Marilyn Todd

Black Salamander

I

Don’t you just hate it when that happens? Claudia pulled her wrap tight to her shoulders, gritting her teeth as the trap bounced over yet another rut in the road. She’d been given this once-in-a-lifetime chance to join a prestigious trade delegation to Gaul (expenses paid, of course) at a time of year when Alpine meadows were at their very lushest. Yet here you are, twelve days into the trip and they hadn’t seen a single Alp. Not one, thanks to weather which was turning out more January than June. She grimaced. It was cold, it was wet, it was windy, and that isn’t the half of it.

She poked her head through the flap of the canvas. ‘Are we clear of the danger zone yet?’ The question was directed at the driver.

‘Dunno, miss.’ The driver shrugged. ‘Hope so.’

Not exactly reassuring. Claudia glanced round. Protected by the pines this mountainous terrain was perfect for a guerrilla attack, the delegation a sitting target as they skirted this deep-sided gorge. She shuddered. Wooded slopes fell two hundred feet to white waters swirling over jagged, black rocks. High above their granite-topped tips were obscured by the low, heavy clouds. Would a hostile clan attack an escorted convoy in broad daylight? One could never tell with the Helvetii.

For a hundred years, they’d been a thorn in Rome’s side and it was only last year, remember, that Augustus had finally persuaded them that resisting the might of the Roman Empire may not be entirely to their advantage-and even then his charm hadn’t been universally appreciated. A burned village here, a town sold into slavery there, his tactics hadn’t won all the Helvetians over and certainly Libo, the tile-maker travelling with the delegation, had paid a heavy enough price for their dissension.

A taciturn (some might say secretive) individual, Libo had done nothing more than wander off the path to relieve himself in the bushes.

The tile-maker had been found where he’d squatted. A stab wound straight to the heart…

A fat raindrop trickled cold down the back of her neck and Claudia withdrew to the shelter of the rig as rain began to hammer against the stretched canvas. Dammit, everything had started out so well, too.

She pictured the Forum. Banners and garlands draped over every temple, arch and statue. The smell of holy incense floating away on the breeze. With the sun glinting off the gold and bronze and marble and making a shimmering haze over red-tiled roofs, and with pavements lined with cheering, whooping, whistling crowds, the whole city had seemed to float upon air. To a fanfare of trumpets, the delegation set off across the Forum. Augurs in flowing white robes held up their hands to show that the auspices had been favourable, and dogs stood on their hind legs, barking at the commotion. Pickpockets sliced through purses and toddlers were hefted on to shoulders to watch the cavalcade pass by. Goldsmiths, sculptors, brick-makers, oculists, bookbinders, perfumers and wine merchants Ah, yes. Wine merchants! Claudia huddled down onto the seat and chewed at her nail. You’d think widowhood would come with a set of guidelines, wouldn’t you? A few decent instructions on how a girl’s supposed to manage when her fat, old buzzard of a husband pops off and she, at the tender age of twenty-four, discovers he’s nowhere near as rich as she imagined him to be. Actually. Claudia crossed one long leg over the other. To be fair, Gaius had died a very wealthy man- on paper. Unfortunately, you can’t buy gowns with the deed to a tenement or pay for your pleasures with a confectioner’s shop on the Via Latina.

Claudia’s fist punched a dent in her swan-feather cushion. The easy option would be to sell up, but goddammit, Gaius had worked all his life to put Seferius wine on the map-that reputation was part of her legacy. And besides. Claudia might baulk to admit it, but in truth she was attached to the company. The heady challenge of staying afloat. The cut and the thrust of negotiation and contract. The shipments, the payments, the management, and not simply on the trading side, there was also her Etruscan villa and the vineyard to oversee-and if a girl can’t live life on the edge, what’s the point? However, hanging on to her inheritance had been tough. Every hustler in town had been after a cheap deal and she’d been bombarded with offers to sell up, offers she’d knocked flat every time until suddenly the commercial flow had turned like a rip-tide.

Bastards! The cushion cut a swathe through the air, narrowly missing the crate in which her blue-eyed, cross-eyed, dark Egyptian cat was curled, trying to sleep. ‘Hrrrrow.’

‘Sorry, poppet.’ Claudia slipped her hand between the bars and stroked the hump which Drusilla would otherwise get. ‘But it just makes me so damned angry.’

Month after month, avaricious merchants had vied and fought with one another to get their hands on the young widow’s business, wheedling, coercing, bullying her to sell, but the instant they realized she was serious, what happened? The lowlife weasels banded together, the lot of them, to drive Claudia out of the trade-and it was so easy, that’s what made her blood boil. So goddamned easy, and she hadn’t even seen it coming.

With Greek being the language of commerce, they simply stopped communicating with her in Latin. No more concessions, they said, and while Claudia was picking up Greek from a tutor, she was nowhere near fluent enough to hold her own in wheelings and dealings on that scale, even through an interpreter-who in any case the merchants refused to accept on the grounds it meant dealing with minions.

Like it or not, Claudia had been forced to acknowledge that Seferius wine was commencing its death throes.

‘Hello, gorgeous.’ A shiny wet face poked its head under the awning. ‘Hard to credit yesterday was the midsummer solstice.’ He shook himself like a dog. ‘Thought you might be feeling the jitters, what with the road barely wide enough for a wagon. Ha!’ His eyes rolled upwards. ‘Did I say road? Not like Rome, eh? Anyway, I’ve brought a skin of wine to take your mind off the lumps and the bumps and the bruises.’

Without waiting for encouragement (which was probably as well, because the wait would have been lengthy indeed), Nestor leaped into the moving rig, securing the canvas behind him. ‘According to Clemens,’ he said, referring to the stumpy little priest who seemed to know everything, ‘this is the border between Helvetia and the land of the Sequani.’

Thank heavens! A Gaulish tribe, friends of the Empire! It was to their capital, Vesontio, the delegation was headed. So they’d arrive in what? Three days from now?

‘That river down there marks the boundary.’ Nestor edged a fraction closer as he unstoppered the wineskin and Claudia reminded herself of the promise she’d made yesterday. Namely that if this stocky little architect touched her up just one more time, she’d rip out his gizzard and feed it to the wolves she’d heard howling in the night.

Not that Nestor was poor company. Far from it. Relentlessly chirpy and a fount of tall tales garnered from travels that had taken him the length and breadth of the Empire, hours which would have otherwise dragged on this wet, miserable journey had spun past. When it came to spooky legends, Nestor had no match. He talked of Helvetian bear cults, of deep, sacred caves guarded by the skulls of seven bears arranged in a ring, and chilled the blood with tales of Druids, making human sacrifice by burning their victims alive in effigies made of wicker…

Nevertheless, it was quite astonishing the number of times he’d ‘accidentally’ brushed against her breasts, how often his hand had come to rest against her thigh, the regularity with which she’d felt his breath on the back of her neck. Take him to task, of course, and Nestor was quick to blame circumstances. The jolt of the wheels. A judicious pothole. But Claudia had given him clear warning yesterday. Keep your distance, or there’ll be a wolf out there licking its chops.

‘You’ve never been to Vesontio, have you?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘You’ll love it. Prettiest city in the whole of Gaul in my humble estimation. And commanding as it does a broad loop of the river and with a mountain rising behind, it’s not only beautiful and a natural citadel, it is quite impregnable. And you know how impregnable translates to an architect, don’t you?’ He chuckled knowingly. ‘Prosperous. That’s why I love Vesontio so much!’

Funny how his hand needed to clasp her wrist every time he made a point.

‘That city’s crying out for a delegation like ours,’ Nestor continued. ‘Oh yes.’ As a self-made man, he’d never quite lost his barrow-boy accent. ‘This’ll make us all rich, mark my words.’ He squinted out through the gap in the canvas, using the bump of the rig to annex Claudia’s elbow.

‘Practising the latest philosophy, are we?’ She wrenched her arm away and wedged the wineskin firmly between his hip and hers. ‘That a man’s only as old as the woman he feels?’

‘Pity you never got a chance to see the Alps as we passed through,’ Nestor said, oblivious to the rebuff.

Tell me about it. She’d been up them, she’d been down them, she’d been joggled to her very core on their steep slopes and on bends made perilous by landslides, but not once had Claudia so much as glimpsed one of the majestic peaks which remained snow-covered all the year round and which, Nestor assured her, were quite undeserving of the gloomy, doom-laden names bestowed on them by the Helvetii. Peak of Gloom. Peak of Evil. The Pass of Bones… Somewhere in the distance came a low rumble, like thunder.

‘Better luck on the return trip, eh?’ he said, patting her knee.

‘Nestor, which part of the word no are you having trouble with?’ she asked, but so engrossed was Claudia in recalling the real objective behind making this journey that there was no sting in her rebuke.

Sure, the delegation would cover her expenses, raise her commercial wine-growing profile and provide her with numerous contacts for trade-unfortunately those were long-range proposals. When you’ve been blackballed and cash flow is tight, to hell with pretty views and a travelogue. The immediate objective is cash. Cold, gold, glittery coins which Claudia could trickle through her fingers and replenish gasping coffers with. Her eyes darted to a satchel swinging from a hook above Drusilla’s cage. She pictured the soft yellow deerskin pouch tucked inside. The one sealed with a golden blob of wax imprinted with the sign of the black salamander.

‘Nestor!’ Somehow he’d managed to combine the task of unstoppering the wineskin with a fingertip alighting on Claudia’s nipple. ‘I told you yesterday, no more funny business, but you didn’t take a blind bit of notice!. She had to raise her voice to drown the rumbling sound from outside. ‘The fact that you have no respect for me, that hurts. But you know what hurts most?’

‘What?’

‘This.’ Claudia squeezed his testicles as hard as she could and his eyes streamed with water. ‘Touch me again, you odious wart, and I’ll geld you.’

‘LANDSLIDE.’ The powerful voice of a legionary boomed the length of the line. ‘Move! Fast as you can-run for it. NOW!’

Claudia’s stomach flipped somersaults. After all this, the danger after all came not from hostile Helvetii.

The danger came from a rock fall.

II

Imagine thunder. Imagine a stampede of wild Camargue stallions. Imagine earthquakes and a volcanic eruption. Now put them together. The very ground shook beneath the wheels as the driver cracked his whip. The mares bolted forward, and as her nails dug deep into the grain of her maplewood seat Claudia thanked Jupiter for the skill of her driver.

With the stone trackway potholed and scarred and treacherously steep, coated with an ooze of wet mud that had turned it into an oil slick, only the driver’s expertise kept this light trap on its course. Twice the wheels skidded. Drusilla’s cage slid to the left, it slid to the right. The axle caught on a rut. Rocks crashed behind them, clattering, splintering, bouncing down the ravine. Horses screamed on the perilous bend and Claudia clung to the rig as the wheels bounced high off the ground and crashed down again. We’ll turn over, she thought. A wheel will spin off. How far now down the gorge? A hundred feet to the bottom?

Boulders the size of a stable block thundered past, ripping up sixty-foot pines, oak trees and beech. Fragments broke off, thumping, thudding, wrecking their way to the riverbed.

‘Gee up! Gee up there!’

The mares needed no encouragement. Their eyes wild with terror, foam flecking their cheeks, they galloped ever closer to the wagon in front. Claudia’s clenched knuckles were white, she daren’t breathe. One slip from a rig up ahead and the whole column would go down like gates in a gale, plummeting into the void…

Sweet Juno, could they truly outrun it?

Nestor had gone. At the first yell of the soldier, he was off, faster than a bullet from an Iberian sling, his eyes still watering, his face as red as a turkey-cock’s wattle. Idly she wondered whether things like this had happened before on his travels, whether rock falls were a regular occurrence?

‘Madam.’ The canvas was jerked open, rain began driving into the cart. ‘You have to get out.’

‘About bloody time, I must say.’ Claudia stared at the bleached face of her bodyguard, hurling himself into the jostling rig. ‘Where the hell have you been?’

‘Backtracking up the road like you told me,’ Junius puffed, grabbing the handle of Claudia’s trunk. ‘Come on. Quick!’

‘Brilliant. When that creep Nestor started pawing me, where were you? Sightseeing!’ At her feet, Drusilla howled like a banshee. ‘What’s the point of having a bodyguard, if he’s not around to protect your body?’

‘Sightseeing?’ His left hand closed over the strap round the cat’s cage. ‘You gave me specific orders to- Oh, the hell with it, just jump, will you?’

Claudia stared at the young Gaul. ‘Has your mind been possessed by a lunatic’s?’ With mares at full pelt, wagons racing behind and boulders bouncing down the hillside like inflated pigs’ bladders, Junius tells her to jump? ‘I’ll be pulped like an olive for oil.’

‘This whole mountain is going!’

Shit. Slinging her precious satchel over her shoulder, Claudia scrabbled on to the footboard. Rain and dust slammed into her face.

‘You what?’ the driver said when she told him. ‘Bleedin’ ’ell, are you sure?’ But Junius’s pinched face answered for him. ‘Then forget jumping, we must stop the column. Pull up!’ he yelled, standing upright as he hauled on the reins. ‘Stop your carts!’ The authority in his voice caught their attention. ‘Stop your carts!’

Junius wasn’t the only one who’d seen what was about to take place. A horseman surged his way up the path, past quivering mules and women wailing in fright, ignoring the confused shouts of the drivers. ‘Get out,’ he yelled. ‘Everyone out!’ There was more than a tinge of panic to his voice. ‘Huddle close as you can to the rock.’

From deep inside the mountain came a low menacing growl. Claudia glanced up. Typical of the countryside, massive overhangs of granite jutted out, the softer limestone below having eroded away. Above, some of the fissures were gaping wider and wider, and it was this Junius and the others had spotted.

Suddenly, June or not, she was shivering.

‘Croesus,’ somebody cried. ‘The mountain’s coming right at us!’

Claudia found herself slammed flat against the rock face, a man’s body pressed against hers. Not Nestor. There was no flab on this man. And it was for protection, rather than lust.

With just one warning rumble, the whole hillside started to tremble and then, as though a giant hand sliced it through with a sword, the outcrop began to slip its moorings. Slowly at first. As though reluctant to leave home. But then it found freedom-and flight.

Day became night as great crashing boulders roared past. Horses shrieked, soldiers bellowed out instructions, men were shouting as their womenfolk wailed. Whole trees were uprooted, gouging out the mountain road and sending down mudslides in great slimy torrents.

For what seemed an eternity, stones hurtled down, branches, tree roots, great chunks of soil, until the only sound left was the rain, spitter-spattering down on the wreckage. Low moans and groans rippled along the stunned line of travellers, muted sobbing broke out, the occasional whimper. Even the panic-stricken horses had been numbed into pitiful snickering. Claudia clung to the rock like a limpet as the pitchy air slowly cleared, leaving an incongruously pleasant smell of freshly turned earth in its wake.

‘Thank you, Junius.’ She spat out a mouthful of rock dust and pine needles. ‘You can move away any time you feel like it.’

‘Oh. Right. Yes.’ The young Gaul gave an embarrassed cough as he took a pace backwards.

Claudia wedged a finger between her teeth to stop them chattering and gave a tight-lipped nod of thanks to the man who had just saved her life. Ever attentive, always on hand, Junius’s eyes never seemed to leave his mistress, not once and on occasions (this was one of them) Claudia was given to wondering whether his feelings were perhaps more than professional… Then she remembered, and laughed. Hell, she was three, maybe four years older than him, and with muscles like iron and his Gaulish good looks, he’d have his pick of young women. His obedience, his obsessive reliability, simply reflected a pride in his work.

The dust settled quickly in the downpour and Claudia finally prised herself away from the security of the rock face to confront the chaos which surrounded her. A string of pack mules had taken the full force of the blast, cascading to their deaths in the chasm below. Five rigs had also crashed down, hers included, and forty paces of mountain road had-or were about to-give way. A red-haired young groom gingerly tried to unhook some of the horses, but before the first two were free of the reins, another section of road collapsed, tossing carts, mules and groom down the ravine like carved wooden toys. Their screams rang harrowingly in Claudia’s ear, and she had to steady herself not to pass out.

With jelly-like legs, Claudia made her way back up the line where, miraculously, Drusilla was fine and where Junius and the driver were both being hailed as heroes. Quite right, too. Clemens, a little, round, list-maker of a priest, was conducting a head count and Theodoras, representing the army, took stock of the damage. Glancing over the precipitous edge, Claudia grimaced at the tangle of trees and smashed rocks which blocked the narrow valley, and at the twitching bodies of mules, their blood staining the canvas ripped from mangled rigs. One wheel spun slowly, as though turned by an invisible hand.

She shuddered.

The road behind was impassable-hell, it was not even there-and the party had neither equipment nor manpower to shift the blockage below.

They were trapped.

In the background Clemens’ voice was reassuring shell-shocked journeyers that fatalities were lower than feared. One muleteer, he said, plus one of the drivers and two soldiers had died trying to usher the civilians to safety. We must all give thanks, he said. Make sacrifice, now, to the Lares, for protecting us on these perilous roads She blocked off his trumpery. Give thanks? For being trapped in this canyon? The sides were too steep for horseback, they’d have to scramble on foot, and in any case, where the hell were they? That’s why she had sent Junius to backtrack on the route. Already she had her suspicions…

As the drone of the little priest continued, Claudia found her legs could no longer support her, and she stumbled to the nearest wagon. At the front, the horses, still skittish, shifted from hoof to hoof as they whinnied and shied, and she wanted to tell them, put a sock in it, show some gratitude, can’t you see half of your cousins are dead? Wearily, her hair and her tunic plastered to her body with rain which had finally begun to ease up, Claudia slumped against the brake pole.

What have you got yourself into this time?

Without bothering to sweep the soggy canvas aside, uncannily intact apart from a layer of mud, she leaned into the rig. A drink. Whoever it belonged to, they had to have wine on board. Shaking fingers fumbled over the luggage in the dark interior. An overturned trunk. A shoe. What’s that? Oh, a writing tablet. That’s no bloody use. A carved wooden goblet. A comb. A foot. A razor. Did I say foot? Claudia yanked back the awning. Holy shit, it was a foot. Cold, clammy, a very dead foot. Swallowing hard, she followed it upwards. She knew that leg, surely? The short, stocky body…?

Salty tears filled her eyes. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been gasping for breath, his face as pink as a ripe pomegranate. She gagged at the lump in her throat. Now he was cold. Icy cold. And there was no breath left in his lungs.

Oh, Nestor. You of all people! Surely a seasoned traveller had the sense to get out of the way? And then she realized that here he was, lying flat on his face in a cart, suggesting that his heart had given way. Poor old sod. Who’d have thought he’d have been so terrified of a rock fall?

Something lurched in her gut.

Janus, Croesus, he’d been in agony the last time she saw him, and then came the landslide. Independently, they’d have had no impact on his health, but together? Together they’d buggered his heart. Inadvertently, Claudia had helped kill him.

She scrubbed the tears from her eyes. This had really turned into a nightmare.

‘I’m so sorry.’ She gulped. ‘Oh, Nestor, I am so very sorry.’

