‘Suppose the water level rises further?’ someone asked. ‘It’s such a torrent, if it sweeps down this gorge, it could take the bridge with it…’
‘That’s not helping,’ Titus growled, shooting a glance from under the fringe which fell over one eye. ‘That’s scaremongering, and that’s not why we should push on. In my view, inactivity is not simply a waste of time, I believe it’s bloody dangerous.’
‘Here, here,’ the same voices cried.
‘Oh, for gods’ sake,’ Claudia barked, marching to the front. ‘All this wrangling’s getting us nowhere, and besides, the whole argument’s academic. We have to send out a burial party, and since that can’t be done tonight, you might as well stop squabbling and sleep on it, and I’m sure you chaps are adult enough to discuss it more calmly in the morning. Now why don’t you all get your bloody nags across this rickety thing the Sequani call a bridge and get a fire going? I am starved!’
Shamed into obedience, the convoy, incredibly, did as they were told, and soon horsemeat (poor old Hercules, his leg was broken anyway) was roasting away over a crackling log fire while wild strawberries were gathered by the wayside.
‘About Drusilla,’ said Junius, ‘now we’re settled for the night, shall I let her out of the cage?’
‘Hmmm?’ Claudia’s eyes were narrowed as she watched a pair of peregrine falcons circle over the rocky outcrops which jutted high above the trees. ‘Oh, yes. Let her out. She’ll be fine.’ Poor cat was well used to situations like this. ‘But before you do, Junius.’
‘Yes.’
The falcons screamed and dived in a spectacular courtship display.
‘Find out whose rig was protected by that overhang of rock up there, will you? The one I found Nestor’s body in.’
There might be no significance in it. Perhaps it was pure bad luck the killer had chosen that particular rig. But then again, it might have been carefully planned.
VII
‘Much more of that,’ Clemens said, settling on the bridge beside Claudia, ‘and we’ll have you elected as leader.’
Two flaws in that argument, priest. One: no matter how sound the advice, men never knowingly accept orders from women. And two: no way would Claudia take responsibility for this raggle-taggle bunch of boozers and losers. She said nothing, continuing to wriggle her bare toes above the swirling, white waters as she polished off her last piece of steak. Blue, almost black, dragonflies darted in and out amongst the water mint and a dipper, its white bib bobbing, braved the ferocious undertow for its supper.
‘Yes, yes, I like that idea.’ Chortling merrily, Clemens pulled his own sandals off and swung his legs over the edge, twitching whenever the icy splashes and sprays tickled the soles of his feet. ‘Especially with your Gaul acting as scout and interpreter.’ He paused. ‘I suppose you can trust him?’
Ah. So this is why you’ve joined me?
‘About as much as I can trust you, Clemens,’ Claudia replied sweetly, casting a sideways glance at this short, rotund priest. With his long white robes kilted up to the middle of his pale, pudgy calves and with his round, eager face, he transmitted waves of youthfulness way beyond his thirty-nine years. Not the way Theo did, of course, with boyish good looks. In fact, with his receding hairline contrasting sharply with the solid mound around his waist, handsome wasn’t the word which sprang immediately to mind. But nonetheless Clemens reminded her of…well, a slobbering lump of a puppy, actually. Not fully co-ordinated, but still incredibly eager. Sharp, too. He had to be, to be in the priesthood.
‘The reason I mention it,’ he said slowly, ‘is because before Junius set foot across this bridge, he sliced a piece of bark from an alder and carved some sort of symbol-it looked like horns-before tossing it into the water.’
‘Bull.’
‘No, honestly, I watched him do it.’
‘I meant, they’re bulls’ horns, Clemens. He does it in Rome, even. In fact everywhere there’s water to cross, he’ll throw in a stone he’s previously engraved with the horns, he carries them around for the purpose.’
In this case, his supply probably went down the ravine with the rig.
