He was a Gaul, after all. Maybe one day she ought to check where he came from…
‘It’s not that, madam.’ Ideally he’d have paused, found time to phrase his words, but her glare wouldn’t permit such a luxury and therefore his words tumbled out in a gush.
As the sun dived behind a cottonball cloud, Claudia listened to her bodyguard’s report, only what he was saying didn’t make sense. She made him repeat it, just in case he’d been at the magic mushrooms too, but no. Both accounts, while jumbled, retained the same salient points.
‘Let me get this straight.’ Claudia ticked them off on her fingers. ‘There’s no army here to rescue us.’
‘Correct.’
‘Superman out there’-mobbed by the crowd, Orbilio had all but disappeared in the crush-‘has come here completely alone.’
‘Correct.’
‘Pretending, what’s more, to be part of the delegation.’
‘His story’-try as he might, Junius could not fully disguise the sullenness which spoiled his handsome face as he jerked a thumb in the direction of the man crossing the bridge downstream-‘is that he was taken ill in Bern and spent three days in bed, by which time the convoy was long gone.’
‘Having completely forgotten about one of its aristocratic members?’ Claudia snorted.
‘According to him,’ Junius said sourly, ‘he urged the soldiers and servants to leave. Said he’d follow on by himself.’
The story had more holes than a beggar’s tunic, Claudia decided, and a vicious kick sent a pebble winging into the river. What’s his game this time? she wondered, and for several minutes stood on the bank, staring into the swirling white waters as though the rapids might throw up some answers. They didn’t, of course, and she was damned if she’d go up there and pose the question herself. No way. He irritated her, this tall patrician. The way he tried to conceal his amusement with the back of his hand. The way he smelled of fresh sandalwood unguent. The way that little pulse beat at the side of his neck. The way, in fact, he looked right now, crumpled and filthy, his face grey with exhaustion. Barging past Junius, the traps and rigs and horses, Claudia bumped to a halt at the raucous throng which had clustered round the new arrival, some clamouring for information, others chronicling their own adventures, some (Maria!) bemoaning their fate. Carefully, Claudia scrutinized the hillside on the Helvetian side of the gorge, but saw nothing that resembled sunshine gleaming off a load of armoured bodies. No ropes. No mules. No provisions. And the air was distinctly short on hollered instructions…
Shit.
Dancing dark eyes homed in on hers. Shit, shit, shit.
The bubbly blonde wife of the slipper-maker (or was it the glass-blower?) grabbed Claudia’s arm. ‘Marcus has had an incredible escape,’ she gushed.
He has? What about us? Where’s the sodding rescue team?
‘He followed the directions given to him, but of course the road’s fallen away and he had to clamber all the way over that mountain.’ A little plump finger dripping with awe pointed up to the ridge. ‘Don’t you think that’s incredible?’ she said breathlessly.
‘The word was on the tip of my tongue.’ Goddammit, still those dark eyes bored into her. She resisted the urge to punch the twinkle right out of them.
‘You can see the poor lamb’s been through hell and back.’ A wistful rosebud mouth pursed at the purple caverns under his eyes, his drawn cheeks and ashen skin. ‘He looks terrible.’
‘Invariably.’
The blonde’s eyes popped wide. ‘You know him?’ She propelled Claudia through the clamouring crowd. ‘Then you must introduce me!’
‘Don’t build your hopes up,’ Claudia smiled sweetly. ‘He’s bisexual.’
One lazy eyebrow (masculine) arched in surprise.
‘Really?’ asked the blonde, producing the merest hint of a frown.
‘He buys all his sexual encounters.’
Orbilio turned a laugh into a cough.
The blonde turned away.
‘So then,’ boomed Volso, dragging Claudia forward, ‘you know young Marcus, I hear?’
‘Do I! Why, we practically grew up together, Markie and me,’ she said breezily. ‘His mother foisted him on to us. You see’-she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper-‘wee Marcus was never her favourite.’
‘Had lots of children, did she?’
‘Actually he was an only child, why do you ask? Oh dear, something wrong, Markie? Bad cough, that.’ She turned back to Volso. ‘Tragic childhood, really. His only other friends were imaginary, and unfortunately they wouldn’t play with him, either.’
By sucking in his cheeks and biting deep into his lower lip, the new arrival fought to recover from his respiratory problem.
‘So then, old man,’ the glass-blower asked, ‘what er’-he didn’t like to use the word ‘trade’ to the gentry-‘what do you specialize in?’
Orbilio pushed his dark hair out of his eyes. ‘I design mosaics,’ he said.
‘No one can hold a candle to our Markie, when it comes to getting laid.’ Claudia shot him the sort of smile which could have shrivelled the grapes on the vine, and delved deep into her satchel. ‘Now, about that cough. Here we are. Syrup of figs.’
‘Isn’t that for constipation?’ He frowned. Around them, eager faces shuffled closer as their makeshift physician removed the stopper from a small glass phial.
‘You cure coughs your way, I’ll cure them mine,’ she said sweetly, forcing the sickly liquid down his throat. ‘Now, why don’t you tell little Claudie all about your mountaineering experiences while I dose that persistent tapeworm problem of yours. Castor oil should do the trick.’
‘No, no, no, that’s cured,’ he said quickly, and she noticed both hands shot up, palm outwards to ward off more phial attacks. ‘Er, did someone say there were difficulties burying the dead?’
Neat, Marcus. Very neat. But I’ll get you next time, never fear.
Theo stepped forward, and Claudia noticed he’d slipped on his breastplate so the newcomer should know who was in charge. With military precision, he reported on their two unsuccessful attempts to retrieve the bodies, clearly hoping that, whereas previously he’d been among the merchant classes, now that a patrician had arrived on the scene, some weight would be added to his leadership qualities. Centurion status might have receded into the distance, but promotion to Mess Leader was still in his sights.
Claudia watched Orbilio’s professional eyes narrow as he gauged the blockage upstream, the tangle of rocks and branches and tree roots, then swivelled upwards to assess the damage on the hillside, the chances of making it down to the bottom. Finally he looked up and down the rushing river.
‘It’s hopeless,’ Theo said. ‘We can’t reach them.’
‘Apart from-who did you say it was over there? Nestor?’ Orbilio indicated the canvas-wrapped body lying on the Helvetian bank. ‘Apart from him, I agree we can’t return the bones to the family for burial, but soldiers don’t expect such a send-off, am I right, Theo?’
The young legionary nodded slowly, but already colour was seeping upwards from his neck into his cheeks.
‘Soldiers who die in the field are buried in the field, there’ll be no dishonour attached to those two, which only leaves your grandson, Hanno.’ He put his arm round the old muleteer. ‘How do you feel about…’ His voice descended into a whisper which only Hanno could hear, and to everyone’s amazement, his rheumy eyes lit up in hope and expectation.
‘That would be grand,’ Hanno said, with a catch in his voice. ‘It drives nails into my heart, knowing his rotting corpse lies just out of reach and there’s nowt I can do to prevent him being pecked at by birds and nibbled by rats. We’re humble muleteers, we don’t expect no fancy burials, but that,’ his wizened arm pointed upstream, ‘that isn’t right-and, son, if you can do what you say you can, why…’ The emotion was too great for him to continue.
‘Do what exactly?’ Worry lines were etched deep in Theo’s freckles.
Orbilio ignored him, and Claudia saw a flash of anger, of resentment, and of something she couldn’t identify pass over the legionary’s face. ‘Does anyone have an arrow?’ Marcus asked. Theo wouldn’t, of course, he was a soldier, not an archer, but often the drivers used them for protection. Orbilio selected one from the quiver and notched it to the string of the bow.