Marilyn Todd - Black Salamander

She had to believe that. She had to.

Indeed, so illustrious was the cavalcade, so vital this celebration of a half-century of mutual co-operation between Roman and Gaul since Caesar’s invasion, that soldiers had been sent ahead to clear the convoy’s passage. How else could they have made such tremendous progress with fresh horses on standby at every post station and the army quickly disposing of overturned carts or wagons with locked spokes that might impede their advancement? Concord and unity comes first, was the message. But the weather, oh, the weather. That had cost them ten, maybe fifteen miles every day and the journey had been fraught from the start. Heading north, across the Lepontine Alps, a lyre-maker of great skill and even greater musical ability had been swept away by the river, his body never sighted again.

‘I don’t think so.’ The young Gaul chewed at his lower lip. ‘I’ve been thinking back over this expedition. We were definitely together at the Finster Pass, remember the celebrations when the guide pointed out we’d reached the highest point of the journey, and someone timed just how long it took for the delegation to file past?’

‘I do. The whole cavalcade took an hour.’

‘Right. Well, after that we swung north-east again, to follow the southern shores of the Twin Lakes, but-’

‘-when we stopped at the City-Between-the-Lakes overnight,’ Claudia’s heartbeat had picked up in speed, ‘there was some trouble in accommodating us all.’

‘Exactly.’ Junius looked grim. Much older than his twenty-two years. ‘And don’t you think it odd, in retrospect, that it was the patrician classes-the rich oil merchants, the goldsmiths, the silversmiths-who kept moving? The ones with the great entourages, their hairdressers, masseurs and stewards? Why not push the artisans on? Or lodge them with smallholders overnight?’

‘None of us questioned the road conditions which kept us kicking our heels for another half-day in the town,’ she continued, ‘and by the time we’d reached Bern we were so relieved to be out of the rain, we never gave a thought to the vanguard.’

‘Who had already moved on,’ Junius said. ‘Ushered through by the army, but where were the soldiers yesterday? Did you count any legionaries lining the route?’

‘Sweet Jupiter.’ Claudia’s stomach flipped over. ‘Two of today’s casualties were soldiers!’ She stared at her whey-faced bodyguard, his hair still damp and spiky from the rain, and wondered whether she had the courage to voice her worst fears. She drew a deep breath. ‘Junius, you’re familiar with this type of terrain.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Is it possible,’ she asked shakily, ‘that this landslide was no accident?’

‘Sabotage?’ There was a shocked pause. ‘I don’t honestly know,’ he admitted at length. ‘Maybe…I suppose by driving a wedge into the right fissure, you could weaken a whole section-but why? Robbery?’

‘Hardly.’ Claudia hugged her upper arms tight to her body. ‘The valuable stuff’s in the ox-carts.’

‘Would bandits know that?’

‘I’ve no idea what the saboteurs might know or might not, but one thing’s for sure. There’s no way back through this gorge, the road’s gone, and down there the whole valley is blocked.’ She felt cold, she felt dizzy. ‘And that’s not the worst part,’ she said flatly.

Sure a rock fall could cave a man’s head in. Easily, like cracking an egg. But not while he’s protected under a heavy layer of canvas.

Claudia looked her bodyguard squarely in the eye. ‘You see, Junius, we appear to have another little problem on our hands.’

One of our group is a killer.

With the gods duly propitiated with honey cakes and wine and a good old gust of incense, the assemblage finally began to disperse. Duty done, it was time now, they figured, to reassess, regroup and then get out of this hellhole. The rain had eased to a soft Caledonian mist, and with the air warm again after the deluge, the canyon was turning into a giant steam room. Somewhere close at hand a chaffinch warbled high in the canopy and flies began to pester the horses.

‘We’ll make for the bridge first,’ said Theodorus, ‘then sort out a burial detail.’ And such was the confident tone of the legionary’s voice that no one demurred.

Claudia studied him, as he wiped grime off a face which, no matter how hard he tried, remained stubbornly, boyishly handsome. With his armour covered in dust and his legs streaked with mud, he looked a decade younger than his twenty-six years and that would be a perpetual problem for Theo. Despite a frame built for combat, his face provoked altogether different emotions. Women, fellow soldiers (who knows, perhaps even his enemies?), would be drawn by his apparent vulnerability and maybe it was the freckles, then again, perhaps it was his wide-set blue eyes, but even Claudia couldn’t imagine Theo clubbing a man in cold blood.

And that’s what it was. In cold blood. Any doubts she may have had about a murderer among the group vanished the instant Nestor’s body was discovered by the roadside. An overlooked casualty was the general consensus, but Claudia knew, as his killer knew, that dead men don’t jump out of carts. It was pure bad luck that the very rig he’d been dumped in had stopped in the lee of an overhang, a mistake which had quickly been rectified.

So, then. The lyre-maker, swept to his death in the river. Libo, stabbed in the bushes. And now Nestor, bludgeoned to death. Three deaths passed off as tragic accidents. My, my, the perils of travel!

‘Claudia.’ The scent of oregano wafted under Claudia’s nostrils. ‘Claudia, I’ve just heard.’ With her familiar jangle, Iliona appeared at her side. ‘Your rig’s gone, hasn’t it? Well, don’t worry, ours is fine, you must travel with us. And if you need clothes or anything, you just have to ask and it’s yours.’

Claudia sucked in her cheeks. I’m-Cretan-and-don’t-you-forget-it was all but tattooed on Iliona’s forehead, her heritage blasting out from all directions, be it from her glossy dark hair, folded and knotted at the nape of her neck, from the oiled curls which hung over her ears, from the heavy copper belt which kept her waist unnaturally small, or from the wide baggy pants she wore under a laced and beaded bodice! Claudia smoothed the elegant pleats of her high-busted linen tunic and swallowed a laugh. ‘That’s very kind of you, Iliona,’ she said soberly. ‘But my trunk has survived, thank you.’

‘Well, I repeat, everything I have is at your disposal for as long as you want it.’ Iliona let out a giggle. ‘Except Titus, of course.’ Still laughing, she sashayed away, and Claudia couldn’t imagine the lovely Cretan lass pounding Nestor’s skull to a pulp either. Iliona was born for beauty, to enrich every scene she appeared in.

But her spice-merchant husband?

From the corner of her eye, she watched Titus tightening the leather straps on his baggage. The way his hair fell over one eye gave the impression of a sharp and shifty individual, yet his broad (if tight-lipped) smile contrived to imply the very opposite. To achieve such ambiguity, Claudia decided, Titus must have practised extremely hard in front of his mirror.

Dear Diana, this is madness! You can’t go around suspecting everyone who’s trapped in this wretched gorge, there must be twenty or thirty of us. Get a grip! She stared round as torn canvas was yanked off the carts, rocks heaved out, damaged rigs tossed down the hillside, wheels replaced. In itself, the industry was comforting and the answer, she told herself, was simply to remain on her guard. Watch, look, listen. All the time. Vigilance wasn’t an option. It had become a matter of life or death.