‘Bit…odd, don’t you think?’ the priest said. ‘I presume you do know what it means, the bulls’ horns?’ He shifted uncomfortably and tried not to frown when Claudia seemed more intent on a blue butterfly than on him. ‘One of the methods, you see, which the Gauls use to practise’-he gulped-‘human sacrifice is to pinion the unlucky person between the forelegs of a bull and…’ He left the sentence hanging.
‘Then I’ll make you a promise, Clemens. The next time I catch Junius tying a man to a bull, I’ll ask him to refrain in the future. How’s that?’
The little priest’s eyelashes drooped. ‘Oh dear,’ he said miserably. ‘You’re making fun of me, and I do so want everybody’s approbation. This trip is frightfully important for me.’ He looked even glummer. ‘My one big chance to acquire gravitas.’
‘Clemens, if we get out of this alive, you’ll be a hero,’ Claudia said, popping a shiny red strawberry in his little red mouth.
‘Really?’ His head jerked up. ‘This is so pivotal, this delegation. I need to show them back in Rome that I’m not a figure of fun, just because I’m short and fat-er cuddly, and my wife left me for a stevedore the same day I accidentally burned the house down by leaving a pan over the fire.’ He leaned close, and Claudia caught a faint smell of hops. ‘If I tell you my ambition, promise you’ll keep it a secret?’
‘Cross my heart.’
Swallows made graceful parabolas over the water.
‘I’m after the post of Jupiter’s priest.’
Oh dear. Claudia forced her cheeks to bunch into a smile, told him she wished him the very best, and didn’t mention he didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell. Not because he wasn’t competent. Rather because the Head of the Security Police had earmarked this most prestigious post for his own twin brother and nothing, and no one, would stand in the way of that little weasel’s personal ambitions, his clump up the secular ladder.
‘I’ve learned all the taboos off by heart,’ Clemens said proudly, popping in another strawberry. ‘Test me. Come on, test me!’
Claudia didn’t have the heart to discourage him. ‘All right.’ She pretended to think, although she, like most other citizens, knew a mere handful of the complicated regulations. ‘Jupiter’s priest isn’t allowed to touch dogs, horses or nanny goats, neither is he allowed to touch wheat, beans or raw meat. What else mustn’t he come into contact with?’
‘Easy!’ Clemens almost bounced on the spot. ‘He’s not allowed to touch a corpse, not even his closest family members, but-and this is what you tried to catch me out on, right?-he’s also forbidden to come into contact with ivy.’
‘Why?’
‘Because, like the vine, which the priest is also not allowed to pass under, ivy has tendrils which curl into circles, and Jupiter’s priest must avoid any coils, rings, even knots because these are symbolically binding and to serve the great Jupiter properly, he must have no encumbrances.’
He finished in a great rush of air and Claudia could just picture him, reciting each of the seventy-odd taboos every night and setting not a foot wrong in his service to his illustrious master. So conscientious, this little list-maker, Clemens would actually make an excellent choice for the post.
‘Back to more mundane matters,’ he sighed. ‘I’ve computed it out, and assuming we can reach at least half the dead mules, Theo is carrying enough salt and Titus sufficient spices for us to preserve the meat for three days (but no more in this heat), and with thirty-two of us stranded, and provided we hook some of those fat trout and perch in the deeper pools there, food won’t be a problem.’
My, my, a proper Happy Valley.
‘I gather you’re for staying, then?’ Claudia grabbed the last strawberry before his podgy fingers closed over it and wondered just how important it was to Clemens that the group stayed put for a while.
There were two distinct factions-those, like Volso, who were for remaining by the bridge, and the Titus camp, who were for forging onwards-did one of them have a sinister purpose behind it? She needed a pointer, something definite to bite into, especially as it was by no means certain that because one person spoke the loudest his was the brain behind the scheme. That was where the true skill of a mastermind comes into play. Rarely will he make a direct or vociferous instruction, relying instead on a convert for his mouthpiece, often working on him to the extent that the person actually believes the idea was his in the first place.