David Wishart - White Murder

Eight solid hours in a coach, barring stops for the necessary calls of nature, doesn’t do a lot for your powers of mobility. I came down the steps like an arthritic tortoise and looked around. The current visible population numbered two donkeys, an evil-looking goat tethered to a fig tree, several chickens and a nose-picking kid; plus three senior citizens who scowled at us from a bench over the tops of their quaintly-carved ethnic walking sticks like we were the advance party of Himilco’s army. Call me city slicker if you like, but Crocinium looked like it had as much going for it as a used boil plaster.

Except…

The bench with the oldies had a table beside it, and on the table was a jug of wine and three cups. I was reminded of that philosopher guy shipwrecked on the coast of Greece somewhere who gave himself up for lost until he caught sight of a set of geometrical figures drawn in the sand. A wineshop. Civilisation.

‘Afternoon, granddad,’ I said to the nearest Tithonus lookalike.

The Tithonus grunted. I’d met friendlier basilisks. Still, at least I’d shown willing.

Perilla had come out behind me. ‘Well, this is nice, Marcus,’ she said. ‘And so pleasant to be out of the coach.’

‘Yeah.’ The snotty-nosed kid had run inside and come out with a larger version of himself. The landlord, obviously. I turned brightened and turned to Histrio. ‘You fancy a jug of wine, pal?’

‘Sure.’ He nodded to the landlord. ‘This is Septimus, by the way.’

The guy grinned revealing a set of teeth like an abandoned graveyard. ‘Snow cooled?’ he said.

I blinked in surprise; civilisation was right. Maybe I’d been too hasty in my judgment. ‘If you can manage it.’

‘No problem.’ Septimus disappeared inside.

There was another pair of benches and table to one side in the shade of a trellised vine. Histrio waited until Perilla and I had sat down, then eased himself onto the bench opposite: the only thing worse than eight hours in a coach is eight hours on top of one. ‘You’re on the Mountain now, Corvinus,’ he said. ‘Snow’s there for the picking up, eight months of the year anyway. All year round if you’re willing to go high enough. In the winter the locals cut it out in blocks and store it underground or pack it in straw to transport to the coast.’

‘Is that so?’ I said.

‘It’s one of the local industries. That and saffron from the crocuses. I know you’ve brought food with you, but Septimus’s wife does a saffron chicken with mountain-herb stuffing that your Roman gourmets would die for.’

Things were definitely looking up. ‘Sound good to you, Perilla?’ I said.

‘Marvellous.’ The lady was smiling.

‘You’ll be from Rome?’ That was my pal Tithonus One, in an accent you could’ve cut with a knife. So; the natives were friendly after all, or curious at least.

I turned to him. ‘Yeah, that’s right.’

‘Thought so,’ he said smugly. ‘I was there a few years back, in the Divine Augustus’s time.’

A few years back. Jupiter!

‘Big place. I’ve a son makes carts in the Subura. He showed me around. Nice place, fine for a holiday, but you wouldn’t want to live there.’

Ah, well; to each his own, and I wasn’t going to argue. I stretched out my legs. There was a breeze off the mountain; I expected it to smell of sulphur, but it didn’t, just of greenery with a faint scent of thyme. Definitely too hasty in my judgment. A wineshop makes a big difference to a place.

The wine came, with a lump of snow in it as big as my fist, plus a plate of black olives and diced cheese in oil and thyme. ‘I brought a jug of iced water too for the lady,’ Septimus said. ‘No fruit juice, I’m afraid, but I’ve put a sprig or two of mint in it.’

‘Lovely,’ Perilla said.

I ordered the saffron chicken with some bread and a green salad. Then I settled back against the vine-stock. Yeah; I could definitely get to like Crocinium after all.

Histrio poured the wine. It was thin and straw-coloured, but it had a herby tang to it that I hadn’t met before, and the melting snow made it ice-cold. Nice. ‘We’ll have an early night, if you’re agreeable,’ he said. ‘The mules’ll be here just after dawn. It’s a three-hour trek to the Valley, and if you want time to see around and get back before the sun goes behind the mountain then we’d best make an early start.’

‘Sounds good to me,’ I said, reaching for an olive. Today’s sun had gone in now, but even with the breeze it wasn’t cold. One of the donkeys brayed, and off in the distance back the way we’d come another one answered him. Apart from that the only sound was the growing chirping of the evening grasshoppers.

Maybe holidays weren’t so bad after all. The chicken was good, too, when it came.

I was awake at first light next morning, largely because of a big bugger of a cockerel that had decided to perch on the carriage roof. Probably a relative of the saffron chicken on a revenge jag; like I say, family’s big in Sicily. Getting out of the coach, I could see what Histrio had meant about this being the wrong time of year to spend a night on the mountain; we’d been snug enough with the extra blankets Perilla had packed for bedding, but even here on the lower slopes it was chilly as hell and everything was covered with a glistening sheen of frost. The joys of country living; there probably wasn’t a hypocaust within thirty miles, and as for bath houses, forget them. I stretched until my joints cracked, too- a few deep breaths – at least the air was good up here, if you ignored the donkeys’ contribution – then shoved my head back inside.

‘Hey, lady.’

The mound of covers shifted. ‘Wrstfgzzt?’

Me, I enjoy early mornings, at least if there hasn’t been a serious night-before, but Perilla’s one of nature’s dedicated sleepers, and it needs more than a cockerel going off a yard above her head to bring her round. I poked the nearest prominent bulge until it squirmed out of reach. ‘Come on. Rise and shine. It’s a beautiful day.’

‘Go away.’

I grinned; well, at least that had been intelligible. ‘The mules’re here. We’re leaving in five minutes.’

The heap of blankets erupted and she came out tousled and blinking. ‘What?’

‘Joke.’

‘Corvinus, I will kill you.’ She yawned. ‘What time is it?’

‘Just after dawn.’ I glanced up at the feathers of smoke that curled to the left of the main roof: like a lot of places in these mountain villages, the wineshop’s cooking arrangements consisted of an open wood fire in a separate kitchen at one end of the building. I’d noticed quite a few plumes from the nearby houses, too; the village was waking up, and there was a distinct smell of piney woodsmoke. Lovely. ‘If you hurry we might be able to cadge a wash and some hot porridge.’

‘Marcus, it is freezing out there!’

‘Yeah. I know.’ I looked over towards Etna. The morning sun was shining full on the cone where it rose high and grey above a horizontal line of silver mist that veiled the trees stretching half-way up the slope. Patches of snow glittered in the higher dips. ‘Come on, you’re missing this.’

‘You’re not supposed to be this cheerful. You hate the countryside.’

‘Oh. Right.’

The wineshop door opened and Histrio came out stretching. ‘Good morning, Corvinus,’ he said. ‘You sleep well?’

‘Not bad.’

‘We’ve time for breakfast, if you and the lady would like some. Bread and omelette. Catia’s making it now.’

‘Great. Any sign of the mules?’

‘They should be arriving shortly. The farmer who owns them lives just down the hill.’

‘Fine.’ I ran a hand over my chin. Shaving would have to wait for the duration: in this cold weather a scrape with even a freshly-honed razor wouldn’t be too pleasant. ‘What about a wash?’