Marilyn Todd - Black Salamander

That he trusted no one, Marcus read in his gimlet blue eyes. The challenge between them last night went beyond a squabble over money (although Arcas would be set for life after this.). Orbilio imagined every human encounter would be turned into confrontation as the Silver Fox took on the world.

People might not like me, he was saying, but by the gods, they respect me.

Orbilio left the fizzing waters of the pool and dried himself with his tunic. By allowing his mind to wander over subjects as diverse as Claudia and their enigmatic guide it had acted as a mental massage, leaving his brain refreshed and invigorated. Which was just as well because the next step was to work out who among the party was the traitor.

*

Outside the roundhouse, the travellers began to stretch and yawn, rubbing life into stiffened muscles and shaking the ants from their clothing. Among them, the murderer watched the patrician enter the camp, his hair dripping, his skin aglow. It was difficult to know what to make of him.

Designer of mosaic floors, he said, and when Galba’s agent had riffled through his belongings, up popped a well-used portfolio with no shortage of professional sketches and high-quality samples. Absently, the agent watched a squirrel grooming its tail in an oak. Virtually every patrician’s son, on account of their expensive education, ended up a lawyer or a civil servant, or else set himself up as a merchant, but even aristocrats recognized art when they saw it in the family and few stood in the way. True, they tried to channel it into a career with kudos-say, an architect-but Orbilio would not be the first patrician to follow his muse. Galba’s agent could think of numerous poets, painters, even one who became a musician. In fact, the combination of clout and contacts would ensure his commissions were of the highest order, so that in itself was not a problem.

But Libo had also carried excellent credentials. It was only when he was seen in whispered conversation with a centurion (not any old soldier, a centurion!) that the agent’s curiosity had been aroused, and when Libo handed over a sealed report, that was the clincher. He had to go.

In an ideal world, thought Libo’s killer, that would have been a necessary elimination, no more deaths. Other than the obvious complications of finding an opportunity to sneak away unseen, robbing the perfumer had taken very little planning and had had the desired effect that without the prospect of payment at the other end, the lad had no reason to continue. Most satisfactory. Then there was the lyre-maker. Oh, the music that man could conjure up! Truly, the agent would not have deprived the world of talent such as his, had not the man turned and seen the hand inside his trunk. The explanation had not been believed, and it had been relatively easy to toss him unseen into the river.

But if that sounds lucky, think again. Senator-Soon-To-Be-Dictator-Galba had not chosen his instrument without care. Aware of the consequences of being caught red-handed by the lyre-maker, the agent had picked the spot carefully beside the boiling waters of Alpine snow-melts, thundering over rocks, foaming, white and furious. Bodies are rarely recovered from torrents like that, which was really just as well.

Few victims of an accidental slip land on a knife whose blade is pointing upwards!

Nestor, of course, had been a doddle. Galba had arranged the rock fall right on schedule (that man was nothing if not thorough.), Nestor hadn’t see the blow coming. Quick, painless, no witnesses. The agent was well satisfied with events to date.

Apart from the patrician.

Who could be what he claimed to be. There was nothing to read into his air of smooth authority, breeding always throws up leaders, irritating though it be.

Then again, he could be another undercover man, like Libo. But surely, if the Security Police were suspicious, they wouldn’t rely on just one man? Unless, perhaps, it was only the circumstances of Libo’s death they were concerned with?

Or (a sour taste filled the agent’s mouth) Orbilio could be Galba’s creature. A double agent, as it were. To check up on the first…

Neither of those last two scenarios was acceptable, thought the killer, which left no option but for Marcus to follow Libo through the dark paths of the underworld.

Without emotion, the agent watched him select a clean tunic from his pack and slip it over his shoulders. Muscular and tanned, he walked with an easy grace, strong in mind and body, and to eliminate that particular threat would need some careful thought. Especially since he was familiar with one of the couriers! The agent’s eyes swivelled automatically towards Claudia and their hardness softened. Reluctant to kill her, several options had been mulled over and discounted, mostly, the agent was forced to admit, because she was constantly surrounded by that moonstruck bodyguard and her wretched cross-eyed cat. Orbilio’s arrival on the scene complicated matters even further but, during the course of the next two days, the agent had to separate the woman from her section of the map. It was imperative that the pieces the mercenaries ended up with were too obscure to pinpoint the treasure, hers was a pivotal portion. As, indeed, was one other’s.

‘Why don’t you send a fabricated map?’ the agent had enquired of Galba, and the fat man had stared back as though his brain could not translate the message from his ears.

‘What, and scupper the whole bloody scheme?’ The senator had snorted like a wild boar. ‘What do you suppose would happen once our tribal friends got wind this map wasn’t genuine? Keep the information to themselves, would they? Smouldering quietly at the unfairness of a double-cross? Or would they sell us out, d’you think?’

‘If all goes according to plan, they’d never know,’ the agent had protested.

‘Wouldn’t they?’ Galba’s laugh had echoed across the empty warehouse where they’d arranged to meet. ‘You think the Helvetii don’t have spies among us? You leave the planning to me,’ he’d said. ‘Concentrate on doing your job well and in a few weeks’ from now, you’ll be-’ He’d clicked his fat fingers with impatience. ‘Remind me again what you want out of the Republic?’

Furious and humiliated that Galba didn’t care enough about those prepared to carry out his dirty work to even remember their ambitions, the agent had simply mumbled something trite. But it had sown a little seed of doubt which had just this moment germinated. So much was at stake here, that maybe Galba, cold-blooded bastard that he was, had sent his own man to do away with the agent. The fewer who know, the better, or simply one less debt to be settled…

The agent smiled. Well, wouldn’t he be in for a surprise? For several happy moments, the agent savoured visions of this arrogant patrician being toppled from his perch. Orbilio’s pleas for mercy perhaps. Or that exquisite moment when the smug smirk was replaced with an expression of utter surprise But that, whichever way the agent decided to play it, was a treat for the future. Right now, it was back to the Don’t-Let-The-Mask-Slip theatrical performance.

‘Is there,’ the agent called out, ‘any chance of an egg with my breakfast?’

*

The party was in excellent high spirits. Their problems were over at last, they could relax, for the first time in days, their thoughts were forward-looking. Someone mentioned the bath house in Vesontio, and talk turned instantly to the enticing prospect of hot steam baths and massage, scented oils and beauty treatments for the ladies, while others considered the accommodation which awaited, swansdown mattresses, wine and proper food, or rich contracts ripe for the making. Laughter danced in the air like fireflies and since bickering had been rendered superfluous now there were so few anxieties left to niggle them, the travellers were content to drink in the birdsong of the morning and wash their rested bodies in the peacock-blue pool.