium, it was that news travelled fast around here. Locals joked that this was the reason the town had been named after the messenger of the gods. Gossip travelled on the same invisible winged sandals. Marcus could well believe it. Even before Etha's neighbour had taken Tages home, news of the discovery had reached the townsfolk — and since most of them were wholeheartedly maintaining the ancient tradition of celebrating right through the night, it was at Terrence's villa that the news broke.

As it happened, Orbilio was among the first to hear it. This was pure chance, since he had participated very little in the festivities. Not because he hadn't wanted to. He'd thoroughly enjoyed climbing into a wolfskin and scattering little lambs hither and thither. Their delighted squeals lifted his heart, reminding him how he longed to father a tribe of his own, hoisting one on to the crow's nest of his shoulders whilst another whirled from his waist as — I don't know, another two, maybe three — danced around him like a maypole until finally they all collapsed in one dizzy, idiotic heap. Oh, and did he mention dogs? Wolfhounds, poodles, hunting dogs, mongrels, he didn't care what breed they were, or how many, so long as they loped beside him and his kids as they gathered baskets of mushrooms from the forest floor or stretched out on the river bank, tickling trout.

He had no doubt such pleasures lay in store, but meanwhile, given the choice, who wouldn't have preferred joining in the footraces Terrence had organized, or putting his name down for the tug-of-war, to bypassing the festivities in favour of a backlog of files? However, when he accepted the post as Head of the Aquitanian Security Police, he'd accepted responsibility, loyalty and commitment to Gaul. On previous trips back to Rome, he'd been accompanied by a chest full of case notes and Milo, his scribe. The difference was, on this trip it was Milo who had done all the hard work! Thus Orbilio contented himself with admiring the skills of the rope-walkers from a distance while he annotated his scribe's meticulously prepared reports and added to the ever-growing list of actions for his return. His return…

After only a week with Claudia Seferius, Santonum seemed a lifetime away.

An expert at compartmentalization, Marcus stuffed that particular demon back in its box and snapped the lid shut. One thing at a time, he reflected, and, as Terrence's guest, he'd felt duty bound to put in regular appearances throughout the night, introducing himself to all and sundry and generally making the right noises. Surprised at seeing Rosenna, he would very much have liked to have taken the girl aside and talked privately for a while, but each time he approached, she ducked away and he had to respect that. Her brother had only been dead a week, and attending Terrence's party was Rosenna's first step at overcoming her grief. This was not the time for him to rake over her sorrow.

But Claudia, he couldn't help noticing, had managed to cast aside her worries about Darius. Every time Orbilio made a tour of the revels, there she was, in the thick of it, playing featherball, competing in the three-legged race, clapping at the mimes, gasping at the fire-eater, laughing at the antics of the clowns. Terrence seemed to be clinging like a shadow, that same fixed oily smile plastered all over his face, but Orbilio wasn't going to lose sleep over that. Claudia had seen at first hand how he bullied his sister, undermining what little confidence Thalia had, until the poor cow was so frightened of saying something stupid that she always ended up saying something even more stupid. But it felt right, somehow. Looking up and seeing Claudia there. As though that's how it was meant to be…

Another lid snapped shut on another compartment. One thing at a time, old son, remember?

'Ah, Rex!'

'Marcus, m'boy.' The general's eyes were puffy from lack of sleep, his jowls hanging heavier than usual. 'What can I do for you?'

That old patrician trait, he reflected. No matter how tired or weary one was, be polite, be interested — be what one was expected to be, and never show what you really feel. Orbilio pasted on a suitably gracious expression of his own.

'News has just filtered in about Tages. The shepherd boy who went missing the night of the storm.'

'Found him, have they?'

It was because Rex was tired, he supposed. But the general didn't say, 'turned up, has he?' He asked if the boy had been found…

'His body was discovered late yesterday afternoon,' he explained. 'From the state of him, it looks like Tages had been dead for a week.'

In fact, decomposition had wedged him so firmly between the rocks that it took the rescue team several hours to retrieve him, but it was important to the Etruscans that their dead be despatched to the afterlife in as perfect a condition as possible. They'd have beavered away for days if needs be.

'Glad for the old woman,' Rex sniffed. 'Terrible thing, not knowing what's happened to your loved ones, but now she knows he slipped in the storm, it gives her closure, what. Listen.' He patted Orbilio's shoulder. 'Would ask you to join me for my customary constitutional, but don't mind admitting I'm done in. Not bothering with breakfast. Going straight home for a kip.'

From the corner of his eye, Orbilio noticed slaves with blue headbands clearing up the debris while a squad with red headbands laid breakfast out on the trestle tables. Hot bread, pancakes, cheeses and fruit were being heaped up, plus there were still great piles of leftovers from last night's feast for people to help themselves from. The townsfolk were not averse to a free meal, he observed dryly. Hardly any had filtered off home, and he truly admired those die-hards who were still at it, playing bounce-ball or clipper, jogging round the lake, taking a dip, while those sober enough to aim true