Truly, he’d been nothing more than a troublesome pest, a lonely man in search of cheap thrills. He’d meant no harm with his touching-some chaps couldn’t help it. Like sniffing hemp seeds, or drinking too much, they were simply hooked on the act. Had she known the architect had a weak heart…

Accustomed now to the gloom inside the cart, Claudia frowned. Hold on. She scrambled closer, towards the top section of his waxy, lifeless body. Holy shit! Nestor hadn’t succumbed to a dodgy heart at all.

The entire back of his head was caved in.

*

Claudia wriggled out of the cart, pulled down the flap and signalled Junius away from a sacrifice to gods in which, as a Gaul, he didn’t believe.

‘Tell me what you found when you backtracked,’ she demanded, dragging him behind a rig, where they couldn’t be seen.

His handsome face puckered up and she noticed he took care to speak in a low undertone, darting a glance now and then to make sure no one had noticed their absence.

‘Your suspicions were justified,’ he said grimly. ‘I rode back as far as the last town we stayed in, checked with the servants, the townsfolk, the soldiers patrolling the streets, and the story’s identical. Two days had elapsed since the first part of the delegation passed through ahead of us.’ He paused, darting a glance over her shoulder. ‘Will you…tell the others?

‘Tell them what?’ Claudia shrugged. ‘That this little group has somehow become separated from the main body of the convoy? So what, they’ll say. Our samples and supplies are plodding behind in a column of ox-carts, they’re already a week in arrears. They’ll blame the rain and the mudslides and, for all I know, Junius, that might be all there is to it.’

She had to believe that. She had to.

Indeed, so illustrious was the cavalcade, so vital this celebration of a half-century of mutual co-operation between Roman and Gaul since Caesar’s invasion, that soldiers had been sent ahead to clear the convoy’s passage. How else could they have made such tremendous progress with fresh horses on standby at every post station and the army quickly disposing of overturned carts or wagons with locked spokes that might impede their advancement? Concord and unity comes first, was the message. But the weather, oh, the weather. That had cost them ten, maybe fifteen miles every day and the journey had been fraught from the start. Heading north, across the Lepontine Alps, a lyre-maker of great skill and even greater musical ability had been swept away by the river, his body never sighted again.

‘I don’t think so.’ The young Gaul chewed at his lower lip. ‘I’ve been thinking back over this expedition. We were definitely together at the Finster Pass, remember the celebrations when the guide pointed out we’d reached the highest point of the journey, and someone timed just how long it took for the delegation to file past?’

‘I do. The whole cavalcade took an hour.’

‘Right. Well, after that we swung north-east again, to follow the southern shores of the Twin Lakes, but-’

‘-when we stopped at the City-Between-the-Lakes overnight,’ Claudia’s heartbeat had picked up in speed, ‘there was some trouble in accommodating us all.’

‘Exactly.’ Junius looked grim. Much older than his twenty-two years. ‘And don’t you think it odd, in retrospect, that it was the patrician classes-the rich oil merchants, the goldsmiths, the silversmiths-who kept moving? The ones with the great entourages, their hairdressers, masseurs and stewards? Why not push the artisans on? Or lodge them with smallholders overnight?’

‘None of us questioned the road conditions which kept us kicking our heels for another half-day in the town,’ she continued, ‘and by the time we’d reached Bern we were so relieved to be out of the rain, we never gave a thought to the vanguard.’

‘Who had already moved on,’ Junius said. ‘Ushered through by the army, but where were the soldiers yesterday? Did you count any legionaries lining the route?’

‘Sweet Jupiter.’ Claudia’s stomach flipped over. ‘Two of today’s casualties were soldiers!’ She stared at her whey-faced bodyguard, his hair still damp and spiky from the rain, and wondered whether she had the courage to voice her worst fears. She drew a deep breath. ‘Junius, you’re familiar with this type of terrain.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Is it possible,’ she asked shakily, ‘that this landslide was no accident?’

‘Sabotage?’ There was a shocked pause. ‘I don’t honestly know,’ he admitted at length. ‘Maybe…I suppose by driving a wedge into the right fissure, you could weaken a whole section-but why? Robbery?’

‘Hardly.’ Claudia hugged her upper arms tight to her body. ‘The valuable stuff’s in the ox-carts.’

‘Would bandits know that?’

‘I’ve no idea what the saboteurs might know or might not, but one thing’s for sure. There’s no way back through this gorge, the road’s gone, and down there the whole valley is blocked.’ She felt cold, she felt dizzy. ‘And that’s not the worst part,’ she said flatly.

Sure a rock fall could cave a man’s head in. Easily, like cracking an egg. But not while he’s protected under a heavy layer of canvas.

Claudia looked her bodyguard squarely in the eye. ‘You see, Junius, we appear to have another little problem on our hands.’

One of our group is a killer.

III

With the gods duly propitiated with honey cakes and wine and a good old gust of incense, the assemblage finally began to disperse. Duty done, it was time now, they figured, to reassess, regroup and then get out of this hellhole. The rain had eased to a soft Caledonian mist, and with the air warm again after the deluge, the canyon was turning into a giant steam room. Somewhere close at hand a chaffinch warbled high in the canopy and flies began to pester the horses.

‘We’ll make for the bridge first,’ said Theodorus, ‘then sort out a burial detail.’ And such was the confident tone of the legionary’s voice that no one demurred.

Claudia studied him, as he wiped grime off a face which, no matter how hard he tried, remained stubbornly, boyishly handsome. With his armour covered in dust and his legs streaked with mud, he looked a decade younger than his twenty-six years and that would be a perpetual problem for Theo. Despite a frame built for combat, his face provoked altogether different emotions. Women, fellow soldiers (who knows, perhaps even his enemies?), would be drawn by his apparent vulnerability and maybe it was the freckles, then again, perhaps it was his wide-set blue eyes, but even Claudia couldn’t imagine Theo clubbing a man in cold blood.

And that’s what it was. In cold blood. Any doubts she may have had about a murderer among the group vanished the instant Nestor’s body was discovered by the roadside. An overlooked casualty was the general consensus, but Claudia knew, as his killer knew, that dead men don’t jump out of carts. It was pure bad luck that the very rig he’d been dumped in had stopped in the lee of an overhang, a mistake which had quickly been rectified.

So, then. The lyre-maker, swept to his death in the river. Libo, stabbed in the bushes. And now Nestor, bludgeoned to death. Three deaths passed off as tragic accidents. My, my, the perils of travel!

‘Claudia.’ The scent of oregano wafted under Claudia’s nostrils. ‘Claudia, I’ve just heard.’ With her familiar jangle, Iliona appeared at her side. ‘Your rig’s gone, hasn’t it? Well, don’t worry, ours is fine, you must travel with us. And if you need clothes or anything, you just have to ask and it’s yours.’

Claudia sucked in her cheeks. I’m-Cretan-and-don’t-you-forget-it was all but tattooed on Iliona’s forehead, her heritage blasting out from all directions, be it from her glossy dark hair, folded and knotted at the nape of her neck, from the oiled curls which hung over her ears, from the heavy copper belt which kept her waist unnaturally small, or from the wide baggy pants she wore under a laced and beaded bodice! Claudia smoothed the elegant pleats of her high-busted linen tunic and swallowed a laugh. ‘That’s very kind of you, Iliona,’ she said soberly. ‘But my trunk has survived, thank you.’

‘Well, I repeat, everything I have is at your disposal for as long as you want it.’ Iliona let out a giggle. ‘Except Titus, of course.’ Still laughing, she sashayed away, and Claudia couldn’t imagine the lovely Cretan lass pounding Nestor’s skull to a pulp either. Iliona was born for beauty, to enrich every scene she appeared in.

But her spice-merchant husband?

From the corner of her eye, she watched Titus tightening the leather straps on his baggage. The way his hair fell over one eye gave the impression of a sharp and shifty individual, yet his broad (if tight-lipped) smile contrived to imply the very opposite. To achieve such ambiguity, Claudia decided, Titus must have practised extremely hard in front of his mirror.

Dear Diana, this is madness! You can’t go around suspecting everyone who’s trapped in this wretched gorge, there must be twenty or thirty of us. Get a grip! She stared round as torn canvas was yanked off the carts, rocks heaved out, damaged rigs tossed down the hillside, wheels replaced. In itself, the industry was comforting and the answer, she told herself, was simply to remain on her guard. Watch, look, listen. All the time. Vigilance wasn’t an option. It had become a matter of life or death.

‘That’s it, stand on my foot, why don’t you!’ Hanno’s dirty wheeze of a chuckle carried over the hammering. ‘That’s all I need now, to be crippled!’

Everyone laughed along with this whiskery old muleteer, whose teeth had long since said goodbye to his lined, leathery face, and Theo-to his chagrin-blushed as deeply as nature (but not he) intended, mumbling something about narrow passing places and his hobnails not being able to grip properly in this slippery mud. Hanno continued to hop up and down on one leg, clutching his foot, but his heaving shoulders betrayed him. In fact, his whole wizened body shook when he laughed, and you’d hardly believe the redheaded groom who’d died trying to save some of the horses had been his grandson…

‘Psst.’ Junius signalled his mistress away from the party. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said quietly. ‘There’s no going back, that outcrop made a right mess of the hillside, but with my help, you should be able to scramble up to the summit.’ His eyes indicated upwards. ‘I know it’s steep, but with Drusilla on a leash, we ought to make it, then we can zigzag back down again, to pick up the road over there.’ He pointed along the gorge to the path hidden by trees. ‘We might even, if we start soon enough, make that little town we stayed in last night before it gets dark.’

Turn around? ‘No.’

The young Gaul’s jaw dropped in amazement. ‘But madam-’

‘Butts are for Billy goats, Junius, and my decision is final. We are not going back.’

He fumbled to find adequate words. ‘You said yourself, there’s a killer on the loose. We’ve been split from the main body of the trade delegation, deliberately by the looks of it, the route has been sabotaged and I’m far from convinced this is the same road the original convoy would have taken.’

Me too. That’s what first made me suspicious.

‘We’re going on,’ Claudia said. ‘Correction, I’m going on. You, of course, can turn back any time you wish.’

His face drained. ‘Madam! You know I’d never leave you! Not out here-’

‘Then that’s settled. Now be a good boy and lend a hand with the labouring, will you?’ She shooed him away with the back of her hand. ‘There’s a considerable amount of repair work outstanding.’

Dazed, the bodyguard stumbled off and only when she was satisfied that not even a gnat was close enough to see what she was doing did Claudia delve deep down into the satchel which she’d slung round her neck when Junius first told her to jump from the trap. Thoughtfully she weighed the small deerskin pouch in her hand and felt something, as she had felt it many times before, chink softly in the cloth. Gemstones, she presumed. What else? Stolen, in all probability, but that wasn’t her concern. All that mattered was that a man whom she’d never seen before had approached her in her own house and, on behalf of his master, had offered her a place in this prized delegation to Gaul. Then, without so much as a change in voice tone, had calmly added that if Claudia Seferius felt she could convey this package along with her on the journey, the man he worked for would be prepared to purchase last year’s vintage in its entirety.

In its entirety.

Claudia re-buried the pouch in her satchel, her fingertip dancing over the embossed salamander. Such a sum would tide her over for another year, allowing her to become fluent in Greek, learn more about the trade, develop connections, make contacts, who knows, maybe even expand? She had not hesitated, and the following day ten per cent of the promised payment had arrived via a messenger.

However, every enquiry she’d made, discreet as they were, had met with a blank-a dead end every time-leaving her unable to trace this utterly distinctive seal and therefore put a name to the man who was so generous when it came to smuggling. And more than once during the past twelve days, Claudia had wondered why, if these were gemstones in the pouch, the Salamander had covered their cost twice over in his proffered payment to her?

Who cared? Curious it might be, but it was absolutely none of her business. And in spite of the very real dangers which threatened by tagging along with this little group, what spurred Claudia on was the knowledge that, waiting for her in Vesontio, would be another agent.

With the remaining ninety yummy per cent!

IV

Had the crow sufficient stamina, it would discover that by flapping its black shiny wings from Rome to Vesontio it would cover the best part of five hundred miles. Which possibly explained why it preferred to stay at home, preening itself on the rooftop of a modest, white-fronted townhouse on the Esquiline Hill instead.

Its perch overlooked a bedroom whose double doorway faced on to a courtyard, where the scent of white roses mingled with the pinks growing beneath them, where sparrows took mudbaths in the shade of clipped laurels and a gleaming bronze fountain splattered and chattered to a long line of white marble ancestors, their noses turned snootily upwards.

‘We can try again later, if you like.’ The girl swung her long, naked leg over the coverlet and propped herself up on one elbow.

Marcus Cornelius Orbilio smiled wanly.

‘Don’t feel bad about it,’ she breathed, tracing a finger over the solid musculature of his chest. ‘Most men suffer the droops eventually.’

Eventually? For gods’ sake, he was twenty-five!

‘Pressures of work,’ he mumbled, closing his eyes and imagining she was that skinny blonde from the cookshop.

From outside he heard the mocking caw of a carrion crow, and imagination deserted him.

‘Perhaps if I-’ The girl’s fingernails slid down his armour-hard stomach.

‘No.’ It was kinder she attributed his lack of ardour to stress, but even as he forced his cheeks to bunch into a smile at the voluptuous creature lying beside him, dark hair cascading over her shoulders, pink nipples taut and erect, he felt a distinct ripple of guilt as he pushed her hand away. ‘Why don’t you-er, pour us some wine?’

There was no way he could tell her the truth. That he’d chosen her because she was the spitting image of another, with her dark tumbling curls and the flounce in her walk, for the way she threw back her head when she laughed. But the resemblance was purely superficial and in the harsh afternoon sun, Orbilio found he had no physical desire whatsoever for this mediocre substitute. There was none of the electrical surge he felt when Claudia Seferius entered the scene. No white lightning crackled around this girl the way it did around the beautiful widow. Her rosewater perfume lacked the spiciness of Claudia’s heady, Judaen scent and no matter how hard he searched, he could find no hint of molten-metal tints in those tumbling tresses, no dying sunsets, no flaming autumn hillsides.

It had been a mistake to bring this pale imitation to his bed, for the agony had been compounded, rather than eased, and a talon inside ripped at his liver as he thought about the wildcat who, if the schedule was on target, was ensconced in Vesontio right at this moment. He wondered vaguely which poor bugger was on the receiving end of Claudia’s tongue now.

Quite how she’d wangled a place on that prestigious trade delegation, Orbilio wasn’t sure, but he smiled at the bittersweet memory of the release of a thousand white doves as a signal for the delegation to set off to Gaul. Her flaming orange gown had stood out like a beacon among the rigs and traps assembled in the Forum, and once he’d watched her out of sight, Orbilio had raced up to the Capitol and remained there until the procession was just so many specks of grey dust. Twelve aching days had passed since then, and without her the city lacked vitality and life. Twelve whole days. Twelve long nights. How long before she’d be home? How long before he would see her again? Inhale the balsam from her hair? Watch that little pulse dance at her throat? Feel the heat of her firebrand temper?

He groaned, and when his bedmate tutted sympathetically, Marcus did not bother to correct her. He gulped down a goblet of chilled Thracian wine, shuddering at the shards of ice washed down with it, which slammed into his stomach like a punch. How come thoughts of Claudia half the world away could light his loins, while this girl who so closely resembled her could not? Why could he not imagine these were Claudia’s shoulders he nuzzled? Her breasts he cupped ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir.’ Orbilio’s steward tapped at the door. ‘There’s a messenger outside, says it’s urgent-’

‘No problem.’ Marcus was out of bed and reaching for his loincloth long before the steward’s knuckles had fallen away. ‘Tell him I’m coming.’

‘That’s a joke,’ snapped the girl on the bed, but Orbilio, pulling on his long, patrician tunic, didn’t hear and by the time he’d laced up his high boots, he’d forgotten all about her, including her name.

In the city centre, public notices were being hammered up, speeches delivered from tribunals, from platforms, from the steps of the Rostra. Marcus was forced to weave his way through the hoarse-throated beggars and skirt porters wiping sweat from their brow as they pushed heavy, wheeled barrows. Around Vulcan’s sacred lotus tree, chickens clucked inside barred wooden crates, baby goats bleated and urchins snatched a spilled melon here, a dropped sea perch there. This being market day, none of the charioteers whose wheels clattered so noisily over the travertine slabs gave a thought as to what might lie beneath them, and the astrologers looked to the stars to draw up their charts, not the bowels of the earth. Yet it was here, right under the Forum, that Marcus Cornelius made his descent.

‘Talk about a different world,’ he muttered, raising his torch above his head for a better view of this subterranean warren.

The air was noticeably stale, for one thing. Certainly none of the tempting aromas from the bakery-the pastries, the buns and the sweetmeats-found their way underground, there was not even a hint of stale wine from the taverns. Just the acid stench of pitch, spluttering and hissing as it burned from the torches, sending out clouds of dark, swirling mist and-he sniffed-something else. Something indefinable in the air. He sniffed again, but still couldn’t identify it. Unless, maybe, it was the smell of utter despair…

He paused and glanced back. Four, five, yes, six galleries behind him. That’s right. Two to go. He counted again to make sure-it was a veritable honeycomb down here.

Lights in sconces flickered and sizzled in the narrow stone corridor, casting sinister shadows over the arches and confusing spatial perception. In the distance he heard the well-drilled clomp of military boots. Long before they reached him, they had turned off into another part of the maze to become nothing more than an echo. Orbilio swerved off to his right, passed two enclosed chambers, then took the first gallery left. A man was waiting.

‘You found it all right, then?’ He grinned, looping his thumbs into the waistband below the great overhang of his belly. A monster of a buckle glinted in the flickering light.

Orbilio grunted. Finding the wretched place was one thing, getting out again might be another. These cramped corridors, from which other galleries led off, and then others, each with their own series of subterranean chambers, resembled more the minotaur’s labyrinth than Rome.

‘Augustus is converting this site into a holding place for wild animals, in order to put on beast shows up in the Forum,’ said Big Buckle. ‘Windlasses are being installed, winches, the lot.’ In the smoky gloom, Orbilio saw him wink. ‘But the Security Police will still keep a section, don’t worry.’

Orbilio didn’t. ‘What have you got that’s so urgent?’ he asked, hitching his torch into the bracket which hung on the wall in the hope it would hide the low expectations etched on his face.

‘Would you believe’-Big Buckle lowered his voice to an excited whisper-‘a plot to bring down the Empire?’

Orbilio swallowed his disappointment. It was as he had feared. Every third informant these days seemed to have wind of a plot to assassinate Augustus, the majority using the shield of these troubled times to settle a few unresolved grudges and scores of their own. He sighed. In virtually every street, it seemed, there was nothing quite like a spot of vilification to make a chap feel better, whether it was retaliation against an overlooked promotion, a whispered slur about an uppity neighbour or a slave’s hit-back against his master’s brutality.

‘The last time you dragged me down here,’ Marcus pointed out, ‘it turned out to be nothing more than a man slandering the fellow his wife had run off with.’

Big Buckle spread his wide, ugly hands. ‘What can I do?’ He shrugged. ‘We have to follow up every suggestion of treason. Can I help it, if that’s the fashion?’

