David Wishart - Foreign Bodies

‘Of course I have. Fascinating.’

‘And extremely relevant, currently.’

‘Yeah?’ I said. ‘And why would that be, now?’

‘Oh, Marcus!’ Perilla groaned.

‘What?’

‘But naturally it is, Corvinus.’ Crinas smiled. ‘Pytheas was the first and only man to sail round Britain. Admittedly, that was almost four hundred years ago, but the topography and geography of the island won’t have changed, and since the emperor is planning to add it to the empire, the material contained in the work will be invaluable.’

Fair enough. Maybe the old guy deserved a statue after all. If you could believe what he wrote, given the aforementioned midnight sun and ice-cliffs guff.

‘So.’ Crinas looked up at the sun; it was a smidgeon past noon. ‘Are you up for the theatre, Perilla? We have plenty of time, assuming you’re not tired.’

‘Oh, yes, I’m fine. Marcus?’

‘No, actually,’ I said. ‘I’m just about sightseeinged out for the day. You go ahead. We’ll meet up back at the Residence.’

Perilla gave me a suspicious look. ‘You’re not planning to slope off to a wineshop, dear, are you?’ she said. ‘Because if you are-’

‘Come on, lady! Give me a break, OK? It’ll only be for the one cup.’

‘You’re sure? That’s a promise?’

‘Absolutely. Word of honour. I’ll spin it out. Sit there, watch the world go by, like I usually do.’

‘Hmm.’ She was torn, and the suspicious look was still there, but finally the prospect of furthering her culture binge with Mister Perfect Know-it-all squiring her around devoid of grizzling and sniping won out. ‘Very well. We’ll see you later.’

I glanced up at the sun: still well shy of the seventh hour. We’d passed a very promising little wineshop on the way to the temple with a vine-trellised yard open on the street side, fitted out with tables and comfortable-looking Gallic-style wickerwork chairs. A good few wines on the board, as well, and mostly, from their names, local vintages. Perfect. And, as I’d promised Perilla, I’d only have the one cup, and spin it out while I watched the world go by.

Maybe life wasn’t all that bad after all.

In the event, it was another two days before we started out for Lugdunum; a hitch, it transpired, with our transport, which turned out to be one of these big, well-cushioned travelling carriages that at a pinch you can bed down in if nothing better offers. Which, Bassus assured us when he turned up the next day to give us the news and apologize, almost certainly wouldn’t happen: the road between Massilia and Lugdunum is a main artery linking the former with the German frontier forts, and there are regular government rest houses for official travellers, plus a number of fair-sized towns en route where no doubt the local gentry would be delighted to feed us and put us up for the night. Or at least would be in serious schtuck with the Roman authorities if they tried to weasel out of it.

So off we duly went, fast as an arthritic tortoise. Lugdunum is over two hundred miles from Massilia as the sleeping carriage trundles, which meant seven or eight days’ travel, even allowing for good roads and a regular change of horses at the posting stations because these monsters, last word in comfort though they are, are the slowest things on wheels.

Me, I’ve never been one for travelling in carriages, even with a wine flask to keep me company, which naturally this time there wasn’t. Oh, sure, the countryside we were passing through was pleasant enough – a bit boskier and less intensely cultivated than Italy – but you can get pretty tired of constant bosk, especially moving at a pace where you’re being overtaken by everything going including the snails. And I wasn’t going to get out and walk on occasion, either, which is what I usually do on long road journeys by coach, because it would’ve meant leaving Smarmer alone with the lady to work his wicked way. There’s always Robbers to while away the hours, of course, but playing board games with Perilla is no fun, because the lady is shit-hot, and you’re on to a hiding to nothing before you start. Taking on Crinas, I discovered, was just as bad: he’d creamed me in three straight games before I decided enough was enough and jacked it in in favour of thumb-twiddling.

I won’t bore you with the blow-by-blow account, but in note form the journey went something like this.

Day One, to Aquae Sextiae. Veteran colony, hot springs, so Crinas happy as a pig in muck; ditto Perilla (ancient temple to the local goddess Dexsia. Don’t ask). Put up for the night with stone-deaf ex-legionary First Spear who looked old enough to have fought at Cannae.

Day Two, to Arelate. Veteran colony again. Serious monuments, but Perilla banned from sightseeing on pain of instant divorce. Crinas went swimming in the Rhone River but unfortunately failed to drown.

Day Three, to Arausio, P. grizzling re missed sightseeing all the way. Yet another colony; Jupiter, how many of those things are there? Time out for hot bath; v. welcome because smelled like monkey’s armpit. Hosted this time by sententious hypochondriac; C. prescribed powerful purgative to be taken with next day’s breakfast and which (he told us later) should kick in an hour or two after we’d gone. Perhaps he has sense of humour after all.

Day Four, to Acunum (no, I’d never heard of it either). Government rest-house, at river crossing out in the sticks. Food terrible (cook possibly serial poisoner related to Mother’s chef Phormio, or just incompetent bastard) so broke into Meton’s picnic hamper – too late, in event, because harm already done; P. up and down all night, and not a happy bunny by morning. See next entry.

Day Five, to Valentia. Sudden and frequent stops in order for P. to disappear into undergrowth; possibly some evil-minded deity’s cheap revenge for C’s parting prescription. Luckily, Valentia major town so C. able to get wherewithal for anti-runs mixture. Lady unwilling to move outside sprinting distance from privy, so stayed an extra day with OK host who knew his wines. Wineshop – unmonitored! Bliss!

Day Seven, to Vienne; another colony, major crossing of the Rhone, and biggest city in the province. C’s mixture pretty effective, because P. now bright-eyed and bouncy. Extra day’s guilt-driven stopover for further recuperation, sightseeing (temples to Mother Goddesses, Sucellus, Epona, Mars, Juno, etc., etc. ad infinitum, ad nauseam), plus serious shopping binge; personally, glad to get shot of the place.

Day nine, mid-afternoon; Lugdunum at last, and about bloody time, in my view.

Thumb-twiddling over. Now for the easy part.

We wouldn’t be slumming it, mind, because again, like in Massilia, we were staying at the governor’s residence. Sans , it fortunately transpired, Domitius Crinas: one of the reception committee standing waiting for us was a doctor who was more than happy to put him up for the duration and talk enemas while they shared a convivial raw turnip dinner. Goodbye, Crinas; let’s hear it for the medical fraternity’s Old Boy network. While Bathyllus superintended the transfer of luggage to our private suite on the first floor, Perilla and I went for a relaxing steam in the bath-house before changing into our best togs – it wasn’t every day you ate with a provincial governor – and setting off downstairs to tie on the nose-bag.

‘You will remember to go easy on the wine, Marcus,’ Perilla murmured. ‘You’ve already had two cups since we arrived. I was watching.’

I stopped dead. ‘Come on, lady! The agreement was only until Lugdunum. This is Lugdunum. Ipso facto-’

‘Yes, I know, dear. But even so, I do think you’ve been a lot better for it these last few days.’