Marilyn Todd - Black Salamander

‘Then I beg you, madam, write it outside the Neptune Gate.’

Junius turned to leave, but Claudia grabbed hold of his tunic. ‘Wait.’ How could she phrase this. ‘Can I trust you?’

For ten solid seconds, pained eyes stared into hers, his Adam’s apple working overtime, his jaw clenched.

‘Madam,’ he rasped, ‘I would stop an arrow for you.’ Then he smiled. ‘But given a choice, I’d rather not, so can we please get the hell out of here before neither of us is left with the option?’

The back streets were as silent as they were deserted. The good folk of Vesontio had packed themselves into the Forum, secretly delighted that part of the delegation got lost. Now their children had a second opportunity to goggle at rope walkers and perhaps pluck up the courage this time to pat the elephant and feed it a bun. Mothers could once again openly covet the racy, elegant costumes of their Roman counterparts, wondering how they themselves might look in rainbow-coloured tunics shot with silver and gold, their hair pinned up with ribbons and ivory pins. They could sigh in envy, aware their menfolk would never think to buy them alabaster pots filled with exotic Eastern perfumes. They spent too much time swilling free liquor and passing snide remarks about ‘men wearing skirts’.

Later, of course, the shops would buzz like honeypots. Trade would double-no, treble-now the sun was out, because when people were in a good mood, filled with the holiday spirit, they liked to spend money, and by the time night fell, everything from baskets to bangles would be stripped off the shelves and more than one girl would go to her bed tonight wearing a token of amber, silver or jet from a chap too buoyed up by drink to have properly considered the consequences of that rash impulse buy.

Except that would only happen once the procession was over. Right now, dogs draped themselves over doorsteps, barely lifting an eyelid as Junius and Claudia sped past. Once or twice a goat bleated, a hen clucked. On they ran. Hooking left, spinning right, careful to avoid the treacherous ruts in the roads. The tantalizing aroma of hams smoking high in the rafters filtered out of the houses, along with less appetising smells of animal straw, unripe cheeses and boiled lard. Wrinkling her nose, Claudia considered the olive-oil merchant in the delegation would have his work cut out, converting the Sequani from their attachment to solid animal fats.

Unlike Rome, where soaring tenements and lofty basilicas blocked out the light, the preponderance of low buildings allowed the rutted alleyways to fill with sunshine, which sparkled off the metal chains of the goats, the collars of the dogs.

‘This way.’

Claudia frowned. ‘Surely the Neptune Gate is ahead.’

‘It is,’ Junius said, flashing a glance over her shoulder. ‘But I have the strangest feeling we’re being followed. Just like the other night, you can’t see him, but goddammit, I know he’s there.’

A shiver ran through her body. It had never occurred to her, until now, that the Spider’s man might be after her for her piece of the map.

‘I’m hoping that by doubling back, we can give him the slip,’ Junius said. ‘Since only you and I know which way we’re headed, he won’t be lying in wait.’

‘Can I sell you folks a cup of hydromel?’ a cracked voice asked, and they spun round. One filthy, bare foot on the threshold, an old crone with her left eye socket sewn down held out a flagon in a palsied hand. ‘Made from honey.’ Her accent was thick. ‘Mead?’

By the time Junius had shaken his head, Claudia had already whipped round. ‘Love some,’ she gushed. ‘It smells divine.’ Sweet and fragrant, you could almost hear the bees buzzing round the wicker hives, although after the brilliant sunshine, this building without windows was as dark as the Styx. Stank like it, too.

‘Five quadrans a cup,’ the old woman wheezed, thrusting a rough wooden bowl into Claudia’s hand.

‘Cheap at half the pri- What’s that?’ From deep inside the hut came a scuffle. She could see two burly figures. ‘Junius?’

‘Get out,’ he hissed. ‘Get out! It’s a trap.’

Claudia ran to the door, but less than halfway across, a wrinkled, dirty and callused foot flew out. She went sprawling. She heard a grating sound-steel coming loose from its scabbard. Scrambling to her feet, Claudia saw her bodyguard’s dagger flash in his hand, but before he could strike, a figure filled the doorway and another, larger blade rose through the air. She screamed. The blade fell.

Junius groaned as he crashed to his knees. ‘Run-’ he rasped, sagging forward. ‘Run-’

‘Junius!’ She sprang to his aid, but before she was halfway across, a sack was flung over her head, her hands pinioned tight to her back with a rope as she was crushed to the floor.

‘Help?’ she screamed. ‘Somebody help us!’

Muffled by sacking, her voice didn’t carry, and in any case, who in Vesontio cared? Even knew? The streets were deserted.

‘Junius?’ Her voice was hysterical, but she had to know. Was he still alive? She tried to reach where she thought he might be, but the thugs were like oxen, their grip harder than steel. Words were snapped out, in Sequani, which she could not understand.

‘Let go of me, you bastards.’

Squirming, kicking, lashing out with her legs, Claudia shouted and screamed. No one came. Somewhere behind her, the old hag cackled and there was a clink, of coins changing hands.

‘I hope you die before you can spend it, you treacherous bitch,’ Claudia yelled, the ropes biting into her wrists as she pulled and twisted in a bid to get free. ‘Where’s Junius? What have you done with him?’

Was he dead? Her mind’s eye saw again the glint on the blade coming down, and the contents of her stomach flipped over. Please, I beg you, mighty Jupiter. Don’t let the young Gaul be dead. Don’t let them take his head as a trophy.

Great arms hauled her on to her feet and dragged her, screaming and fighting, into the street then, like a sack of turnips, she was tossed over one massive shoulder and carried at a trot until she heard the whinny of horses. With an ungainly thud, she was thrown in the back of a wagon, a giant boot in the stomach holding her down.

‘Help! HELP ME! Someone, please!’

With a crack of the whip, the horses sprang into life, and for what seemed like eternity, the wagon bounced and joggled along at top speed, throwing her about so badly her shins and elbows bled. Her nose became crushed against the woodwork as the wagon made its descent down a precipitous valley, until mercifully the wheels started to slow. Finally, from rough, distinctly un-Roman roads, hooves clip-clopped gently over proper cobbles. As they ground to a juddering halt, the sack was jerked off Claudia’s face and she was dragged, blinking in the unaccustomed sunshine, across the cobbled yard by a thug in a plaid tunic and grey pantaloons, his drooping moustache as thick as a squirrel and about the same size and colour. Bright red.

Wildly, she took stock of her surroundings, hemmed in by wooded cliffs which were such a feature of this hated landscape, fresh water burst free from its limestone captivity in a spluttering waterfall. Here, though, was no triple cascade, merely a shallow pool which drained into a bubbling brook. Any other time, Claudia would have suggested a picnic. Today her eyes searched for a means of escape.

And found none.

To the left of the courtyard, a blacksmith the size of Hercules clanged his hammer against white-hot iron as he fashioned a spearhead. Samples of his work were laid out on a trestle, some long and narrow, the type Claudia was familiar with, others were shaped with barbs and hollows, designed to inflict the most terrible internal wounds. A lump formed in her throat.