Dislike him he might, but Marcus felt obliged to acknowledge the point. Few things were as satisfying, it would appear, as tarnishing one’s enemies with a thin coat of treachery, and the political field lay wide open to embrace any number of wild allegations.

Barely ten weeks ago, the Emperor’s right-hand man, Agrippa, had died suddenly-suspiciously even-leaving Rome bereft of her regent. Considering the sole remaining heir-Agrippa’s son, who was also the Emperor’s grandson – happened to be just eight years of age, you can begin to imagine the problem! Banners. Who’d fill the vacuum left by Agrippa? In the end, Augustus had appointed his stepson Tiberius as regent, but the nomination hadn’t pleased everyone. The Senate alone was in uproar. Tiberius is no blood relation, they cried. Neither to Augustus, nor to Augustus’s grandson. It’s a scandal.

Some even called ‘Bring back the Republic!’

It was like setting a torch to dry kindling.

Worse, it was on account of this damned political unrest that Marcus Cornelius had been unable to leave Rome to accompany the trade delegation to Gaul.

Deep in this hollow, subterranean maze, a hammer echoed in the distance and closer to hand unseen footsteps rang with ghostly reverberation across the stone flags, clip-clopping into the smoky, Stygian gloom.

‘This one has an altogether different slant,’ said Big Buckle, briskly rubbing his hands. ‘If you read the confession, you’ll see this is right up your street.’ Clearly the word ‘sir’ was not in his vocabulary. ‘North Gallic tribes getting restless-that’s what you’re working on, isn’t it?’

Hmm. By the flickering lamplight of the dingy office chamber, Orbilio’s eyes skimmed the text, confirming nothing he didn’t know already. Dissent among the Treveri in Trier. Helvetii chieftains meeting up frequently, and in secret. Both tribes holding clandestine summits. Could any significance be attached to these rumblings? His boss didn’t think so, and Orbilio’s mind drifted back to their recent conversation.

‘This has only come about since Augustus moved troops up and over the Rhine,’ his boss had said, dismissing the notion with a wave of his small, pudgy hand. ‘And anyway, the Treveri getting it together with the Helvetii? Jupiter would swear an oath of chastity before that day dawns.’

‘I can’t agree, sir,’ Orbilio had countered. ‘Both tribes are persistent troublemakers with a reputation for war, and that argument about them being bitter enemies doesn’t stand up. History shows they change allegiances the way you and I change our tunics, I’m sure the tribes are taking advantage of our Germanic campaign. ’ There was definitely something afoot in that part of Gaul. With troops committed to the push into Germany, it had been necessary to despatch one legion from Aquitania and another from the south coast to shore up the line, but Orbilio felt it went deeper than merely a few diehards shaking their fists in the air. Suppose it was Rome they had in their sights? Maybe the Emperor himself…?

‘Bollocks!’ His boss had sneered when Marcus voiced his anxiety aloud. ‘For any serious assault, you’d need the Germans banding together with the Helvetii, and even then they’d need the help of the Sequani who stand in between them, and the Sequani are our staunchest allies in the whole of Western Gaul. Or are you the only man on the earth not to have heard about that delegation to Vesontio to celebrate fifty years of harmony between our two nations?’

‘Of course, sir-’

‘Fifty years, Orbilio. Fifty years, in which they’ve grown fat on the land, working their vast tracts of forest in peace, churning out fruit presses and canoes instead of spears and javelins, and look at the quality of the stock they breed nowadays. Men will part with a small fortune to get their hands on a good Gaulish mule-’

‘Yes, sir, I’m aware of that-’

‘Are you?’ his boss snapped. ‘Their king, Oxi- Axi- oh shit, I can never get my tongue round those bloody Sequani names, but the point is, their king’s been afforded the title ‘Brother of the People’ by the Senate. The Senate, Orbilio. This is not a title either party takes lightly, and the Sequani are grateful-bloody grateful, I might add-that their cemeteries are filling up with the sick and the old, not young men butchered in inter-tribal skirmishes.’

‘I’m not suggesting King Axo- Ixo-’ (Orbilio couldn’t pronounce the names either) ‘is mounting an insurrection, but you know yourself, sir, what these petty chieftains are like. Ruthless and ambitious, keen to prove themselves. Suppose-’

‘Suppose, my arse, Orbilio! The whole idea of the tribes banding together and marching on Rome is preposterous, they’d be torn to pieces by our legions before they’d crossed into Italy, and in any case the Sequani are our buffer against such a contingency. One whiff of an uprising and King Ixi- Izi- Sodhisbloodyname will be selling them out as fast as he can. Trust me, the Emperor’s as safe as a Vestal Virgin’s virtue. Now get out of here and stop wasting my time.’

With that, Orbilio had been bawled out of the room, his misgivings stronger than ever. Looking at it objectively, he could see why his boss, even as head of the Security Police, had imagined him right off his rocker. A few power-hungry princes from a few branches of a few northern tribes marching on Rome? Put like that, it did sound preposterous. However, whenever he’d received wind of these secret alliances, will-o’-the-wisps as they were, the core of each rumour was identical-that any time soon, Augustus would be just a name in the history books.

There was only one logical conclusion, which turned Orbilio’s blood into ice.

The uprising was being masterminded from inside Rome. Someone here-someone high-ranking and influential-was plotting to kill the Emperor, quietly whipping up the northern tribes to act as the military muscle he’d need for his coup to succeed. Because not only would Augustus need to be eliminated, loyal generals, senators and magistrates would have to be taken out as well…

This someone had to be close to Augustus, a trusted friend, a senator, a general…the head of the Security Police? Orbilio knew he could not confide in anyone. Not if he wanted to live.

Meanwhile, in this subterranean rabbit warren, Big Buckle had almost nodded off. ‘This confession,’ Orbilio said, jerking him awake, ‘reads more like an official report.’

‘Well, you know what they’re like, these interrogations.’ Big Buckle yawned and rubbed his great belly. ‘Half lies, half gibberish, I simply tidy it up.’

‘In other words, this is nothing more than your interpretation of what was said?’

‘Exactly.’ The sarcasm scuttled right past him, and his chest puffed up like a cockerel’s at dawn. ‘Typical example in your hand there.’ He even crowed like the damned cockerel. ‘Here we are, trying to extract information about sedition and assassination, and all we get are ramblings about some sodding treasure map.’

The scroll tumbled out of Orbilio’s hand. ‘Treasure map?’ It was a credit to his upbringing, he thought, that he managed to keep the excitement out of his voice.

‘See what I mean?’ Big Buckle laughed. ‘They do it every damned time. Think they’re clever, they do, feeding us lines, setting us off on false trails in order to buy themselves time, but I’m wise to these scum. Trust me, we get to the truth in the end.’

‘Perhaps,’ Orbilio said mildly, ‘it would be a good idea if I interviewed the prisoner myself?’

Mother of Tarquin, this was the break he was waiting for! The tribes might want a share in the new order-but for the Treveri, historical enemies of the Helvetii, to unite, both sides would have to be bought, and the sum would not be small. (What price this new Republic?)

‘As you wish.’ It was no skin off Big Buckle’s nose whether the written confession was sufficient or not. His job was purely to make it available. ‘This way.’

Following him down the smoky corridor, Orbilio was uncomfortably aware of what his father would have made of a high-born patrician mixing with what he’d undoubtedly call lowlife and scum. The old man had taken as fixed that his sons would follow law as their route to the Senate, and Marcus knew he’d have reacted none too kindly to the news that one of his boys had taken up with the Security Police instead of the judiciary. An emptiness washed over him, the same as it always did when he thought of his father and the broad gulf between them, a chasm which could never be bridged, thanks to his father’s premature death.

So many issues unresolved. To explain, for instance, that by weeding out fraudsters, killers, assassins and thieves, Marcus was making the world safer, more stable. His mouth twitched at one corner. Never. the old man would have boomed. Prestige is what counts, lad. Prestige! And instead of letting him unburden himself by talking through his cases, he’d have questioned him about…well, the dinner to which Orbilio had been invited to tonight, for instance.

Oh, his father would have approved of that! Dining with Senator Galba, the chap who’d organized that illustri ous delegation to Gaul? Word’s finally got out about your successes, he’d have said approvingly. Play your dice right, lad, and your career will be taking off big time! Galba’s a serious player in the political arena, keep him sweet, because with the senator in your corner…

Perhaps it was as well the old man had gone early. Another flaming argument would have erupted, Marcus pitting ethics against self-interest, and the galling thing was, both father and son had the same ultimate goal. They both wanted Marcus to take his seat in the Senate-which would only have led to another contentious issue, of course. Marriage. His father citing Orbilio’s failure as a husband by letting his wife abscond with an impecunious sea captain to bring the shame of divorce on the family…instantly forgiven, of course, providing he married so-and-so, and off he’d go, the old man, trying to force his son into a second miserable alliance and riding, as always, roughshod over human emotions.

The next time he took a wife, Orbilio resolved, it would be no business merger. And there was only one possible candidate.

Yet no matter how many times their paths crossed, no matter how many adventures they shared, Claudia, goddammit, always pushed him away.

He spiked his fingers through his hair. For all her abrasive temperament, her confident exterior, one thing that woman was scared of-maybe the only thing-was love. She avoided it like a whale avoids fresh water, and Marcus knew the reason.

She’d been burned. An army orderly of a father, who walked out one morning and never came home. Death? Desertion? Only the father knew the truth, but the consequence was that the child who’d adored him had been left to care for a reckless, feckless, selfish mother who in turn had deserted her daughter in an alcoholic haze. What transpired between Claudia leaving her southern slums and her arrival in Rome five years later, polished and svelte, Orbilio, through the course of his investigations, had caught only glimpses. What he’d seen though were horrors enough-and as a result of her experiences, Claudia had turned herself into an island.

But islands, by the gods, can be reached. By boat, by bridge, by swimming underwater, and while it would take time-years in all probability-Orbilio was resigned to waiting. Not necessarily happily, but resigned nevertheless.

He cracked his knuckles. One thing, though, waiting didn’t mean celibacy. Next time, he’d go for a blonde!

The tunnels seemed to grow darker as he followed Big Buckle through the tortuous maze, the resinous pitch sour in back of his mouth. Disembodied voices echoed down the hollow corridors and he closed his mind to what tales these catacombs might be able to tell…

‘Prisoner’s in here,’ Big Buckle said, throwing open a door to a narrow chamber lit by two oil lamps and a cresset light on the wall.

Orbilio shielded his eyes against the unexpected brightness, and saw a thickset man wiping his hands on a towel. The towel was a mass of reddish brown stains, and the man wore a leather apron to cover his tunic. Orbilio could see why.

He’d reached for his dagger and was cutting the prisoner’s bonds before the warder realized what was happening. ‘Oi!’

‘Was this really necessary?’ Orbilio growled. Red splashes stood out stark on the grey stone of the wall, and the floor was oily with blood.

‘It works,’ the warder snarled back. ‘And the rules is straightforward. If the prisoner ain’t a Roman citizen, we torture the barbarians to get at the truth. This sure ain’t one of us.’

Us. Orbilio shivered.

‘Get out,’ he ordered the warder.

With fingerbones broken, lash marks to the torso and a face mashed to pulp, the prisoner was not going anywhere.

V

In the end, it was not so much the savagery of the beatings which sickened Marcus, man’s inhumanity to man and all that. He’d served in the army for two years, and seen plenty there to stamp out idealism. Rather, on this occasion, it was that such sustained brutality could be inflicted upon a girl of less than nineteen.

In the corner, appositely positioned beneath the rows of metal rods and pliers, the whips, the chains, the iron bars, sat a barrel of water with drips running down the ladle which hung on the side. Pools on the stone flags where the girl had been bound to the wall bore testimony to the fact that the water had been used not to succour, but to bring her round, and surprisingly the water was fresh. Cool even. Orbilio trickled a few drops over her swollen, battered lips.

To apologize would have been wholly inadequate.

Using his wetted handkerchief, he dabbed at her face as she lay slumped on the floor and wiped away the bubble of blood at the side of her mouth.

‘Can I go now?’ she mumbled.

Since no words could pass the lump in his throat, Orbilio smashed the frame of the wax tablet upon which the warder had scratched his notes and made splints for her fingers instead. She was Treveri and he didn’t need any so-called confessions to know that. The fringed plaid tunic, the chain-link belt, the braids in her fiery hair screamed her heritage and he dared not begin to imagine how scared she felt, alone and so far from home.

‘Your name’s Remi, I gather.’

‘What about it?’

He was beginning to see why the warder and Big Buckle had had such trouble and a smile tweaked at the side of his mouth.

‘I once spent a month in Trier,’ he said, bandaging the splints with his handkerchief, ‘and have very fond memories of the River Mosel and a one-eyed boatbuilder.’ Actually the memories revolved more around the man’s saucy-eyed daughter… ‘Do you know him at all? The old one-eyed boatbuilder?’

‘I’m a country girl,’ Remi said sullenly. ‘My people live nearer the Rhine.’

‘Ah, barley country.’ Marcus nodded. ‘You brew beer?’ Sneered at by any self-respecting Roman, he actually rather liked the stuff. ‘Good pastureland, too. Treveri horses are the pride of our mounted regiments.’

‘I know your game.’ With her good hand, she swiped his handkerchief from him and blotted the eye that was rapidly closing. ‘You’re here to soften me up, but you’ll still ask the same questions.’ Remi hauled herself up to a sitting position and spat on to the flagstones. ‘Well, I’ve told those bastards out there, as I’m telling you now, I don’t know any more, that’s the truth, and they can break the other seven fingers and then start on my toes, they can flail every inch of skin from my body, I was simply passing on a message, that’s all. I’m a farm girl. I needed the money. Why won’t you release me?’

‘Remi.’ He pushed a hank of red hair out of her eyes, and saw that they were green and rather pretty. He felt ill. ‘Remi, I’m not here to soften you up, as you put it, I just don’t think you appreciate how serious a mess you are in.’

‘Don’t I?’ If she could have laughed with her mouth mangled up, she’d have given it her best shot. ‘Think I need a mirror to know what those animals out there have done to me?’ she retorted. ‘They’ve scuppered any chance I might have had to bag myself another decent man, now it’s only the old and the smelly ones who’ll take on a scarred widow with two tiny bairns. And you know what? I’ll do it, too, because it’s bloody hard raising kids with their father barely cold in his grave-’

‘Remi.’ Gently Orbilio laid his hand over hers, and she didn’t draw it away. ‘You were caught red-handed passing on battle plans for an assault upon one of our legions. That is treason.’

‘No, it’s not,’ she blazed back. ‘That’s trade! With my man dead, how can I possibly get the crops in on my own? My son’s a toddler, the girl’s still in her cradle, the farm needs money to survive, to buy labourers. Listen.’ She shifted position. ‘The chieftain’s son slipped me five gold pieces to deliver a message to Anax the tavern keeper. What would you have done, eh? Can I help it that the fat pig sold me out?’ Her eyes rolled in disgust. ‘I hope he catches leprosy, the bastard.’

Orbilio hoped so, too.

‘It’s a sad fact of life,’ he said, kneeling on the floor alongside her, keeping his gaze on her green and purple plaid, the tasselled fringe, her high laced boots, in fact anywhere except those Treveri eyes, ‘that hundreds, maybe thousands of men from every nation you can think of are willing to sell out their countrymen for the jingle of coins. Anax isn’t alone.’

And without them, where would the Empire be?

In Remi’s case, of course, Anax had alerted the local centurion, pocketed his dirty silver and didn’t look back. While the army, knowing this to be a matter of national security, had despatched her to Rome for (Orbilio’s stomach flipped) ‘professional’ interrogation.

‘Look, policeman, you’ve been nice long enough,’ she tried for a smile. ‘Why don’t you ask me your questions? Before your pampering makes me start believing I’m in some luxurious lodging house, sipping vintage wine instead of this water.’

Orbilio found it impossible to draw breath.

Such beauty. Such pride.

Such a waste…

A heavy weight pressed on his chest and he felt lower than the lowliest worm when he said, ‘Tell me about the treasure map, Remi.’ There were times, by the gods there were times, when he wished he had trained as a lawyer.

‘Oh? So someone is interested? Every other time I mentioned it, it was five lashes and a clip round the mouth for stalling for time. What do they think? Twenty burly tribesmen are outside, ready to storm this underground hell? Believe me, information’s the only thing that’ll get me out of here. Fire away.’

She gulped greedily at the cool water, and Marcus pictured this spirited creature back in her Rhenish homeland before her nightmare began. Remi with her baby on her back following the harvester, ensuring every ear of barley went into the wickerwork box, while at the front her strong-backed husband regulated the height of the iron cutting teeth and steered the mule which pulled the machine. Orbilio had picked up enough during his stint in Trier to know that they’d be singing while they worked, a cheerful tune beseeching the Gaulish god Pisintos to make their soil fertile, and maybe at the end of the day they celebrated a good harvest with a jug of strong beer in the company of their old friend, Anax the tavern keeper… Oh, Remi!

She was twisting a bronze figure-of-eight ring round her middle finger. ‘This is what I overheard from the chieftain’s son, right?’

Even with the life beaten out of her, bones broken, face pulverized and probably internal tissue damage as well, there was more animation in this lovely redhead than you’d find in half this supposedly sophisticated seat of the Empire.

‘The picture is this.’ She tucked one long leg under the other, showing off a very shapely calf ending in a bronze anklet, etched with dots and Celtic whorls. ‘The Treveri and the Helvetii have sworn an alliance and that’s why they’re planning that attack.’

Orbilio thought of the two legions who’d been despatched to the trouble spots. ‘That much was in your’-he couldn’t bring himself to say the word ‘confession’ so he changed it to-‘statement. They’re banding together to, quote, “fight the oppressors”.’

‘Oh, it’s not only you Romans they’re after,’ Remi said sharply. ‘The idea is that once Rome has been taken-or rather toppled-the tribes will use the opportunity that the chaos will bring in its wake in order to break out on their own. We have expansion programmes, too, you know!’ There was almost a sparkle m her eye, and a knife plunged into Orbilio’s heart. He could have crawled under the door. Was any man more of a heel? Jupiter, when people talk about treachery ‘However,’ she said, ‘for old enemies to be conquered, new campaigns to be organized-they’ve set their sights on Britain, Scandinavia, even the Isles of Thule, can you believe that?-well, this requires weaponry and armour, siege engines and so on.’

As she paused for another ladleful of water to blot the drying wounds on her chest, Orbilio felt a jab of consolation. At least his hunch was on target. Croesus, he fumed, why hadn’t those goons outside listened to Remi?

‘Apparently there’s a large cache of treasure in the form of gold and silver, jewels and gems, and I swear on the life of my babies, I don’t know where it is, whose it is, or even how it got there,’ Remi said, ‘but as far as the Treveri and the Helvetii are concerned, it’s got their name on it. According to the chieftain’s son, there’s a map on its way to Vesontio which shows the exact location of this treasure-’

‘Wh-what? Did you say…on its way to Vesontio?’

‘In a trade delegation, from what I overheard. Only the map is so sensitive, the risk so substantial, that it’s been cut up and distributed among several separate couriers, so no one can double-cross anyone else on a sum of this size. I assume this is worth something to you, policeman?’

