Marilyn Todd - Black Salamander

‘And you have a better plan, I suppose?’ Volso sneered.

‘Well. Considering this is the route the Sequani use when travelling between Vesontio and Bern,’ Titus reasoned, ‘it strikes me the army are unlikely to be worried once they hear we diverted ourselves off along here, because we’re still headed in the right direction. One or two soldiers will be despatched as scouts,’ his eyes swivelled up to the scar on the landscape, ‘but my guess is that when they realize what’s happened, they’ll just expect us from the south instead of the west.’

‘I get you,’ chipped in the glass-blower. ‘You think the army will come that way,’ he jabbed his finger upstream, ‘to meet up with us.’

‘Exactly,’ Titus said, pursing his lips. ‘Sitting on our arses doing nothing, we might just as well have targets hung on our backs.’

‘I still say we wait,’ said the mournful astrologer. ‘We know we can’t get past that tangle of fallen rocks and trees-’

‘Volso, you’re such a bloody defeatist,’ someone snapped, probably the slipper-maker. ‘We’ll never know till we try, will we?’

‘Be my guest,’ the astrologer said dryly. ‘Just bear in mind what happened to Libo.’

‘Ach, that was Helvetia,’ the glass-blower said. ‘The Sequani are very pro-Roman.’

Beside them, the river thundered through the narrow ravine, white and frothy, fast and furious, jumping over rapids and bouncing round rocks, and as the rain receded so steam began to rise from the thick vegetation-the ferns, the aspens, the alders and willows which grew so lushly along the riverbanks.

‘And you think that by crossing this bridge, you receive automatic protection from Helvetii attacks?’ Volso scoffed. ‘Or that having Roman blood in your veins deters a Sequani head-hunter?’

‘Oh, come on.’ The slipper-maker’s voice, however, had lost much of its stridence. ‘You can’t believe in that crap?’

‘I wouldn’t underestimate the tribesmen living in these remoter regions,’ Theo said sombrely, unbuckling his breastplate. ‘They’re a superstitious lot, the Gauls, especially in the more isolated hamlets. Those who live on the border, particularly, have to put up with the constant threat of invasion-raiding parties, rather than territorial skirmishes, I admit, but none the more reassuring for that. The collecting of skulls equates with strength and cunning to these wretched barbarians. To them, the head is the seat of all power.’

From one of the carts, a woman began to whimper like a wounded kitten.

‘Claptrap,’ Titus jeered. ‘Complete and utter balls.’

‘I agree.’ Theo removed his helmet and puffed up the plumes. ‘That’s why Rome is trying so hard to suppress this barbaric practice, but the fact remains that as long as the group sticks together, we can count ourselves safe. Stay or go, we should vote on it.’

‘Well, I’m for toughing it out,’ Volso said. ‘I have the utmost faith in the Emperor’s legions, I suggest we wait here to be rescued.’

‘Here, here,’ voices cried.

‘Suppose the water level rises further?’ someone asked. ‘It’s such a torrent, if it sweeps down this gorge, it could take the bridge with it…’

‘That’s not helping,’ Titus growled, shooting a glance from under the fringe which fell over one eye. ‘That’s scaremongering, and that’s not why we should push on. In my view, inactivity is not simply a waste of time, I believe it’s bloody dangerous.’

‘Here, here,’ the same voices cried.

‘Oh, for gods’ sake,’ Claudia barked, marching to the front. ‘All this wrangling’s getting us nowhere, and besides, the whole argument’s academic. We have to send out a burial party, and since that can’t be done tonight, you might as well stop squabbling and sleep on it, and I’m sure you chaps are adult enough to discuss it more calmly in the morning. Now why don’t you all get your bloody nags across this rickety thing the Sequani call a bridge and get a fire going? I am starved!’

Shamed into obedience, the convoy, incredibly, did as they were told, and soon horsemeat (poor old Hercules, his leg was broken anyway) was roasting away over a crackling log fire while wild strawberries were gathered by the wayside.

‘About Drusilla,’ said Junius, ‘now we’re settled for the night, shall I let her out of the cage?’

‘Hmmm?’ Claudia’s eyes were narrowed as she watched a pair of peregrine falcons circle over the rocky outcrops which jutted high above the trees. ‘Oh, yes. Let her out. She’ll be fine.’ Poor cat was well used to situations like this. ‘But before you do, Junius.’

‘Yes.’

The falcons screamed and dived in a spectacular courtship display.

‘Find out whose rig was protected by that overhang of rock up there, will you? The one I found Nestor’s body in.’

There might be no significance in it. Perhaps it was pure bad luck the killer had chosen that particular rig. But then again, it might have been carefully planned.

‘Much more of that,’ Clemens said, settling on the bridge beside Claudia, ‘and we’ll have you elected as leader.’

Two flaws in that argument, priest. One: no matter how sound the advice, men never knowingly accept orders from women. And two: no way would Claudia take responsibility for this raggle-taggle bunch of boozers and losers. She said nothing, continuing to wriggle her bare toes above the swirling, white waters as she polished off her last piece of steak. Blue, almost black, dragonflies darted in and out amongst the water mint and a dipper, its white bib bobbing, braved the ferocious undertow for its supper.

‘Yes, yes, I like that idea.’ Chortling merrily, Clemens pulled his own sandals off and swung his legs over the edge, twitching whenever the icy splashes and sprays tickled the soles of his feet. ‘Especially with your Gaul acting as scout and interpreter.’ He paused. ‘I suppose you can trust him?’

Ah. So this is why you’ve joined me?

‘About as much as I can trust you, Clemens,’ Claudia replied sweetly, casting a sideways glance at this short, rotund priest. With his long white robes kilted up to the middle of his pale, pudgy calves and with his round, eager face, he transmitted waves of youthfulness way beyond his thirty-nine years. Not the way Theo did, of course, with boyish good looks. In fact, with his receding hairline contrasting sharply with the solid mound around his waist, handsome wasn’t the word which sprang immediately to mind. But nonetheless Clemens reminded her of…well, a slobbering lump of a puppy, actually. Not fully co-ordinated, but still incredibly eager. Sharp, too. He had to be, to be in the priesthood.

‘The reason I mention it,’ he said slowly, ‘is because before Junius set foot across this bridge, he sliced a piece of bark from an alder and carved some sort of symbol-it looked like horns-before tossing it into the water.’

‘Bull.’

‘No, honestly, I watched him do it.’

‘I meant, they’re bulls’ horns, Clemens. He does it in Rome, even. In fact everywhere there’s water to cross, he’ll throw in a stone he’s previously engraved with the horns, he carries them around for the purpose.’

In this case, his supply probably went down the ravine with the rig.

‘Bit…odd, don’t you think?’ the priest said. ‘I presume you do know what it means, the bulls’ horns?’ He shifted uncomfortably and tried not to frown when Claudia seemed more intent on a blue butterfly than on him. ‘One of the methods, you see, which the Gauls use to practise’-he gulped-‘human sacrifice is to pinion the unlucky person between the forelegs of a bull and…’ He left the sentence hanging.

‘Then I’ll make you a promise, Clemens. The next time I catch Junius tying a man to a bull, I’ll ask him to refrain in the future. How’s that?’