Claudia watched the group going about their business along the riverbank as dull daylight faded into duller twilight, encouraging the first of the bats out to forage. Over there-Hanno. Brushing the manes of his horses, which had been unhooked from the carts and tethered to trees, apparently none the worse for their experience. Iliona. Standing out like a jewel in a mud pool as she combed her long, glossy hair. Dexter. Uncertain whether the water was drinkable. The drivers, laughing as they tossed more logs on the fire and demolished the last of the roast.
Who better placed, Claudia wondered, to drip-drip-drip a suggestion into a willing ear than a tubby little priest?
‘Me?’ Clemens secured his brown leather sandals and scrabbled to his feet. ‘I don’t mind whether we stay put or push on. Either way the army will find us.’ And with that, he stumped off down the rickety bridge, leaving Claudia more confused than ever.
Because now she was coming round to the possibility that this diversion might have been organized from within this little group. Nonsense!. I’m spooked, and now I’m clutching at straws.
In the dimming light, she could see the cadaverous Volso rummaging about in his trunk, while Titus, stripped to the waist, was sluicing himself in the icy cold water, that hank of hair still concealing one eye. Neither exactly inspired allegiance-but then again, there was nothing to instil unease, either. Volso was a dry, dusty stargazer, concerned only with charts and birth signs and lengthy mathematical calculations, who made his living predicting the future of the poorer classes, who were unable to afford bulls for sacrifice or white heifers with long gilded horns. Titus, on the other hand, was an up-and-coming spice merchant, specializing in gums and resins from the East to supply the middle classes, and while he was a Roman citizen, Claudia detected a hint of Arab blood in him, which might explain his specialist cargo. Two more different men you simply couldn’t imagine.
‘Brrrrr.’ Unconcerned about the swirling torrents below, or paw-sized gaps in the bridge, Drusilla trotted confidently along the edge and began to rub round Claudia’s elbow.
‘Fearless little thing, aren’t you?’ Claudia began to scratch behind the cat’s ears and smiled to herself. Whereas most moggies knew they had nine lives to juggle, Drusilla went one stage further. ‘Ever since you learned that Egyptians, masters of your furry ancestors, capitulated to the Persians without firing off a single arrow simply because each Persian soldier carried a cat, you think you’re invincible, don’t you?’
‘Brp-brp.’
‘All right, then. Immortal.’ Claudia began to feed Drusilla the slivers of horsemeat she’d saved from her supper and wondered how the superstitious Gauls felt about felines… ‘If only we knew the motive behind this diversion,’ she said, ‘we might be able to work backwards from there.’
Hunkered down and chewing on a bit of gristle, Drusilla gave no answer, and far in the distance a lone wolf howled to a moon it couldn’t possibly see. Claudia remembered the bear cult (hell, Bern meant ‘city of the bears’) and she thought of the savage creatures which roamed this wild and lonely place. Bears. Wild boar. Wolves. While all we have to protect ourselves, she thought, from them and any hostile tribesmen, are daggers and a couple of swords.
Why, oh why, have we been brought to this godforsaken valley? Surely if the Helvetii wanted us dead, they’d have swept down by now, it would have been as easy as squashing bugs in a beaker. And sure, in the past, the Sequani had been known to take hostages for ransom, but no attempt has been made to capture us. Her eyes flickered round the dark pines. Were other eyes watching back?
Reverberations along the planks made her jump.
‘Junius! I’ve told you before, never creep up on me like that.’
‘Creep up?’ he protested. ‘I’m wearing hobnailed boots!’
‘I may have my faults, Junius, but being wrong isn’t one of them. Now have you discovered whose cart Nestor was killed in?’
‘I have indeed.’ The young Gaul’s mouth twisted down at one side. ‘The rig’s Volso’s,’ he said.
VIII
Nobody disputed the importance of retrieving the dead. The problems seemed to revolve more around which method would prove the most effective considering the paltry equipment available, and it was getting on for midday before the squabbling subsided and the detail finally set off.
Claudia had no idea whether this mattered to Nestor’s killer or not, but on the pretext of wanting her horoscope cast, she made her way down the line to Volso’s rig, only to be disappointed. He’d had an appalling night, he said (crumbs, who hadn’t?), and today, he was very sorry, but he just didn’t feel up to it. Peering closely, Claudia was inclined to agree. Cadaverous to start with, even poor dead Nestor looked in better shape than the astrologer. As she turned away, she noticed Dexter approach from the opposite end of the cart, offering Volso some of his sulphur and garlic pastilles…
Six long hours later, the bedraggled party returned. Not with Hanno’s grandson or the two soldiers. Not with supplies retrieved from the pack mules. Not with any mule meat hanging from poles. Instead they were carrying two of their own!
The eventual consensus had been that the best way to recover the bodies was not to try and cross the ferocious rapids and work upwards, rather to backtrack up the gorge and work down, and in this the party had been successful only in that one of the drivers had broken his arm scrambling down the hillside and another had sprained his ankle coming to his aid, and it didn’t help there was no doctor in the convoy.
An awful lot of told-you-so’s rippled round the group.
With her knowledge of herbs and the aid of a few essentials packed in her trunk, Claudia dosed the injured men with henbane, which at least dulled their pain and made them sleepy, but morale had hit rock bottom. The dead still lay where they’d fallen, there had been no sign of the army, and without mule meat, where was their supper?
‘I know we’re short of horses,’ Theo said, washing the dust off his face, ‘but Hanno, you’ll have to sort out which one we can best afford to lose.’
However, the old muleteer didn’t hear. Wracked with sobs, his old bony body hugged itself, keening quietly in grief and despair, as he pictured his grandson’s corpse mouldering in this humid valley, being pecked by buzzards, gnawed by rats…
Theo did not press the point. No one had an appetite, anyway, and when one of the mares whinnied softly, she didn’t realize how lucky an escape she had had.
A camp fire was lit, for comfort more than for light.
And so a second night passed.
IX
‘I’m sorry, but this isn’t good enough!’
Maria’s voice punctured Claudia’s sleep, the first few decent hours she’d been able to snatch. She resisted the urge to reach out and strangle the old bat. We each cope with pressure in different ways, she reminded herself. For once, let’s be charitable, eh?
‘What’s your problem this time, ma’am?’ Theo sighed, scraping his razor over his stubble.
‘Less of your sauce, young man.’ Maria snatched the mirror out of his hand. ‘The problem, as you well know, Theodorus, is food. Goddammit, the horses are eating better than we are. Why can’t you organize a hunting party, bring us back a stag or something?’
Give me strength. Claudia flung off the cloak which doubled as a blanket and staggered down to the riverbed. Fancy being woken up for that! Maria knew the score, same as everybody else. With the rain on the run and the sun breaking through, the valley was turning into a cauldron. Already Nestor had been wrapped in canvas and lugged well clear of the camp, the stench was appalling, and they daren’t risk leaving the other bodies too long. Hunting was low priority in comparison and Theo was explaining this for probably the fortieth time.