Orbilio’s mind was spinning like a child’s top. Admittedly there were large gaps in this puzzle, but a picture was beginning to form in the mist. First there was the someone in Rome planning a coup by making the northern tribes side with him. Now Marcus saw the bribe was not only a prominent role in the new order, but sufficient funds for them to go off making wars of their own. (Very clever. Keeps them on your side, but out of your hair, because while they’re busy making trouble elsewhere, they’re not bothering you.)

Moreover, Marcus was also beginning to see why Claudia Seferius might be along on the trip to Vesontio. The word coincidence never applied to that woman.

That the treasure map was part of the convoy didn’t trouble him unduly. The delegation had been given an armed escort for the entire length of the route, and by now they should have arrived safely. If they hadn’t, he’d have heard. An undercover agent was travelling with them.

‘I said, policeman, is this worth anything to you?’ Orbilio was propelled back to the present, to the young woman broken in body, but never in spirit and his conscience slammed into him. He stared at his thumbnail and wished he was somewhere- anywhere -else. Just as he wished he was someone- anyone -else. The weight on his chest threatened to crush him.

‘Your information,’ he said thickly, ‘is of vital importance to the Empire.’ Suddenly he was a worm again. The most abject creature on the planet, and dust mites looked tall at the minute. He felt sick. Physically, emotionally, to-his-boots sick.

‘I’m free to go, then? I swear that’s the lot. It was the only snatch of conversation I overheard waiting outside the chieftain’s son’s window-’

‘Remi,’ he said gently. ‘It’s not as simple as that.’

‘Now what?’ She turned her agonized face towards his. ‘Look, I really want to get this over with, so I can go home to my bairns.’

Orbilio felt a tidal wave of nausea blast into him, and some of what he felt must have shown on his face. Her face went as white as birch bark.

‘Mother of Dis, I’m not going back, am I?’

He counted slowly to five. ‘No.’ He barely recognized his own voice. ‘I’m sorry, Remi, but’-Remus, he felt old-‘you’ll never see your chil-homeland-again.’

The lamplights seemed to flicker, the cresset light blurred.

‘Treason is treason,’ he said hoarsely. ‘You were caught passing on plans against Rome-’

‘I don’t give a toss who runs the country.’ She was shaking. Her voice was querulous and low. ‘Romans, Treveri-the administration can be made up of donkeys for all the difference it makes to my land. All I care about is my kids and the sowing, the reaping… Can’t you explain to them pigs how it is?’

Orbilio pinched the bridge of his nose. Oh, he could explain all right. And be laughed right out of the building. The army had acted immediately, swooping on the roundhouses belonging to the chieftain’s son, his confederates and co-conspirators, and well, well, well, guess who’d flown the coop? Without a shadow of a doubt, if they’d been able to get their hands on the plotters and planners, Remi would have escaped with a public flogging.

Instead, Rome needed a scapegoat…

‘For pity’s sake,’ Remi gulped. ‘What about the treasure map?’

Who’d believe her? Or him, come to that? Desperation, they’d say. One final attempt by a traitor to slur us, and she conned you, Marcus, old man. Good and proper. His career would be washed down the drain, but he’d risk that, and happily-were he given chance to investigate further. The instant the rebellion’s mastermind was alerted (and certainly before the allegations could be made public), Orbilio would feel a knife between his ribs down some dark alley, silencing him for ever, and the girl would somehow die in her cell. No witnesses would remain. There was nothing in her confession about any great cache of gold…

‘Please!’ Her wail rang raw in his ears. ‘You have to tell them how it is with me!’

A million visions flashed through Orbilio’s head. Execution. Public. Gruesome and protracted. A spectacle. Messy. The strength and resilience that Remi possessed by the bucketload, those very qualities would be used against her, to prolong her public agony.

‘What of my bairns?’ She was sobbing openly now. ‘Who’ll care for them? Once word gets back…’

She didn’t need to finish. Once word got back that their mother was a traitor, the occupying Romans would have little pity, the children could starve in the gutter for all they cared. And as for the Treveri! Knowing Remi had grassed on their chieftain’s son…well, let’s just say the children would fare better under the Romans.

Orbilio stared at a large iron poker on the wall, splattered with flaking brown spots, and swallowed hard. ‘There-’ It was no good. He cleared his throat and started again. ‘There’s only one way I can help you, Remi,’ he said, keeping his eye on the poker. Around him, the tiny chamber seemed to dissolve. ‘I can’- shit!- ‘send in hemlock.’

From the corner of his eye he saw her arms fling themselves round her body as she started rocking, forwards, backwards, forwards, backwards, that lustrous red mane covering her face, and the hairs on his nape prickled. During this whole interview with Remi, not a single sound had intruded from the catacombs outside. None of the carpenters’ hammering, no laughter from Big Buckle and the warder, no hobnailed boots echoing down the corridor. These thick stone walls and solid door had made the room soundproof, but not to obstruct sounds coming in, to prevent anyone outside, from hearing what went on in this squalid, dark chamber…

The silence dragged into eternity-‘To think,’ Remi said, and her voice was muffled, ‘that an hour ago I believed the worst that could happen was ending up some fat old man’s bedmate.’ She wiped her nose with the back of her hand and her tortured eyes bored into his. ‘I trusted you, policeman. Goddammit, I actually trusted you.’

The room swam. ‘You’d never have told me about the map if I’d levelled with you.’ Something wet ran down his cheeks, and when he licked it away, it was salty.

‘Well.’ She gulped back a sob and drew herself upright on the floor. ‘Maybe that’s why it’s the Roman Empire and not the Treveri Empire.’ Her breath came out in a series of staccato sighs. ‘After all, you were only doing your job. I know.’

He thought of Augustus, and of Claudia, and rasped, ‘It’s not that simple, Remi.’

‘So you told me before. Think I don’t listen?’ It was a courageous stab at defiance, but her trembling lower lip gave her away. There was a pause. A long pause. Then finally, ‘I appreciate your offer, policeman. About the hemlock, I mean. But let’s be realistic. The chances of my receiving whatever you send in here have to be slim, and if one of your own men dies accidentally…well, I don’t need to draw pictures, do I?’

An eagle ripped at Marcus’s gut. Despite everything, it was his safety she was concerned for! Tears dripped unchecked on his tunic. How could he face himself after this?

‘On the other hand.’ She closed her eyes and her lashes quivered like reeds in a gale. ‘There is one favour you could do me.’

‘Name it.’

She fought for breath, and eventually won. ‘You could put that thumping great dagger in your scabbard to good use.’

‘I-’ Around him, the walls closed in like a bearhug. He couldn’t breathe. ‘Remi. I beg you. Don’t ask that of me.’

‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘If you care one iota for justice, you won’t hesitate.’

His limbs had turned to stone, his muscles to rock. To move even his eyelids was painful, and he was cold. Icy cold.

She swallowed hard. ‘If you have any feelings for me-’

‘Sssh.’ With his thumb, he wiped away the tears which dribbled down her battered cheek and drew her to him, his mind running over the manner in which he’d betrayed her, knowing all the while that she was doomed, yet deliberately giving her the impression that if she talked about the treasure map, she might walk free…

He thought of the way she’d been singled out in Treveri, desperate for cash to keep her farm and family alive, only to be sold out by one of her tribesmen… He thought about her stoic acceptance of her fate, and that, having understood she was destined to die in this alien place, still had compassion left over for him… Then Orbilio thought of how she ought to be. Nineteen and alive, those green eyes dancing with laughter, singing to her children and feeding the chickens and baking bread as field hands brought in the barley…

‘Give me the names of your children,’ he rasped. ‘I’ll see they’re fostered anonymously and won’t want for money.’

The silence was broken only by the sound of the blood thundering past his temples. Then a voice like gossamer said, ‘You’re a good man, policeman.’

Her arms were shaking when she held out her wrists, soft side upwards but Remi didn’t wince once when his blade sliced the veins.

For what seemed an eternity, they watched the life pump slowly, inexorably, out of her body as the lamplight flickered and cast dancing shadows on the stone walls.

‘Will you pray with me, policeman?’ Her voice was growing faint, her eyelids flickered. ‘To Great Father Dis? He’s-’

‘-god of the underworld, the great hammer god, the god from whom all Gauls are descended. I know.’ He couldn’t see her for the salt water in his eyes, but as he stroked the fiery red braids he prayed to Dis and his consort, Aveta to be kind to this girl, who had been caught in the crossfire when she’d only been trying to keep a roof over her head.

He did not know at what stage in his prayers he noticed the blood was no longer pumping.

‘Remi?’ Her skin was whiter than parchment, almost blue, and her bruised and battered face had been made younger in death. It was as though he cradled a child in his lap. And he shook his head that a girl so full of life and living, joy and giving, could have been designated a traitor Gently he leaned over and kissed her pale cheek, begging her forgiveness, even though he knew she’d given it, and promised that he would remember her every day of his life by leaving, in Gaulish tradition, fresh fruit out every day for Aveta.

For perhaps another hour he remained seated on the bloodied floor, remembering again Remi’s courage, her bravado, her indomitable selflessness, even at the end, and knew in his heart that the vows he’d sworn today were sacred.

And he thought of another silent vow he’d once made. To Claudia Seferius. And he thanked mighty Jupiter, King of Heaven and Deliverer of Justice, that she was safe.

‘Orbilio?’ The hammering at the door made him jump. ‘Orbilio, there’s a message here from Helvetia concerning a man called-it looks like Libo, is that right?’

Libo. Libo? Oh, the undercover agent accompanying the delegation to Vesontio.

‘What-’ Orbilio’s larynx couldn’t function properly. ‘What does it say?’ he asked wearily. Presumably confirmation that they’d arrived safely. He stroked a strand of red hair away from Remi’s lovely, battered face and slipped her figure-of-eight ring on to his own little finger.

‘It reports that Libo is dead, sir. Stabbed in the heart.’ There was a pause. ‘And that part of the convoy’s gone missing.’

VI

Violent emotions, like natural phenomena such as tornadoes and tidal waves, cannot sustain the momentum for too long and it was the same with Claudia’s party. The sheer terror they had experienced when the mountaintop slipped into the gorge had passed, and now-unlike nature-something was required to fill the void left behind.

For Hanno, the reality that his grandson lay dead in the foot of the canyon suddenly struck home, and he plodded unseeing down the track shaking his wispy white head from side to side uncomprehendingly as thin tears dribbled down his leathery cheeks, and it was left to Clemens, the stumpy fat priest, to console the old muleteer. ‘Better life…happier…Elysian fields…’ drifted back, but it was doubtful Hanno was even aware of half of what was said.

‘Best see to the horses,’ he muttered. ‘Old Hercules there seems to be limping,’ and off he went, immersing his grief in his work.

For others, especially the women, shock had set in, leaving them shaking and numb and unable to function properly. Their minds were befuddled, their limbs not co-ordinating, and they huddled in the back of their traps, curled into protective balls as the snaking convoy made its way down to the river, where they at least could make camp for the night.

Most of the group, however, found grumbling more worthwhile.

‘What do you mean we’re lost?’ Maria’s shrill voice rang out along the valley. ‘Of course we’re on the right road. We had an escort and you, young man,’ she jabbed Theo in the gap between his scale armour and the red scarf which prevented it chafing his neck, ‘were an integral part of it!’

The fact that Maria was barely five years older than the legionary didn’t seem to penetrate. ‘I’m aware of that, madam.’ He even addressed her as though she were some middle-aged matron. ‘And believe me, no one’s sorrier about this mess than I am.’

I’ll say, thought Claudia, trudging behind. He’ll be mucking out stables for the rest of his career after a monumental blunder like this. Theo, more than anyone, will be keen to get us back on track. He’ll never make centurion otherwise.

‘Then will you kindly explain how it was we managed to depart from the main road?’ Maria demanded.

Theodorus scratched under his bronze cheekpiece. ‘Well…’ He glanced back along the precipitous gorge, to the huge scar left by the landslide. ‘I…’ His fingers slid under his neckguard. ‘To be honest, madam…’

‘You haven’t a clue. Typical.’ Claudia heard Maria sniff loudly. ‘Three of you, and no doubt each imagined the other two knew what they were doing. Tell me, Theodorus, am I close?’

His breastplate seemed to lose some of its gleam. ‘Visibility has been poor-’

Maria snorted, and dropped back to walk alongside Claudia. ‘Men,’ she said. ‘They’re all the same, utterly incompetent, and my husband’s no better, either. Look at him, thirty-four years old and he’s stumping along like an old carthorse, and-oh, for heaven’s sake, do you see who he’s walking with? Dexter,’ she called. ‘I say, Dexter! Come here, will you.’

A skinny individual with protuberant collarbones and lacklustre, floppy brown hair sidled up next to his wife.

‘Dexter, you should not be associating with the likes of that smelly muleteer, not a man of your social standing. The person you ought to-’

‘Hanno said he might have something for my bad knee.’

‘Horse liniment?’ Maria’s voice could have cracked glassware. ‘You’re not rubbing that on your skin. The smell will never wash off.’

‘I thought it was your stomach which was giving you gip?’ Claudia said. Anything to muzzle Maria.

‘Oh, it does.’ Dexter seemed to perk up. ‘I’m taking mustard and I drink nettle tea twice a day, then someone said sodium pills should help and that I ought to be able to get some from a man behind the basilica in Vesontio, and also I eat a lot of cucumber and turmeric sauce.’

Small wonder his digestive tract was rebelling.

‘The wet weather’s affecting my chest, too,’ he added cheerfully. ‘For the past three days, I’ve been drinking a horehound infusion before breakfast, which funnily enough seems to be helping my earache.’

You’ve got earache? Claudia’s mouth turned down at the corners. Jupiter alone knew how many other complaints might be troubling Dexter, but Claudia would have pulled her own teeth out rather than ask.

‘I could have married a merchant, you know,’ Maria said, battening down a wayward hair which had had the temerity to try and escape. ‘In fact, I had my pick of husbands. Auctioneers, barge owners-’

‘Confectioners, dentists.’ Claudia presumed Maria was working her way through the dictionary.

‘-even the son of a senator.’

Claudia had been wrong about the ‘c’. Not confectioners. Cobblers.

‘But you know what it’s like at sixteen. You meet this young bookbinder and think, yes he’s the one for me, and you have glorious visions of a few years down the line when he’s got a shop of his own, men working under him and magistrates climbing over each other to come through the doors, because they wouldn’t trust their vellum to any man but Dexter…’ Maria’s tirade ended in a hawking sound in the back of her throat. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have married beneath me,’ she said.

By the time she’d stopped to evict an imaginary stone from her shoe, Claudia was behind Iliona and Titus’s rig. The Cretan girl’s bangles jangled louder than the harnesses on the two mules and their voices were low, so Claudia couldn’t catch what they were bickering about. Only that, like everyone else, they were less than happy with the situation though whether, as with Maria and Dexter, that encompassed their marital status, who could say?

Peppery smells wafted out of the spice merchant’s cart, cinnamon, cardamom, cumin and mustard, as well as a tantalizing hint of more exotic resins and gums, such as myrrh and terebinth and mastic. Claudia wondered how it was that Iliona managed to override them and retain only the scent of the herb which cascaded down her native Cretan hillsides. When Iliona threw her hands in the air, her bracelets of gold and crystal and glass sent out tunes to rival a troupe of travelling musicians, Claudia smiled to herself. Iliona may have left the island, but the island had never left her.

She wore only shades of lilac, be it from the palest, almost white, to the deepest violet, to remind her of the crocus which grew nowhere else but on Crete and brightened up the winter from November through to when it was time to weed the grain fields. The embroidery on her bodice invariably represented griffins or bulls.

‘Now what, eh?’ Claudia heard the slipper-maker mumble to the glass-blower, when the first of the gaggle reached the bottom of the valley.

Good question. According to Theo, the directions his dead comrade had been given were specific. Zigzag down the gorge and cross at the wooden bridge. Here you’ll find the road turns back on itself and you simply follow the river upstream for five miles, then take the first fork leading right. After that it’s more or less a straight run to Vesontio.

‘So you admit you knew we were separated from the main delegation?’ Maria shot straight for the jugular, and for once Claudia agreed with the old bag. Somewhere along the line, Theo and his fellow legionaries must have become aware that they were the only three soldiers around, which is why they’d had to rely on third-hand information from Helvetians who had no time for Rome.

Claudia shivered, and it was not from the cold (anything but, in this humid ravine.), it was because she had begun to appreciate just how carefully this strategy had been planned.

‘Once the army realizes we took the wrong road,’ Theo assured the worried group, ‘they’ll come after us.’

‘And what happens when they reach the part which has fallen away, eh?’ one of the drivers piped up. ‘By the time they’ve built even the most rudimentary-’

‘Rope bridges will see them across swiftly and safely,’ Theo began, but Maria cut him short.

‘Then why didn’t we make a rope bridge ourselves and go back the way we came in, if it was the wrong road?’

Love her or hate her, thought Claudia, there are no flies on the bookbinder’s wife.

‘Because our ropes went down with the pack mules,’ Theo said miserably, managing to look an appealing thirteen, despite the preponderance of armour, and Claudia was convinced more than ever that the order the procession had travelled in had been carefully contrived. The pack mules going down had been no accident. ‘I propose we make camp here, at this crossing. It’ll be dark in less than three hours, therefore we’ll have to wait until morning before retrieving our dead and, with your help, Clemens, we can give them a decent burial and put our trust in Neptune that the army reaches us the following day. Is everyone in agreement?’ he asked.

‘I think that’s pretty obvious.’ A tall, somewhat cadaverous individual pushed his way to the front. ‘What other option is there? Of course we wait here.’

Beside him, Titus looked short and quite plump, whereas he was of perfectly average height and build. ‘And live off what, Volso? Your astrological scribblings? Can we spit-roast your zodiac bull? Make chops of your zodiac ram?’

‘I wouldn’t mind a shot at his zodiac virgin,’ a voice from the back jeered, and Titus pre-empted any titters with a venomous glare.

‘The point is,’ the spice merchant pressed on, ‘we have no food, no blankets, and most of all, no guarantee the army’ll be here for three or four days while we, in the meantime, sit straddling the border between two warring tribes.’ He shot a sideways glance at Theo. ‘Correct me if my assessment is wrong.’

The legionary coloured. ‘We can eat the horses,’ he said weakly.

‘And you have a better plan, I suppose?’ Volso sneered.

‘Well. Considering this is the route the Sequani use when travelling between Vesontio and Bern,’ Titus reasoned, ‘it strikes me the army are unlikely to be worried once they hear we diverted ourselves off along here, because we’re still headed in the right direction. One or two soldiers will be despatched as scouts,’ his eyes swivelled up to the scar on the landscape, ‘but my guess is that when they realize what’s happened, they’ll just expect us from the south instead of the west.’

‘I get you,’ chipped in the glass-blower. ‘You think the army will come that way,’ he jabbed his finger upstream, ‘to meet up with us.’

‘Exactly,’ Titus said, pursing his lips. ‘Sitting on our arses doing nothing, we might just as well have targets hung on our backs.’

‘I still say we wait,’ said the mournful astrologer. ‘We know we can’t get past that tangle of fallen rocks and trees-’

‘Volso, you’re such a bloody defeatist,’ someone snapped, probably the slipper-maker. ‘We’ll never know till we try, will we?’

‘Be my guest,’ the astrologer said dryly. ‘Just bear in mind what happened to Libo.’

‘Ach, that was Helvetia,’ the glass-blower said. ‘The Sequani are very pro-Roman.’

Beside them, the river thundered through the narrow ravine, white and frothy, fast and furious, jumping over rapids and bouncing round rocks, and as the rain receded so steam began to rise from the thick vegetation-the ferns, the aspens, the alders and willows which grew so lushly along the riverbanks.

‘And you think that by crossing this bridge, you receive automatic protection from Helvetii attacks?’ Volso scoffed. ‘Or that having Roman blood in your veins deters a Sequani head-hunter?’

‘Oh, come on.’ The slipper-maker’s voice, however, had lost much of its stridence. ‘You can’t believe in that crap?’

‘I wouldn’t underestimate the tribesmen living in these remoter regions,’ Theo said sombrely, unbuckling his breastplate. ‘They’re a superstitious lot, the Gauls, especially in the more isolated hamlets. Those who live on the border, particularly, have to put up with the constant threat of invasion-raiding parties, rather than territorial skirmishes, I admit, but none the more reassuring for that. The collecting of skulls equates with strength and cunning to these wretched barbarians. To them, the head is the seat of all power.’

From one of the carts, a woman began to whimper like a wounded kitten.

‘Claptrap,’ Titus jeered. ‘Complete and utter balls.’

‘I agree.’ Theo removed his helmet and puffed up the plumes. ‘That’s why Rome is trying so hard to suppress this barbaric practice, but the fact remains that as long as the group sticks together, we can count ourselves safe. Stay or go, we should vote on it.’

‘Well, I’m for toughing it out,’ Volso said. ‘I have the utmost faith in the Emperor’s legions, I suggest we wait here to be rescued.’

‘Here, here,’ voices cried.

‘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.

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.

‘That’s another thing,’ Maria said. ‘It’s starting to look like a gypsy encampment round here. There are women, Theodorus, who have hung out their washing on bushes to dry, the place is turning into a slum. Kindly have a word with them, will you.’

Peace, unfortunately, didn’t last long. The scrum of men working out today’s rescue strategy had decided that, since the rushing river could not be forded, being both too wide and too dangerous, their best chance would be to climb over the rubble which had so disastrously trapped them down in this valley. Every available hand was conscripted.

‘Dexter? Certainly not!’ Maria had heard the news through some other wives and blanched. ‘Let the drivers go, Theodorus, and that sour-faced Gaul, but my husband will not be part of a labouring gang.’

‘For heaven’s sake,’ snapped a tall redhead. ‘They’re not working the salt mines. My husband’s proud to be part of the detail.’

‘That’s as may be,’ Maria sniffed, ‘but your husband is an artisan.’

‘And what do you think bookbinders are?’ The glass-blower’s wife laughed, leaving Maria puce in the face.

‘I can’t go,’ Dexter whined, when Theo appraised him of the rule. ‘I’m experiencing palpitations since my liver pills ran out,’ but nobody listened and off they trooped, every man jack of them, and the sun was still low in the sky.

‘Volso seems much better today,’ Claudia remarked to Iliona as the two of them decided they’d set about catching some fish. Neither had tried this lark before, and they were working on the principle that if they made a large enough bag of light linen, sooner or later something would be stupid enough to swim inside and investigate.

‘Nothing wrong with him yesterday.’ The Cretan girl laughed. ‘Except fear. Scared of heights is our Volso, you should have seen him crossing the pass in the Alps. Green as a grasshopper he was, if not greener, when we worked our way down the mountain.’

Hmm. Would a man with vertigo engineer a landslide on the very part of the trip which terrified him the most? It was possible-perfect cover for any strange behaviour on his part-but what worried Claudia was that she had almost accepted that the sabotage came from within.

Which could only mean the killings and this trap were linked.

Why?

‘Look.’ Iliona pointed to where an eel was investigating the neck of their weighted linen hood. ‘Oh, no.’

It swam away again, and after an hour of lying on their stomachs, the two girls decided to bait their trap, and after another hour, they wondered if maybe they ought to change tactics. Then, suddenly, there was a flash of silver underwater, and as one they jerked on the cord to close the neck of the hood, groaning in unison when they discovered, on pulling up the dripping sack, that somewhere along the line their slippery cargo had wriggled free.

‘With all hunts, patience is the key,’ said Iliona, smoothing the lines of her long, divided skirt. ‘It’s just the same with the bull games, you have to match the beast, your wits against his.’

‘Do they still do that in Crete?’

The last of the low clouds had finally drifted away, leaving blue skies dotted with white cottonball puffs, with sunshine which made diamonds and pearls of the river. Rainbows danced as the water rushed over the rapids, and suddenly the hissing water sounded happy and alive, rather than a threat to whoever approached it. Warblers sang in the alders and the willows, and damselflies danced in formation, their wings iridescent in the sun.

‘Bull worship? Heavens, yes.’ Every bead and bangle jingled when Iliona laughed. ‘The leaping’s died out-in fact, no one these days can imagine how the bull dancers survived-but as to revering our taurine spirits, darling, that’s very much alive.’

Claudia thought about the festivities in Rome, the bull fights which would have been held yesterday and the day before, when spry, feisty little critters were pitted in the arena against cocky youths armed with one small knife and fast legs, whose sole aim it was to cut the ribbons from those vicious gilded horns before the bull chased them over the barrier, thus knocking them out of the contest.

‘Funny how it’s the bulls, not the boys, who come out with their dignity intact,’ she mused.

Old Firebreath, as he was affectionately known, held the current record. In five seasons, not one youth had managed to clip a single ribbon from his cunning horns and irrespective of what happened this year, there were plans to erect a statue of that gallant little bull outside the Circus Maximus.

‘Pff,’ Iliona waved a disparaging hand. ‘Call those bull fights? We Cretans have more in common with the Gauls than you might think. Wait till you see what happens in Vesontio. That's a bull fight.’

‘Vesontio?’ Claudia was confused. Surely bull worship was confined to the south? The hot sea ports? Iberia?

‘It’s a trait the Sequani share with their Helvetian neighbours,’ Iliona said. ‘Attaching virility to the spilling of blood and-so I hear-drinking it, too. Warm is best, apparently. Bulls’ blood for the Sequani, bears’ blood for the Helvetii.’

Claudia’s comfy bubble burst and the canyon closed in once again. A malignant place haunted by bear cults on one side, bull worship on the other. Vulture Valley. Stalked by killers and saboteurs, hostile tribes, ferocious wild animals and here they were, ambushed, helpless and trapped. Nausea washed over her, and to counteract its effects, Claudia sluiced icy water over her face.

They were never going to catch fish in this snood, were they? Staring into the river, she remembered the lyre-maker who’d been swept to his death in boiling waters similar to this…

‘Do you believe they’re head hunters?’ Iliona asked slowly, a frown spoiling her exquisite unlined features. ‘Titus says it’s nonsense, about the Gauls keeping embalmed heads as trophies, but Nestor was adamant, because he’d seen for himself, he said. The larger the collection, the greater the power…’

Her voice trailed off and suddenly the encampment, without a single fighting man on hand, seemed terribly vulnerable. The mew of a kite made goosepimples rise on their skin. Vulture Valley, thought Claudia again. Where only our bones would be found. Minus their skulls It was late when the bedraggled band returned, scratched, bruised, weary and depressingly empty-handed, and their spirits didn’t lift far when they learned that all their womenfolk had managed to conjure up for supper was a watery soup of burdock root and wild asparagus, flavoured with nothing meatier than horseradish and wild sorrel with a bit of caraway, pepper and water mint thrown in. Second helpings bubbled wearily in the cauldron.

‘You haven’t said how pretty our trap looks.’ Iliona nudged her husband gently in the ribs.

By slanting position slightly, Claudia could see that she’d woven wild flowers into a garland to hang round the rig, vibrant purples and yellows and white.

‘I told you the army wouldn’t come for us this way,’ Titus growled, not even bothering to look at her handiwork. ‘We’re wasting our bloody time here, and it’s not as though we’re ever going to retrieve those bodies, either. The soldiers are probably at the bottom, or at least sandwiched part-way in between, and by now Hanno’s grandson’s body will be…’ He pushed his trencher away in a gesture of distaste and dejection, but the same unease and concerns felt by the spice merchant were beginning to be shared by others.

‘What’s your view, Clemens?’ the glass-blower asked.

‘To leave our dead without proper service or burial?’ The little priest looked haggard. ‘Their bodies not purified, their ghosts roaming this earth for ever?’ Sadly he shook his head. ‘I never thought I’d live to see such a terrible day.’

‘We’ve done everything humanly possible,’ Theo said, and everyone knew it was really Hanno he was addressing and a weighty silence descended on the group.

Overhead, four buzzards wheeled and everybody knew why.

The rest of the plates were put down.

Finally it was Titus who voiced what had been hanging over the convoy for some time. ‘We have to decide,’ he said, staring directly at the young soldier, ‘whether we wait for the army or try and find a way over this mountain.’

‘Oh. Right.’ Theo stood up and cleared his throat. ‘Very well, then.’ After a day in the sun, his freckles stood out, making him appear more adolescent than ever. ‘We’ll take a straight vote on it. You’ve all had long enough to form an opinion, so first of all, who’s for staying?’

Nineteen hands shot in the air, one of them Claudia’s, and taking her lead, Junius’s hand going up made it twenty.

‘Right then. For pushing on?’

This time thirteen hands shot in the air, still one of them Claudia’s, and taking her lead with a quizzical grin, the young Gaul’s hand made it fourteen.

That he had a count of two over didn’t seem to occur to the soldier. ‘Straightforward majority,’ he reported. ‘We wait here for the army.’

And so, while wolves howled and vixens screamed at the moon, a third night was passed in the valley.

X

Inside the Aemihan basilica in Rome, the bustling commercial centre on the north side of the Forum which looked straight up at the Palatine Hill, three men dressed, despite the intolerable heat, in full senatorial regalia, paced the upper gallery conversing in Greek. Anyone seeing these politicians-one fat, one cross-eyed, the third man thin from an ulcer-would have assumed they were simply digesting their lunch in admiration of the sumptuous restoration work after a fire two years before. They paused at the columns, as though praising the fine African marbles. Another gentle amble, then a stop to venerate (or so it would appear) the statue of the Emperor Augustus on its podium.

‘So far, so good,’ muttered the fat man. ‘With a combination of silver, cunning and luck, our agent in the delegation has succeeded in separating a sizeable group from the main body of the convoy and the schedule, gentlemen, is on target.’

‘With all due respect,’ cut in Squint, ‘no one doubted the plan. It’s the tribes I’m concerned about. Are they trustworthy?’

‘Trustworthy?’ shrilled the thin man. ‘They’re not in it for the love of Rome, these barbarians, it’s every chieftain for himself.’

‘That’s the whole point of cutting off the delegation,’ Squint explained. ‘We need to stall our so-called allies.’

‘They’re not stupid,’ protested the invalid, gulping a pastille of liquorice. ‘It’ll be a fucking bloodbath if they ever find out.’

‘It’ll be their blood in the soil, not ours,’ the fat man reassured him under his breath. ‘The Empire might have fallen’-he patted Augustus’s marble shin with affection-‘but the legions will still fight for Rome, they’ll crush the barbarians, have them begging on their knees for our mercy, mark my words.’

‘I don’t like it,’ the invalid said doubtfully.

‘My dear fellow,’ Fatso said, wrapping his arm round the other’s bony shoulders. ‘Do you think I’m happy, dancing with the devil? But if we’re going to make a new order for Rome-a better order, I might add, taking Arabia, the Orient, annexing Dacia’s goldmines-for that, my friend, sacrifices have to be made, and if that means sucking up to the likes of the Helvetii, then so be it. Jupiter’s bollocks, it’s only temporary.’

He paused, as a brawl broke out downstairs where the moneylenders set out their stalls, and the thin man sucked voraciously on another pastille. Liquorice was supposed to be helping his ulcer, or so the physician insisted. So far all it had done was give him chronic diarrhoea.

‘Surely,’ said Squint, gazing up at the clerestory window, ‘the point here is to celebrate that our plan is on target. Note I say, our plan,’ he added. ‘I assume you’re still with us on this?’

The invalid nodded solemnly as the trio continued their tour of the gallery. Below, where the central hall of the basilica was divided into three naves separated by pillars of black, red and white marble, throngs of noisy shoppers milled around, shoving their way between the clamouring crowds intent on visiting the law courts, shops and offices which opened straight into the street. Slaves in gaudy tunics, merchants in white woollen togas, red-booted senators and magistrates with purple stripes on their robes, hardly an inch passed between them, they looked for all the world like multi-coloured crystals moving round inside a kaleidoscope.

‘Of course I’m behind it,’ the thin man reiterated, clasping his hands. ‘With Augustus out of the way, the three of us can make a huge difference to the Empire. No more namby-pambying with the Germans, cut right through, I say, and sod leaving them to administer their own bloody territories. That’s where he,’ he shot a glance over his shoulder to his marble Imperial Majesty, ‘has failed us. Allowing the likes of the Gauls and the Egyptians to police themselves.’

‘I quite agree.’ A pudgy thumb made a positive gesture. ‘Autonomy is not the answer. Never mind taxing the buggers, it’s our bloody land, chum. We fought for it, we conquered it, the provinces are ours by right.’

‘Absolutely,’ Squint said. ‘And with the technology we have at our fingertips today, we can work those lands far better than a few backward yokels and with the Gauls, the Africans, the Balkan tribes, the whole bloody lot under our Republican yoke, we’ll have an endless source of cheap labour and by the gods how rich we’ll be. Both personally, and as a nation, and this,’ his arm swept round the basilica, ‘will look like a flea-ridden farmstead in comparison. Gold pillars, gold ceilings, I tell you, gentlemen, when we’ve finished, Rome won’t be a city of bricks and stone, not even a city of marble. Every temple, every public building, every rooftop will be gold, between us we shall create the eighth wonder of the world where even the great pyramids will be dwarfed in comparison.’

‘Hear, hear,’ Fatso said.

‘But I still ask the question,’ Squint continued, ‘are the rebel tribes to be trusted?’

The fat man wiped his bald and sweating pate with the hem of his toga and steered his colleagues to a quiet corner, ostensibly to admire the frieze. ‘I can understand why you’re both jittery,’ he said. ‘It’s been three weeks since our last conference, and we promised to meet only occasionally and in public so as not to draw attention to ourselves.’

Three heads leaned at a forty-five degree angle, as though venerating the artist’s interpretation of the rape of the Sabine women.

‘Now, since I am co-ordinating the plan and have access to the most information, let me reassure you as to the security both from within Rome and as regarding the tribes. As you know, we have set the assassination date for the Ides of July-’

‘Our neatest touch yet.’ The invalid laughed. ‘The old Republic was swept away when the Divine Julius was murdered on the Ides of March. Now history will recall the occasion when it was restored. On the Ides of the month named after Caesar.’

‘Quite.’ With self-satisfied smiles, three heads turned to lean forty-five degrees the other way, as though to admire the frieze from the opposite angle.

‘Obviously it’s not just Augustus who’ll have to go. You both have a full list of the generals, senators, magistrates and servants who’ll have to be despatched that same night, and that should not prove too much of a problem. We have sufficient loyal allies here in Rome and, as agreed, poison will be our chosen method. A silent killer, requiring the minimum number of assassins-any problems so far?’

‘Only that my brother-in-law is on the list,’ said Squint.

‘Does that present an obstacle?’ the fat man asked.

‘None whatsoever.’

‘Good. Now once the Ides of July hits home, chaos will break out, and this is where our last few months of sucking up to the likes of the Treveri come into their own. We can’t hope to restore the Republic without external assistance. Already since we’ve sown our little seeds of unrest, two legions have been despatched to the trouble spots and as of today, sporadic fighting will break out in another four places, five tomorrow, and rather than leave the German border unprotected, Augustus is bound to remove troops from Italy and Gaul.’

‘With such a sodding great hole in our defences, the tribes we’ve bribed will sweep through the Alps and lay siege to Rome in a week,’ said the thin man.

‘And therein lies my concern,’ Squint said. ‘You may recall, we haven’t actually bribed them. All they know is that the State Treasury has been secretly raided for payment, but the treasure, for security’s sake, is stored at some hitherto undisclosed destination.’

The fat man turned away from the fate of the wretched Sabines to lean his arms on the rail as though observing the colourful surge in the nave.

‘But the map’s on its way, is it not?’ Ripples of fat trembled as his great frame began to heave with mirth. ‘The Helvetii know it, the Treveri know it, every bloody rebel chieftain knows we’ve sent the effing thing, and that when it finally arrives in Vesontio, the individual pieces will be handed over to some appointed agent who’ll stitch it together and pass it on, and between them, the tribes can fight over who gets what.’

By now all three senators were mopping tears of laughter from their eyes as the beauty of their double-cross came into focus.

‘Now I ask you.’ The fat man guffawed. ‘What can possibly go wrong?’

XI

By mid-afternoon on their third day in the canyon, Claudia had begun to suspect that the purpose behind the rock fall was not an ambush in order to rob, rape and massacre, rather a ploy to delay the party’s arrival in Vesontio. What other explanation could there be? That they’d be rescued by the army could not be doubted, it was merely a question of time. Since the landslide was a masterstroke of civil engineering, destroying both entrances to the ravine while snowmelts rendered this gorge unnavigable, any efforts to break through would be hampered from all angles, buying time, time, time and more time.

Why?

Perched on a rock, dangling her feet in one of the quieter pools as she dried her hair with a towel, Claudia studied the stranded assemblage. Much to Maria’s social chagrin, more and more clothing had appeared on the shrubbery, vivid scarlets and blues, yellows and white-gaudy blossoms along the green riverbank. Acceptance had now set in, the group was relaxed, almost happy, and even old Hanno was enough of a trooper to know that the best way to mourn his grandson was to be cheerful. So he was back to being the joker again, his prune of a face gurning, his wiry frame mimicking everyone from Clemens to Volso, even Drusilla could not escape his hilarious caricatures. Look at the way he cocked his nose upwards in disdain-the cat might have been looking at a mirror image of herself.

Maybe, thought Claudia, maybe I’m wrong about the saboteur being one of us. Take a look at the carnival atmosphere. Theo, out of armour and looking at least twelve years of age, clowning around with the muleteer, a clumsy stooge to the comedian. Iliona, belting out a tub-thumper of a song about the skill of Cretan archers as the younger wives clapped and danced, their long hair unbound and informal, their skirts whirling and swirling and revealing their knees. A couple of the older matrons smiled benignly as they scrubbed their linens on the rocks and wrung them dry and even the two injured drivers, suffering from the effects of dwindling henbane supplies, made an effort to tap with the lively rhythm. Other men fished or arm-wrestled, played dice or dozed, while Clemens and Volso argued their respective theological professions.

Maybe the landslip was Mother Nature’s work after all?

Steam and the delicious smell of mint tea drifted upstream from the cauldron, crackling over an aromatic fir fire, while sunlight filtered through the trembling aspens to make dazzling patterns on the fizzy waters of this wide rushing river.

Briskly, Claudia rubbed at her hair. Oh yes, a peaceful and contented scene all right, reminiscent of public holidays when city folk crowd into the Alban hills for picnics and bonfires and musical celebrations. Except this was no happy-go-lucky chaplet-and-garland day. The motive behind thirty-two people being trapped in this sweltering valley might be sinister or simply the result of prolonged, heavy rain, but the point is, Claudia reminded herself, whether the saboteur walks among us or not, one of our bunch is a cold-blooded killer.

‘Hey!’ The shout echoed along the ravine. ‘Up there! Look!’

Everyone followed to where Hanno’s gnarled finger was pointing.

‘I can’t see anything,’ Dexter said. ‘My eyes are too weak to see far in the sunlight,’ but nobody heard him, because by now they’d all risen to their feet in excitement and were yelling and pointing and squinting simultaneously.

Upstream on a bend and unable to see what the others could, Claudia felt her legs go weak with relief. The army. At long last, the army had found them. From now on, the convoy was safe.

‘Who is he, can you tell?’ the slipper-maker asked. His profile was slanting lower all the time, marking the company’s descent and Claudia frowned. He? Surely the slipper-maker meant ‘they’?

‘Not Helvetii,’ Volso said, shielding his eyes for a better view. ‘Or Sequani for that matter. They wear pantaloons, rather than tunics.’

They. That’s better.

‘He looks Roman to me,’ Titus said.

He?

‘And to me,’ piped up one of the drivers.

‘And me.’ That was Hanno.

The wooden bridge echoed with the rumble of footsteps running in greeting, but still Claudia couldn’t quite see. Then a bolt of white lightning shot through her. Sweet Juno in heaven, I’m hallucinating. Too much root of burdock, too little wine, those mushrooms must have been the wrong type. I’m seeing things.

But…surely she recognized that long patrician tunic? That mop of wavy, dark hair? A catapult ricocheted all round her ribcage. Someone sucked the air out of her lungs.

‘Trust him,’ she muttered to a brimstone butterfly. Of all the bravehearts sent to rescue us, it had to be him in the bloody vanguard.

Yellow wings fluttered closer.

‘Who?’ Claudia framed the question the little butterfly could not. ‘I’ll tell you who!’ Her voice came out in a hiss. ‘Marcus Fancypants Orbilio, that’s who.’

And I need him around like I need a kick up the bum. With her teeth grinding down to their gums, she launched a rock into orbit. Trust Hotshot to have to prove himself a hero. Him and his bloody ambitions for the Senate.

Still. Claudia scrubbed the feeling back into the two lumps of meat which had once been her feet but which had stayed too long in the icy cold river. When you’re rescued from a shipwreck, you don’t whinge about the quality of the blankets they wrap you in, do you?

As she clambered back over the rocks towards the riverbank, the numbness playing havoc with her ankle joints, she noticed Junius jogging up the road towards her.

‘Have you crated Drusilla?’ she asked. ‘Stuffed our bits and pieces back in the trunk?’

‘Um-’

‘It’s about bloody time the army did something useful for a change.’

Goodbye, outdoorsy life with your fresh air, open skies and whatnot. Roll on Vesontio’s theatres, dinner parties, dress shops and herbalists.

‘Ah-’

Give me stuffy streets and noisy tenements any day. Nothing beats the taste of dust from the hooves of the charioteer’s nags, the racket from a few brawling drunkards, the thwack of boxers’ knuckles connecting with chins. Claudia checked her satchel, the one which had never left her sight, not even at night when she used it as a pillow, and saw the seal of the salamander staring back at her.

‘Junius, why are you standing there with a face like a thunderclap?’ She rubbed at the pins and needles which had set into her feet. ‘Either we’re packed or we’re not, and if you tell me we’re not, you can expect to be served your own liver for tea.’

‘Well, madam-’

Claudia forced the icy blocks into her sandals. ‘Wells are for water,’ she snapped, without looking up. ‘Now what’s the problem? Don’t tell me you want to remain in this godforsaken hellhole?’

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.

‘Right.’ He took aim, and with a twang the arrow landed amongst the landslip’s debris. ‘About there?’ he asked.

‘Bit more to the right,’ Hanno said, squinting. ‘Say two paces.’ Orbilio let fly another missile. ‘I reckon that’s it,’ Hanno said, and the excitement in his voice was palpable now.

Everyone was staring upstream, curious to see what it was this patrician newcomer could achieve that they could not, even the two wounded drivers were up on their feet. In fact, so intent were they on straining to see that only Claudia observed him walk across to where the cauldron bubbled with mint tea.

First one flaming arrow shot through the air, then another, then another, then another, until whoosh! Resinous fir trees which had been exposed to the hot sun for two days took very little persuading to ignite and soon the whole lot was ablaze, they could feel the heat on their faces. Someone said, through the cheering, what about the trees on the riverbank, won’t they catch fire? but it soon became obvious that, although the alders shrivelled and scorched, there was too much green wood for them to do anything other than smoke, while the landslide had left the far bank just bare rock and earth.

Had Claudia been able to spit feathers, the bird life in this valley would be bald. Supersnoop had turned himself into a hero, and he’d only this minute arrived! Serve him right if his skin turns black and blue from bruising, with everyone clapping him so hard on the back. Except Theo, of course. Claudia moved round for a better view of the man who suddenly no longer resembled a gawky adolescent. Hatred burned in his eyes, and he looked like a man, not a boy. Moreover, a man who’d just been deposed…

‘Shit!’ Clemens danced around as though he’d stepped barefoot on a scorpion, slapping his palm against his forehead. ‘Those bodies are cremating,’ he cried, his face white with agitation. ‘Instead of watching, I should be conducting their souls to the underworld, making purification, I should- Oh, hell. Does anyone here play the flute?’

‘I do,’ Iliona said, calming him down and, as the little priest launched into a garbled service, she piped out a tune, although whether a Cretan love song was quite the answer, no one said and Clemens didn’t notice and Hanno, most definitely, didn’t care. Thin, silent tears trickled down his weathered face, and Claudia knew that from now on, he’d walk on fire for Orbilio.

‘Holy Neptune, the incense,’ Clemens squealed. ‘I have to purify their souls with-’

‘I’ll get it.’ Claudia laughed. Poor Clemens. It’ll torment him for weeks, being caught on the hop like this. Him, who lays out his clothes, his food, his utensils so carefully. Who can recite every taboo of Jupiter’s priest, who makes lists and notes with such painstaking care, who even sorts his coins into size and denomination. Still chuckling, Claudia reached into the tubby priest’s rig and flipped up the lid of his trunk. Why, I’ll bet he counts the stars every night and calls out a register. Lucifer? Present. Sirius? Present. Vega? Vega, where are you, Vega, I know you’re there somewhere, you little monkey… She grabbed the silver censor, redolent with incense, and was just about to close the lid, when she realized the chain had caught on a shoe deep inside the trunk. Come on, come on. Claudia unhooked the link from the sandal strap and shoved the shoe down the side, wondering what Clemens would make of the muddle, when she realized that the shoe was going nowhere. It had stuck. Damn. Scrunching his spare tunics to one side and careless of the crumples, she shoved the obstinate sandal into the hole she’d created, then noticed what was causing the obstruction.

The silver censor crashed to the ground as Claudia employed both hands to dig out the pouch she’d uncovered. You devious little bastard, Clemens. She jerked out the deerskin pouch and peered at the seal, her blood alternating hot and cold as she imagined what she’d do to the fat little worm when she laid her hands on him. Steal my bloody gemstones, would you? She rattled the pouch, then checked the seal, but the black salamander, praise be to Juno, had not been tampered with. Nimble fingers undid the buckles on the satchel round her neck. Strangling’s too good for you, you putrid lump of slugslime, I’ve half a mind to Uh-oh.

Claudia blinked, and blinked again. She was wrong. Clemens hadn’t sneaked her pouch out of the satchel when her head was turned to dose Orbilio with syrup of figs. The pouch was still there, where she’d left it…

This meant Clemens was carrying a deerskin pouch of his own.

Which happened to be absolutely identical.

XII

‘I don’t think Theo likes me.’

Orbilio had taken advantage of the lull to steer Claudia away from the main gathering, and they were sitting with their knees drawn up, facing each other on boulders under the overlap of a willow. Wispy clouds had moved in to cover the sky, settling an early twilight over the canyon. The fire, fierce to start with, had pretty well fizzled out now that the upper layer had burned through to damper branches which had not yet been dried by the sun, and if anything, the barricade looked worse than before. Not because it was higher, quite the opposite. But the combination of blackened rocks and charred, sticking-up branches produced a dark and sinister effect, sending out a sombre sense of foreboding.

When, from time to time, the pines spat and sparked, nerves jarred visibly.

Resting her chin on her knees, Claudia wondered whether others among the party shared her suspicions that the bodies of at least the two soldiers, and probably half of the mules, were unlikely to have been touched by the flames. That the fire, short-lived as it had been, had been no more than a gesture. A symbol. An observance of duty.

That Orbilio, in his assessment of the situation regarding the stranded group, intended it as nothing more than a discharge of communal liability. Let’s draw a line and move on, he was saying.

For move on they would, come the morning, because on one point Orbilio was adamant. The army were not coming this way to look for them. It was precisely as Titus had reasoned. Informed that the convoy had taken a short cut which had been subsequently blocked by a rock fall, the military had sent appropriate messages to Vesontio, telling them they should expect the delegation from the local road in from the south. A smug air hung over the spice merchant.

Claudia plucked a water forget-me-not, consigned two petals to the swirling, bright stream and forced her mind back to the issue at hand. ‘Might Theo’s dislike stem, do you think, from the point where you called him a fathead?’ Orbilio had bathed away the mud and grime, razored off the stubble and was wearing a spotless white tunic. She could detect the faint smell of its final rosemary rinse.

‘What did he expect?’ Marcus retorted. ‘Only an imbecile would leave Nestor’s body mouldering on the far side of the bridge.’

‘Theo felt it fitting that all four casualties be cremated together,’ came the case for the defence, ‘that they might enter the Underworld in solidarity.’

She heard him mutter something under his breath which might have been ‘Bowls’ or ‘Bulls’ or possibly even ‘Halls’.

‘The man’s plainly incompetent.’ Marcus snorted, and Claudia decided he’d get along well with Maria. ‘I mean, fancy letting a group of lightly armed civilians sit it out in this isolated ravine!’

Claudia intended to point out that the group had actually taken a vote. Instead she heard herself asking, ‘Why? Is it dangerous?’

‘What? No. No, of course not.’

But it was too late. She’d been watching too closely to miss the flash of alarm skip across his face. She sent another couple of flowerheads upstream, watching them bob out of sight almost at once. Overhead, five disappointed buzzards circled in disbelief that their supper could be so cruelly denied them and close at hand came the bell-like croak of a toad.

‘So, then.’ She crossed one leg over the other and watched a snow-white moth settle to drink from a scabious. ‘In return for helping you establish your credentials as a-oh, yes, designer of mosaic floors-perhaps you’d care to enlighten me as to why you’re really here?’

On the bridge, Clemens was on his knees, leaning over to wash Nestor’s cremated bones in the river before placing them in a trunk which had been cleared and lined with linen for the purpose. Had he been killed in a genuine accident, Claudia knew Nestor would have found the current situation a sublime tribute to his travels. A final adventure, the last of his tallest tall stories. Heavens, he’d have loved to have folk recounting tales of landslides and derring-do as they admired the sculpted frieze on his tomb. It would proclaim in marble and for ever the moment this group was trapped in Vulture Valley, between headhunting Gauls and a bloodthirsty Helvetian bear cult, as Nestor’s own corpse straddled the border. Indeed, had he been given the chance to write his own eulogy, Nestor’s arm would have wrenched itself from its socket in the bid to grab pen and parchment-but. Claudia swallowed. He’d been murdered in the most brutal, cowardly and cunning fashion, and were Nestor able to write anything today, it would surely be the name of his killer.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Fly in my eye.’ Claudia sniffed. ‘Anyway.’ She cleared her throat and turned back to Marcus. ‘You were telling me the purpose behind your deceit.’

‘Why do you sense an ulterior motive?’ He grinned. ‘Lies come naturally to us men.’

Don’t they just. However, if lies were illegal, few of us would ever get out of the courthouse, Claudia reflected. She consigned the last of the forget-me-nots into the greedy white waters and listened to the gurgles, fizz and splashes.

‘The truth is,’ he said, keeping his eye on the circling birds, ‘my boss sent me undercover to keep an eye on one of this group.’

The notion was so preposterous, Claudia nearly fell off her boulder. ‘Clemens?’ she asked innocently. ‘Who’s after the post of Jupiter’s priest?’

‘That’s him,’ Orbilio said, perhaps a little too quickly. ‘My boss’s twin brother has applied for the job and-’

‘Your task is to suss out the opposition?’

‘Exactly.’

When he shifted position, the smell of sandalwood drifted downwind. Claudia stuffed a ransom under her nose and breathed in its garlicky pong, ignoring completely the flecks of light which danced in his curls and the strong, narrow fingers which spiked through them as a makeshift comb.

‘And you?’ he asked airily. ‘You just fancied a trip across to Gaul, I suppose?’

‘Who wouldn’t?’

‘Naturally.’ His smile was sickly in its insincerity. ‘I mean, you wouldn’t want to be in Rome for the midsummer festivities, would you? The flute-players carnival? The feasts, the horse races, those dreary mock bullfights? So crowded.’

‘So noisy.’

‘So tell me.’ He leaned forward and slipped the ransom from her hand. ‘Have you noticed anything,’ he inhaled the pungent fragrance, ‘unusual about this delegation?’ Claudia snatched the flower back. ‘No, no. We’re often trapped in isolated valleys. Par for the course.’

‘Accidents,’ he said, tossing a meaningful glance at the smouldering blockage, ‘can happen and unfortunately people do die in them. Nestor, for instance, and’-he rubbed his jaw as he pretended to think-‘Libo. You, er, know anything about that?’

‘Never heard of him.’

‘He was a tile-maker,’ Orbilio said. ‘Found stabbed in the bushes.’

‘Must have been travelling at the front of the convoy, otherwise I’d have heard.’

‘Hmm.’ Marcus chewed his lower lip in thought. ‘I suppose you know nothing about any map, either?’

‘Map?’

‘No, of course not.’ He stood up and stretched. ‘You know, Claudia. That’s what I like most about us. We’re both so open and honest with one another.’

And with his thumbs looped inside his belt, he sauntered back up the path, whistling softly under his breath.

Behind Claudia, well hidden in the bushes, a pair of intense blue eyes watched Orbilio depart.

*

Any misgivings Theo may have felt about his command being undermined were quadrupled the moment that upstart patrician began giving orders the following morning. It had been bad enough, Theo told anyone prepared to listen, Orbilio killing one of the horses last night so everyone had a bloody good supper inside them. This morning, he’s insisting we do it again, to put a big breakfast under our belts.

‘This expedition’s going to be tough,’ Marcus was telling the sombre gathering. ‘With no map, no guide, no idea what terrain lies ahead, we need to pack water in any container you can adapt to the purpose and, ladies, there’s no room for fripperies. We can only take the basic fundamentals.’

‘But the mules,’ Maria cut in. ‘Surely they can carry our trunks? My husband needs all his bookbinder’s tools, his-’

‘Medicines,’ Dexter said sadly.

‘We’ll need changes of clothes, our finery for when we arrive-’

‘ If we arrive,’ Marcus said grimly. ‘Unless we carry the absolute minimum, we risk losing everything. With just one muleteer and two injured men, we shan’t be able to manage all the horses.’

With his freckles camouflaged by purple outrage, Theo stepped forward. He was, Claudia noticed, fully armoured, even down to his helmet. ‘As leader of this party,’ he said, ‘I insist we take a vote. No, no, listen!’ He held a hand up to silence the boos and let’s-get-on-with-its. ‘We still have the option to return the way Orbilio here came in-’

But that was as far as he got. Shouted down by virtually everyone (with Volso’s voice the loudest.), the group had had enough of this place and was itching to move on. The precipitous gorge and its boiling, dangerous waters were getting to them, and without the reassuring cushion of a rescue party on the Helvetian side, they looked to Vesontio for their goal-and they looked for it with no time to be lost.

While Hanno determined which of the horses were fit to make the journey over the vertiginous hills, the party set about discarding all but the barest essentials.

Unfortunately, that also meant leaving behind Nestor’s bones.

‘We’ll bury them by the bridge and mark the spot with a cairn,’ Orbilio said. ‘Then when the road has been repaired, our soldiers can disinter them and return them to his family for proper burial in Rome.’

‘I’ve already dug a pit,’ Theo lied. ‘So you can leave that with me.’

Alas, no one cared whether Theo had dug a temporary grave or not. Marcus Cornelius Orbilio was the convoy’s hero and saviour. It was his every word they hung on, not Theo’s, and to them, the young soldier had been relegated to less than a servant. Even old Hanno commanded more reverence, if only because he’d suffered personal tragedy in this terrible accident, and as the sun struggled to break through the clouds, in a valley alive with birdsong and the buzzing of bees, resentment turned to simmering hatred.

XIII

The gorge might have formed a perfect natural boundary, with its dizzy drops and racing torrent, but nature doesn’t build in angular shapes, she leaves that to surveyors, stonemasons and brickies. Thus the isolated stragglers were able to exploit a fold in the schist, close to where Theo calculated the road to Vesontio had parted company with the river, but by the gods, it was bloody tough going.

Five dry days could only begin to redress the effects of prolonged torrential rainfall, and on this north-facing slope the ground remained treacherous. Hands were bandaged from the outset to protect the skin from nettles, brambles, bark and roots, which would otherwise have torn them to shreds, but the climb, even zigzagging upwards in lazy, slow loops, was precipitous. Half the time they were crouched over like hunchbacks, slithering and sliding on thick layers of mulch.

The astrologer had taken plenty of stick for not forecasting the convoy’s disaster, but for the moment, he didn’t care. Every time he looked down, Volso was drawn towards the void which beckoned and he had to force himself to concentrate on his progress one step at a time, lurching from fern to root to sapling for support. By the time he reached the peak, his sweat-beaded face resembled a mouldering lettuce in both line and shape as well as colour, and his whole cadaverous body was trembling.

Claudia tried to picture him on the edge of that precipice clobbering Nestor with a rock, and failed. But then again, she thought, pressing a cooling sorrel compress to the nape of her neck, the key to getting away with murder is precisely that your actions appear so out of character, no one possibly suspects you. It was in Volso’s rig, remember, that she had discovered the corpse. A set-up? An unlucky break for the real killer, that the trap had sustained very little damage in the rock fall? Or a calculated risk taken by the astrologer himself?

‘Drusilla’s adapted like the proverbial duck to water,’ Junius puffed. ‘No need for the leash, she’s having a ball.’

Naturally. The cat was well used to adventures like this. In the eight years they’d been' together, Drusilla and Claudia, this was hardly their first overland safari and such was the nature of these dark, Egyptian cats that in any case her behaviour was more like a dog’s than a cat’s. (Except how many hulking great statues of dogs do you see, venerated by pharaohs?)

‘It was only ever her physical being which was carted round inside that cage,’ Claudia wheezed back, ‘never her spirit.’ The two had simply been reunited.

As for herself, having taken up Iliona’s offer to borrow a long, divided skirt and separate bodice, Claudia had no cause to regret her action. Watching Maria hanging on to the tail of a mule with both hands as it dragged her up the hillside put paid to that.

Since the group comprised mostly the middle-merchant classes, accustomed to their own personal hairdressers, masseurs, valets and barbers (the novelty of washing out their smalls and cooking their own dinner had worn off fast enough), hysteria had quickly set in, although it was Gemma, the brick-maker’s seventeen-year-old daughter, who voiced what many feared-that they’d never reach Vesontio alive.

They had clambered up hills, they had skidded down again, skirted ridges and forded endless foaming streams, they’d spent a night huddled round a camp fire while wolves howled and bears snuffled worryingly close in the undergrowth. Every bark of a deer made them jittery, each drum of the woodpecker, each squirrel’s harsh chatter. And now, as the plateau levelled out, the enormity of what the band was facing was rammed home to them.

All around, hills-endless, endless hills-rippled outwards in every direction. Bobbled with minute and distant trees, their greenness was broken only by tongues of grey bare rock on which eagles, soaring proudly on the thermals, had built eyries.

‘We’re lost,’ Gemma sniffed. ‘We’re lost and we’re going to die!’

Many of the women, and more than one of the men, were weeping openly now. Fatigue sets in fast on those who live soft, and it was easy to identify shoots which had sprung from hardy stock. Excluding the drivers, rugged types, used to hard physical exercise, and Theo, of course, accustomed to route marches and digging defence lines and ditches, one or two surprises manifested themselves among the party. Not quite in keeping with his cover as a designer of mosaic floors, Orbilio’s stint in the army was exposed when he lent his strong arm to assisting the ladies, leaving Claudia to ponder whether his stripping to the waist had been a necessity, or whether it was simply a ploy to take their minds off their ordeal? Mind you, who’d be fool enough to be distracted by that broad chest and those glistening, undulating muscles, or that little scar just to the left of…

Where was I? Oh, yes. Claudia plucked another fistful of sorrel leaves. Musing on the revelations thrown up by this ill-fated expedition. She squeezed the juice in her hands. Clemens, for instance. The rotundity on him was going-to-seed fat, rather than hereditary corpulence, and the priest, as he set up a makeshift altar in the clearing, showed few signs of emotional wilt. Iliona was clearly as robust as she was beautiful, contriving to look a million sesterces with her lilac bodice tucked inside dark purple pantaloons and, since she’d discarded not one hollow bangle, she jangled a different tune with each sultry swing of her hips. Small wonder Titus summoned up the energy to lead his wife away from the group, to return with a barely concealed grin on his face.

‘Our bodies will be torn apart by foxes and lynx,’ Gemma wailed, ‘our bones left to rot where they fall.’

‘I’m afraid she’s right about our being lost,’ Orbilio admitted, ‘and with no sun to guide us, under cloud cover we could be walking these forests in circles.’ He turned to Theo. ‘I thought you were taking bearings?’

The insinuation was subtle, but the insinuation was still there.

‘Maybe it’s your fault,’ the legionary flung back. Not for him any grovelling explanations. Straight for the jugular. ‘Have you considered that, Mister-Know-It-All-Patrician? You insisted on coming up here, remember?’

Wiping more of the cooling sorrel down the V of her bodice, Claudia noticed that Marcus didn’t dignify Theo’s accusation with a reply. His eyelids merely narrowed as he rubbed the bridge of his nose.

‘I don’t see that establishing blame brings us closer to Vesontio,’ Maria snapped, smack on target as usual. ‘We have no direction, no food, no shelter-oh, for heaven’s sake, child, stop that godawful blubbering!’

‘The girl’s terrified,’ Dexter said, putting one arm around Gemma and taking her hand with the other. ‘Now you’re not to worry,’ he told her. Her parents were no use. They were snivelling wrecks themselves. ‘We’re all going to be fine. Trust me. Once the clouds lift, we’ll be able to sort ourselves out, we just have to wait here a while.’

‘You heard what she said,’ Gemma gulped. ‘No food, no water.’

‘Maria, you’ll have to give me a hand here?’ Dexter said, throwing an exasperated glance over his shoulder.

‘Why?’ his wife shot back. ‘You already have one more than you started with!’ And with that, she stomped off, leaving Dexter to comfort the girl as best he could.

‘We’ll camp here until the weather changes,’ Theo said, piling up sticks for a fire, even though it was only midafternoon. ‘When it does, we’ll set our course by the sun and move off.’

‘That could be days,’ Volso whined. ‘And what about water?’

‘We can eat the mules,’ Theo said, ‘and ration our water. Hell, we’ve seen enough rivers these past couple of days, there’s bound to be a stream nearby.’

‘The injured drivers are in considerable pain,’ Claudia pointed out. ‘The henbane ran out yesterday, and although I’ve applied poultices of comfrey and elder leaves, they’ve merely eased the swelling, not the pain.’

‘I might be able to fill that breach.’ Titus slung his backpack to the ground and beckoned Claudia across. ‘This stuff’-he pitched his voice low, so only she could hear-‘is called laudanum. It’s a narcotic, but I doubt they’ll become addicted in so short a time.’

Claudia took the dark-coloured resin between her fingers. It was sticky and smelled sweet. ‘What do you do with it?’

‘Leave that to me,’ Titus said, fixing her with the one eye not covered by his fringe as he smiled his ambiguous smile.

Claudia said nothing, and as she handed back the lump of gooey gum, she grabbed the spice merchant’s backpack.

‘Hey!’

‘Well, you never know what else might help. Cloves and turmeric work miracles on bruises,’ she breezed, ignoring Titus’s dilemma between snatching back his satchel or behaving in a gentlemanly fashion since the focus of half the group was upon them.

But there was nothing inside his bag which remotely resembled a yellow deerskin pouch.

The laudanum worked fast, draining the pain lines from the wounded men’s faces. In no time Theo had a roaring fire going, the sound of tinder crackling and the sight of clear blue flames leaping out of the plane-wood comforted everyone, not merely the wounded. Wild strawberries were gathered and a few mushrooms, while burdock roots made the basis of another dreary soup. Dexter sat beside a puffy-faced Gemma, droning on about the various documents he’d bound over the years-the painstaking restoration work on the Sybilline prophecies. Poetry for the great Virgil himself. Although, he confessed ruefully, the bread-and-butter stuff came from binding old senatorial archives, principally for the Treasury Department. Dull stuff, but sufficient to keep Gemma’s mind off her fears, while others sought solace in religion. On a rough turf altar, Clemens spread out hawthorn to invoke the custody of Mercury, god of merchants who protected the departing month of June. That done, he laid out birch upon his makeshift altar, an offering for mighty Juno, after whom the month was named, and finally he set oak leaves, sacred to July, all round the grassy mound and called upon Jupiter, who would be stepping in tomorrow to protect the coming month, to hear their prayers.

Many, watching Clemens, believed him diligent. Claudia called it hedging his bets.

‘As a matter of idle curiosity, why were you searching Titus’s bag?’ Had the shadows not been swallowed by the sun, Orbilio’s would have cast itself over Claudia.

‘Me? Don’t be ridiculous.’ She pushed past him.

He stepped in front of her. ‘And Volso’s, for that matter. Uh-uh, don’t try to deny it, I saw you. The instant he began making his devotions with that little priest, you were inside his satchel like a ferret.’

Claudia pursed her lips. ‘Actually, Orbilio, if you want the truth.’ She reached for her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. ‘I’m scared.’ She snuffled silently into the linen. ‘I try so hard to hide it, but’-gulp-‘deep down I feel Gemma’s right and I’-sob-‘wanted to see what the astrologer had marked on his charts for our fate.’

‘Oh, sweet Janus, Claudia.’ Orbilio’s face was a picture of anguish. ‘I’m so sorry. I…had no idea.’

Good. It worked.

‘Truly,’ he said miserably. ‘I had no idea you were such a terrible actress. Ouch! ’ He rubbed at his shin. ‘What was that for?’

‘Pure pleasure,’ she purred.

His eyes were still watering as he hopped after her. ‘That’s why we’ll have such a long and happy life together.’ He grinned. ‘Whenever I’m with you, words flail me.’ There was a count of three before he said, ‘Now give me your part of the map, Claudia. And tell me who else is carrying a piece.’

A tornado began to spin inside her head. ‘Get this in your thick skull, Orbilio, I don’t have any map.’

And yet… And yet…

‘Claudia Seferius, I know you and I know when you’re lying.’

‘How?’

‘You open your mouth. Now for heaven’s sake, stop this charade,’ he hissed under his breath. ‘This isn’t a game, Claudia. The whole Empire is at stake, and people, goddammit, are dying.’ He rubbed at the figure-of-eight ring on his little finger. ‘I don’t know what line you’ve been fed, or what’s on the end of the hook you were baited with, but you have to understand what’s at stake here. There’s a plot to-’

‘Fire!’

‘-assassinate not only Augustus-’

‘Fire in the valley. Look!’

‘-but to overthrow the whole Empire and reinstate the Republic and-Janus, Croesus, what’s going on over there?’

He strode to the edge of the clearing, where the plateau fell away to reveal what, under other circumstances, would have been a magnificent panorama.

‘There. Can you see it?’ Theo’s voice was filled with excitement and he was almost jumping up and down on the spot. ‘A plume of grey smoke?’

‘Blimey, you’ve got good eyesight,’ said one of the drivers admiringly, squinting into the distance, but then others looked where Theo was pointing, to the thin spiral which was growing ever larger as they watched.

‘A village!’ Theo laughed, kicking soil over the blazing campfire. ‘By Croesus, it’s a bloody village!’

XIV

As the last day of June was marked in Rome with the Festival of the Muses (a chance for the arty-farty-glitterati to gather at the Temple of Hercules and indulge in a spot of good old-fashioned fawning), there was much to debate in the Senate.

Not least, the problem regarding the Emperor’s stepson.

Why appoint Tiberius as Regent? they argued. Why not so-and-so? Most senators had their own man they wished to propose, and most could make a case every bit as sound as the one Augustus made for Tiberius-especially since Tiberius happened to be blissfully married to a girl who, like her husband, was no blood relative of Augustus, but who was also expecting their first child. The fact that she was the late Regent’s daughter made no difference. The link to the throne simply got weaker and weaker.

However, those malcontents with ambitions of their own had reckoned without the Emperor’s wife. Even as the arguments raged inside the Senate House, Livia was quietly instigating formal divorce proceedings to sever her own son, Tiberius, from the marriage bond with his wife, while at the same time arranging a wedding between-that’s right, her own son and the late Regent’s widow, who was also heavily pregnant. And, er, who just happened to be Augustus’s daughter. With the Emperor’s stepson married to the Emperor’s daughter, any doubts about bloodlines would be wiped out the instant the marriage contract was signed. There was no time to lose.

At some stage, Livia supposed, she ought to notify Augustus. And quite possibly Tiberius, as well…

Meanwhile, as another senator rose to his feet to address the outraged assembly, a politician with buck teeth moved his chair closer to the thin man sitting beside him. The thin man smelled of liquorice.

‘You’ve seen the latest reports?’ he muttered.

‘About the uprisings on the Germanic border?’ The invalid delved into the folds of his purple-striped toga for his cache of black pastilles. ‘Seven attacks on our encampments, one full-scale assault on the garrison and an attempt to burn one of the bridges crossing the Rhine. Oh, yes.’ He popped in a pill. ‘I’ve read those dispatches so often, they’re almost committed to memory.’

A ripple of boos rang round the chamber as the speaker was shouted down. Within seconds, another took his place, punching his fist into the palm of his hand to emphasise every point and leaving the assembly to wonder whether it was the larynx, rather than the Senate, which was the noblest organ of the State.

‘There’ll be insufficient time to debate our foreign policies today,’ Squint murmured, ‘but I’m reliably assured that, come our next sitting, we are to be notified of the despatch of three of our most loyal legions from,’ he flashed a smug smile at the golden statue of winged Victory, standing by her altar in the corner, ‘safe provinces to quell the rebellion in the north.’

‘I assume that by “safe” we’re referring to-oh, well said, old man.’ He broke off to applaud the senator who’d just come to the end of a speech of which the thin man had not heard a word. They waited until the opposing speaker had a real good head of steam up.

‘Your assumptions are correct.’ Squint nodded. ‘Troops have been moved away from northern Italy, from Sequani territory and from the south and west of Gaul, although naturally Helvetia is still under full military order.’ He let out a snort of laughter. ‘No one trusts those war-mongering bastards.’

‘Can you blame them?’ The thin man sniggered back, and for the remainder of the address they lapsed into silence, amused by the irony of the situation they had created.

Further, increasingly heated, debates followed on and the atmosphere inside the chamber grew distinctly rowdier. Outside, the voices from the populace who were crowded on to the platform and steps became louder and more raucous as they, too, were swept along with the arguments, audible because the double doors remained open throughout the proceedings in order for the public to have access to what was, after all, a democracy. Once or twice a brawl broke out-nothing serious, just a bit of pushing and shoving with a spot of name-calling thrown in-and sometimes this also took place outside the chamber.

What more perfect cover for two politicians to chat, unheard, between themselves?

‘One small problem has come to light,’ the thin man murmured, reaching for another pastille. The physician was right, the liquorice did help his ulcer. Either that, or it was settling of its own accord. He glanced round the chamber, nodding curtly in recognition of his brother-in-law seated opposite on the upper row. The conspiracy had crossed the point of no return and the worry which aggravated the ulcer was no longer present. He’d gone past that stage and was reconciled now to the future. The coup would succeed, or-if it did not-he would die. And most assuredly, he had no intention of crossing the Styx even one hour early. His goal was to be part of the new triumvirate.

‘Problem?’ Squint prompted.

‘Maybe that’s too strong a word. It’s just that, if you recall, intelligence came back that the Helvetii had killed a tile-maker in the convoy to Vesontio, a man by the name of Libo. Since then, I’ve come to understand that Libo was an undercover agent, working for the Security Police.’

‘And?’ The cross-eyed senator adjusted his position and nonchalantly rearranged his toga. ‘Libo’s dead, isn’t he? Where’s the problem?’

‘As I say, maybe there isn’t one. It’s just that another agent has taken his place and it cannot be coincidence that his name is Marcus Cornelius Orbilio. The chap whose nose has been poking so industriously into the matter of the Treveri’s unrest,’

As officials separated a pair of sparring senators, Squint considered the ramifications of this latest twist to the scheme. In terms of global strategy and the renaissance of a glorious Republic, he saw nothing in one man’s departure which could possibly alter the future and he made this point to his bony confederate.

‘Sending men-and indeed women-undercover is routine procedure, and not only for the state,’ he reminded him, and at the same time beseeched Jupiter to send him a little sprig of patience. He flicked an imaginary speck of dust from his shoulder, and from the corner of his eye studied the lump of skin and bones seated next to him and wished, not for the first time, that he’d been able to find a brighter, more ambitious, more ruthless co-conspirator, with the same wealth this wretched invalid had been prepared to splash out in bribes.

‘Spying’s a vital cog in every wheel, whether military, commercial or marital,’ he said in a low undertone, annoyed with himself that he had allowed personalities to get in the way of ambition. ‘And if, as you are apparently suggesting, Libo was despatched by our own agent in the convoy, rather than by some testy Helvetian, then I imagine that equally we can rely on our agent to sort out this second man-and I don’t necessarily mean with an accident.’

‘Aha.’ The invalid was beginning to see what Squint was driving at. The whole purpose behind the diversion was to stall for time, convince the rebel armies that the treasure map was on its way and that soon they’d be rich beyond their wildest dreams. With the entire State Treasury at their disposal, they were free to make war on any tribe they chose, annexe territories of their own, conquer lands to the north, to the east, and with Rome as their allies, those chieftains who had co-operated to overthrow the Emperor would be invincible.

What they didn’t know, of course, was that the fat man’s reading of the armed-forces situation was spot on. Regardless of who ran the Empire/Republic/call-it-what-you-will, no military commander would accede an inch of Roman territory, and instead of rebel chieftains sweeping across Europe like a plague of locusts, the mutinous bastards would be cut down before they’d even armoured up.

The term, the invalid believed, was double-cross.

For it was imperative no rebel laid his hands on any Roman gold or silver, which meant they must be stalled-at least until the Ides of July. Itself only a fortnight away.

However, providing the undercover agent Orbilio could be convinced there was nothing suspicious about the convoy’s little diversion, that he came to accept that any tragic deaths which had occurred along the way were pure accidents, then his presence might well work to their advantage. His report would reveal them to be squeaky-peaky clean, while at the same time adding tremendous credence to the tale they’d spin to the rebels, since Orbilio’s integrity was not only well-known in military and administrative circles, it was also beyond question, and only a moron would imagine the Helvetii and the others didn’t have paid spies of their own to keep tabs on this situation.

‘Order!’ The presiding magistrate tapped the dais and bellowed across the chamber. ‘Order, gentlemen, please!’

The unseemly scuffles died down and the protagonists resumed their seats on the tiers, for all the world like schoolboys looking to their tutor for guidance.

‘I think it’s safe to assume there’ll be no voting in here today.’ The magistrate laughed, diffusing the situation with his natural good humour. ‘And since the sun is threatening to sink below the rooftops, I intend to call an end to today’s proceedings, but before we leave, gentlemen, I would like to announce the official opening of the coastal road to Gaul.’ Hurrahs rang round the crowded chamber, rippling like an echo through the populace outside.

‘So the Helvetii are pacified at last,’ someone cried. ‘’Bout time, too!’

‘Those bastards are never pacified,’ someone else shouted back. ‘The word’s “subjugated”, you’ll find.’

‘Order.’ The magistrate’s rod boomed against the dais. ‘You can vent your feelings about the Helvetii, gentlemen, over a flagon or two later, I’m sure we all intend to celebrate this milestone in transport and communication!’ More hurrahs followed, as it became clear just how vital this link would be. No more overland treks through the Alps. No more hazardous voyages by sea. Only one senator, an old bear of a man with great tufty eyebrows, didn’t seem pleased with the new open road, but then again he, as owner of a fleet of merchantmen, wouldn’t.

‘And finally,’ the magistrate announced, ‘I feel this is the occasion on which we should officially congratulate Senator Galba for his perspicacity and foresight in arranging the trade delegation to the Sequani tribe in Gaul, which I am delighted to report has now arrived safely in their capital, Vesontio.’

He paused and shot a beaming smile at the glowing Galba.

‘This man-’ The cheerful faced official had to raise his voice for it to carry over the thunderous applause. ‘This man saw an opportunity and seized it with both hands. As you all know, in four years’ time we shall be celebrating our half century of living in peace and harmony with the Sequani, and how better, the Emperor thought, than to cement the alliance with a temple to the holy twins, Castor and Pollux? A true symbol of unity and friendship. It will, of course, take us those four years to build the temple in Vesontio, but it is thanks to Galba, here, that the inauguration ceremony will be followed by a trade fair the likes of which Gaul has never seen before, and I put it to the Senate, gentlemen, that if Galba is half as industrious in his role as Prefect of the State Treasury as he was in organizing this delegation, Rome will never want for anything again!’

The bouncy magistrate waited for the cheering to abate.

‘Moreover, gentlemen, I would like it officially recorded that, in my personal opinion, Senator Galba will go far in this administration and I, for one, wish him the very, very best. Now for heaven’s sake, stand up, man-don’t be so modest.’

His fat face suffused with pleasure, the treasury official heaved himself to his feet.

Behind him, two senators applauded the loudest. One had buck teeth and the other was thin from an ulcer.

Galba turned round and tipped each co-conspirator a broad wink.

XV

Call that a village? Claudia goggled at the depressing cluster. That collection of beehives? She had hung back in the forest with the others while Junius, as interpreter, and Theo, as official representative of Rome, made their way down to the man-made clearing where six squat structures huddled together like virgins at an orgy. Assorted creatures scuffed and snuffled in the dust-tiny brown sheep which reached barely knee high, shaggy-haired goats with long, swept-back horns, heavy grey geese with bright orange bills, dirty children, barefoot and squealing.

‘Dear lord, what sort of people are they, these Sequani?’ Maria demanded. ‘Content to live like pigs.’

‘Among the pigs, actually,’ Orbilio murmured. ‘Each household keeps a menagerie: ducks, geese, dogs, sheep…’

‘And interbreed with them, by the looks of it.’ Maria sniffed. ‘Do you see the hair on the fellow they’re talking to? On his chest, his back, that ugly moustache-I refuse to believe he’s wholly human.’

Many more people had emerged from their homes, shuffling, suspicious, clutching their children tight to their hips, and it was obvious that whole clans resided in these thatched roundhouses, leaving Claudia to ponder whether it was sheep or goats which made the softest pillows, or perhaps it was a Gaulish custom to sleep standing up? All the villagers had long hair and dressed in shapeless woollen tunics dyed russet red from madder root or olive green from elder, some with stripes, others squared. The women braided their hair, while the men wore headbands and torques-bands of twisted bronze, which fitted round their necks, open to expose their Adam’s apples. Droopy moustaches seemed compulsory. Perhaps it was the only way to differentiate the sexes in the dark.

A faint smell of sawdust and boiled leather clung to the village, and woollen garments hung stretched over hazelwood frames to drip dry. An old woman, bent double and supporting her weight on a stick, stirred butter in a churn.

You’d think it would be simple, wouldn’t you, asking the villagers if you could buy some food while they pointed out the road to Vesontio, but no. From the preponderance of theatrical hand signals, Junius and Theo were experiencing difficulty in getting their message across, and Claudia settled down with her back against an oak tree while they thrashed it out. No doubt the Gauls had dialect problems, too-and if these were anything like the communication cock-ups which occurred so regularly in that melting pot of nations, Rome, then the wait would be considerable. She closed her eyes, and heard the distant echo of an axe.

Of course, the forest was these people’s living, they tapped its vast resources. They were expert carpenters, churning out everything from fruit presses to canoes as well as providing timber for house building and charcoal for burning. The forest would have other uses, too. Game would be hunted, and heaven knows the Gauls bred the very best in hunting dogs. They cultivated trees (nothing beats a good Gaulish cherry, black and firm and slightly sour), and these oak woods are perfect for herding swine. Seeing great heaps of withies, Claudia was reminded that the women here were expert wicker workers, too, weaving panniers and chairs, and didn’t someone tell her Sequani war chariots bore basketwork panels?

Claudia’s eyes shot open. These old hags would also weave the wicker man! A giant basket in the shape of a human, in which a living person would be burned alive to propitiate their brutal, heathen gods.

‘Isn’t this fun?’

Claudia stuffed her knuckles in her mouth to stifle the scream which rose up. ‘Iliona.’ She tried for a smile. ‘I didn’t hear you approach.’

‘Then you’re going deaf.’ Iliona laughed, stretching out her arms and rattling the bracelets. More than just Titus’s eyes picked up on the fact that, with the action, her breasts wobbled provocatively and while the men were disappointed when she sat down, out of view, their wives were not. ‘This whole trip is turning into one thrill after another.’

Claudia grunted noncommittally and tried not to think about the screams of men trapped inside a blazing wicker effigy…

‘Wait till we reach Vesontio and the others hear about our adventures.’ Iliona sighed. ‘Won’t they be jealous! And the fact that they’re rich merchants and patricians won’t stop them envying us, either. Mind you, the chap who I feel really sorry for is, oh what’s his name…you know, the one who turned back in Bern because he’d been robbed.’ Her pretty tongue clucked as she tried to recall a name which escaped her. ‘The perfumer. Began with a G or something. Had his samples stolen from his lodgings and, with no incentive to continue, he hightailed it home instead.’

Effigies began to recede from Claudia’s thoughts. ‘Why?’ she asked. ‘Why did he have to turn back?’ Surely a perfumer could set up his trade anywhere? It’s knowledge he needs, rather than samples.

‘Who knows what goes through people’s minds in a crisis?’ Iliona said. ‘That’s why I feel sorry for him, he was young, making his way in the world, desperately in search of adventure, and look at him. Back in Rome, where he started, flat broke.’

A little bird fluttered inside Claudia’s ribcage. ‘Broke?’

‘Borassic apparently. Boasted that this trip would make him a rich man, but he fell at the first hurdle, poor soul. Oh, what was his wretched name?’

Down in the village, geese honked noisily as Junius and Theo made their way back to the body of the group. Claudia didn’t know the perfumer, had never heard of him until-today, but without a shadow of a doubt, that boy had been carrying a yellow deerskin pouch. She knew that, as surely as if Iliona had just told her and the little bird inside her fluttered harder. Clemens was carrying a pouch, Claudia was carrying a pouch, and Orbilio was talking about pieces of a map…

Suppose the chinking was a ruse? Suppose she was supposed to believe she was smuggling gemstones to a dealer in Vesontio, when in reality they were a blind to conceal the map inside? Suddenly it made sense. Why else would the Salamander buy her entire production of last season’s wine? All too often it had troubled her that he was paying more for the stones than they could possibly be worth. The pieces were starting to add up ‘We’ve got a problem.’

Tell me about it! But the voice had not come from inside Claudia. The voice was male, and belonged to a boyish-faced soldier.

‘It would appear, ladies and gentlemen, that we have a choice,’ he said. ‘We can either spend the night with the villagers, and try and make sense of their garbled instructions regarding the road to their capital city, and I have to tell you, neither Junius or I can guarantee the directions, since no two villagers seem to agree upon the matter, none of them actually having visited Vesontio-’

‘Or?’ Maria said impatiently.

‘Or we can take that track there,’ Theo pointed to a path through the trees, ‘which leads to a roundhouse a mile or so away, home to a man they call the Silver Fox. He’s a woodsman, and the chieftain assures us he will be able to guide us to Vesontio.’

Chieftain? Head of six miserable little huts, and he calls himself a chieftain? Then Claudia remembered how feudal the Gauls were, still, and in isolated communities like this it made perfect sense. No matter how small or how large the populace, we all need some kind of structure. Without it, there’s only anarchy and chaos. A chill ran through her as Orbilio’s voice echoed in her memory. Assassinate Augustus…reinstate the Republic. Anarchy and chaos.

‘Why can’t we do both?’ Titus asked. ‘Spend the night here, then take the guide in the morning?’ With daylight fading fast, it seemed a reasonable question.

‘Something to do with contravening their law-you explain, Junius. You understood far more than I did.’

‘The thing is.’ The young Gaul stepped forward, hands on his hips. ‘This guide, the man they call the Silver Fox, has been shunned by the village. They don’t say what the original offence was, but the case was tried before the Druids, who pronounced sentence. It is Celtic law,’ he said solemnly, ‘that those who do fail to abide by the Druids’ verdict shall be shunned.’

Claudia noted that the word he used was Celtic. Celtic law, he’d said, not Gallic. Then she remembered that only the Romans called these people Gauls. Junius, she realized, had come home.

‘So they don’t talk to him?’ Volso sneered. ‘What of it?’

‘It’s much more serious than that,’ Junius explained. ‘When a person’s shunned, he’s expelled from his community, banned from religious rites and sacrifices. Without the protection of the gods, he becomes…I suppose you would say unclean. To consort with a person who’s been shunned, even to speak with them or share a job of work with them, is to contaminate one’s own soul.’

‘Some choice.’ Maria snorted. Behind her, Dexter bemoaned the stye in his left eye.

‘Let me get this clear,’ Titus said. ‘The villagers don’t mind us using the services of this Silver Fox, they just won’t grant us hospitality knowing our intentions?’

‘The chieftain believes it would bring a plague upon them,’ Junius said. ‘Vengeance of the gods.’

Volso flapped his arms. ‘I don’t see the difficulty,’ he growled. ‘Spend the night here, stock up with provisions, see the villagers are paid handsomely and then have a quiet word with this guide chappie. As long as they don’t actually know of our plan, where’s the harm?’

Duplicity seemed a popular choice, and for a while the group tossed arguments back and forth among themselves until someone went and spoiled it all by mentioning the head-hunting lark, and how, if thirty-three lost travellers stayed lost, who’s going to venture inside these huts and decide to count the grisly trophies in the cupboard? That put an abrupt end to Volso’s underhandedness, with the added advantage of clarifying a few minds, to boot. The faster everyone got out of these owl-haunted woods the better.

Indeed, any doubts people might have had in putting full bellies before a reliable escape route were dispelled further down the path they trekked, when they passed a small round oven-like structure with what looked like human skulls stacked on a rack beside it, with a bowl of dark red blood. Of course, even in twilight under a blanket of cloud, this was autosuggestion at its silliest, the oven being nothing more than a tiny potter’s kiln, the ‘skulls’ upturned pots set out and ready for treating with red paint. All the same, it did nothing for their collective nerves!

The woods closed in. Wearily, the group reached a clearing where a ditch and a bank enclosed line upon line of flat-topped graves.

‘Shit.’ The glass-blower whistled.

While no one minded cemeteries-it was healthy, after all, to bury one’s dead outside the village-why, oh why did the Sequani feel the need to barricade their ancestors in?

‘To stop them coming back to haunt the village,’ Junius explained, and suddenly the convoy was scuttling past the burial ground as though they had a ship to catch and might just miss the tide.

Barely half a mile along the overgrown trackway, Theo pulled up short, his face contorted with revulsion.

‘Sweet Jupiter in heaven!’ he gasped. The colour had drained from his face, leaving his freckles standing out like splashes of creosote.

Sixty-four eyes swung round to the dense, dark trees, but only sixty-two eyes widened in horror at the row of decapitated heads. A blackbird rattled out of the trees in alarm.

‘They’re masks,’ Junius laughed. ‘Clay masks, painted over.’

‘They look bloody lifelike to me,’ Volso said, and behind him Clemens made the sign to avert the evil eye.

‘They’re supposed to be,’ the young Gaul shot back, and Claudia noticed how easily he’d taken to this role as director and consultant. The same ease, in fact, with which he’d accepted promotion to lead her bodyguard. Except here, she reminded himself, Junius was on home turf…

‘Evil spirits wishing to enter a sacred grove will always be deterred by humans standing guard,’ he was saying. ‘These masks are to fool the hobgoblins into believing the villagers are still here.’

‘Bloody well fooled me,’ the glass-blower muttered, striding out along the path. ‘The quicker we run this Silver Fox to his earth, the quicker we return to bloody civilization.’

Few, scurrying through the forest after him, would have recalled this was midsummer, with tomorrow the first of July.

The chill down their spines was pure November.

*

Despite the spooky atmosphere of the forest, its dark canopy and oppressive sense of paganism, Claudia couldn’t help wondering what crime this Silver Fox had committed to deserve his shunning and how he alone among the villagers should be familiar with Vesontio. As to his appearance, that much was obvious-grey and grizzled-but what particularly intrigued her was what his reaction might be, once he realized thirty-three lusty Roman citizens were descending on him out of nowhere.

Few men scorned and living in bitter isolation would take kindly to being crept up on in the gloaming.

The thwack of his axe rang dull and heavy, and it was this, Claudia realized, she’d heard earlier. Likewise, it was the hermit’s fire Theo had spotted from the plateau, and the smell of wood smoke was rich, turning the air a hazy blue. High in the treetops a jay scolded its mate.

With trepidation, they approached his roundhouse. Predictably smaller than the others, it was constructed along similar lines, where thick low walls, half-timbered and plastered with clay and straw, disappeared at waist height under a great welter of wheat-straw thatch, which ended at a point three times the height of a man. He had built a small porch to protect the entrance, which was covered by a shiny cattle hide, and what looked like a hive for bees was sited to the left of the porch.

Could this man, this Silver Fox, be deaf? Out of their sight, the rhythmic axe continued to fall, interspersed with splintering sounds. Surely the hermit had heard the muted babble of the travellers’ conversation, the snicker of their horses, the soft jangle of harnesses? Just how old was this wretched guide?

But Claudia could not have been more wrong. They filed up the path and round the building to where a roaring fire lit the clearing like midsummer noon, the man chopping up his stack of wood was not a day over thirty-five. Stripped to the waist, he wore holly-coloured pantaloons tied at the ankle, his muscles rippling with each stroke of the axe, the tendons standing up thick as ropes on his glistening, nut-brown hide. He, too, wore the trademark sweatband round his head, but whereas the village men wore their long hair loose, his was tied at the nape in a black leather thong.

His hair was silver white.

Even when Theo cleared his throat, the woodsman continued with his long, slow lazy strokes, every one a killer.

‘I saw you coming,’ he said without breaking his stride. ‘Back at the kiln.’ Brilliant blue eyes, bright as gimlets, flashed over the bedraggled delegation. ‘So I butchered an ox, and we’ll need every log of this wood to roast it. It’ll take too long otherwise, to roast it whole over a spit.’

‘Um. Quite.’ The young soldier glanced uncertainly from left to right amongst his party. ‘Well, my name’s Theodorus, I am-’

‘Lost. I gathered that.’ By now every jaw among the delegation had dropped open. The hermit’s Latin was almost without accent.

‘I was about to say’-Theo had turned a brilliant scarlet under his helmet-‘that I represent the Roman Empire and that we are-’

‘Lost?’ There was a distinct sparkle in the woodsman’s bright blue eyes.

‘Of course we’re bloody lost!’ Exasperated with Theo’s handling of the situation, Titus stepped forward, and Claudia noted, not for the first time, that Orbilio had gone very quiet since leaving the plateau. All the way down to the village, he’d been industriously helping the ladies, giving Hanno a hand with the horses, listening to Dexter talk about his ailments, while along the path it had been Volso he’d accompanied, having acquired, apparently, a sudden interest in the zodiac. Even now, he was hanging back, ostensibly to pat a mare made skittish by the sickly sweet smell of fresh blood.

Titus had finished his brief explanation of how the convoy came to be stranded, their dismal efforts to locate the road to Vesontio and their subsequent sighting of the plume of smoke rising through the trees which led them here. The Silver Fox made no reply, merely tossing more logs on the fire before piling on great joints of bloodied meat, which sizzled with mouth-watering speed on the rack over the flames.

‘We have come to ask,’ Titus said, ‘if you would act as our guide to Vesontio.’

‘There are thirty-three of us,’ Clemens piped up, list-maker to the end. ‘Ten of the fairer sex, twenty-three men, five horses, two of them mules, the rest mares.’

‘And their weight?’ Silver Fox asked, and Clemens stuttered for an answer before he realized the hermit was joking.

Theo, whose authority had slipped away yet again, snapped, ‘Well, will you?’

The woodsman wiped his hands down the sides of his pantaloons and grunted. ‘Perhaps.’ Slowly he walked the length of the weary band, looking each one up and down, gauging their strengths, their weaknesses, their very souls as it were.

‘Barbarian,’ Maria hissed, as his searing glance passed over her. ‘What does he look like?’

‘What do we?’ Claudia smiled back. Filthy after two days trekking overland, many of them whey-faced from worry, but everybody tired and thirsty and missing their comfy feather beds.

Strangely, the woodsman seemed unfazed by Iliona. Perhaps it was her traditional island dress, the oiled curls around her ears (teeth sick-makingly immaculate despite the rigours) or the fact that her braceleted arm was looped through her spice merchant husband’s, but the Silver Fox passed on unperturbed, although his lips pursed at the cadaverous astrologer and smiled faintly at old Hanno. Rapier eyes narrowed as he took in Orbilio’s patrician stance, and flashed a ghost of surprise at a fellow Gaul travelling in Roman dress among the Romans. But the figure his eyes kept flicking back to was a girl with a mass of tumbling curls, most of them askew, who clearly was no Cretan, yet wore baggy lilac pants…

‘One gold piece for each one of the group,’ he said at length. ‘Including the’-he was about to say horses, when he caught Drusilla’s haughty stare-‘livestock.’

‘Thirty-nine gold pieces!’ Volso’s voice turned soprano in his outrage. ‘That’s utterly preposterous!’

‘I agree,’ the hermit said equably. ‘Let’s make it a round forty.’

‘Ten would be daylight robbery.’

‘Forty-five.’

‘Twelve.’

‘Fifty.’

‘Fifty it is.’ Orbilio stepped forward and crushed Volso with a virulent glare. ‘Will you shake on it?’ he asked the woodsman.

‘I will.’ Two strong hands clasped each other’s forearms, and when dark eyes locked onto blue, no one present could fail to see that this was a contest of strength. And not necessarily of physical stamina. ‘And you are?’ the Silver Fox asked, when they’d let go.

‘A designer of mosaic floors.’

‘Really?’ He seemed to find that amusing. ‘Can you design one for that hovel there?’

‘Do you want me to?’ Orbilio asked.

‘I’ll turn the meat over,’ the Silver Fox said. ‘It’s starting to burn.’

As the flames crackled and spat and appetizing aromas radiated round the clearing, Claudia could hear Theo giving Volso a verbal battering, insisting he ought not antagonize this man any more, he was the only goddamn chance they had left. Without a guide, they were hog-tied.

‘You heard Junius,’ he hissed under his breath. ‘Now they know we’ve been here, the village won’t lift a finger to help. They’ll treat us as contaminated, too.’

The astrologer was not going quietly. ‘But five thousand sesterces? That’s outrageous,’ he blustered. ‘It takes me six months to earn a figure like that.’

‘It takes me six bloody years,’ Theo blasted back. ‘Now, please, Volso, keep on his good side, eh?’

As the woodsman poured out a pitcher of foaming brown beer, sharpening his knife on a whetstone prior to carving more meat, Claudia had a sneaky suspicion that this Silver Fox was enjoying himself.

One thing she knew for certain, however, was that he’d have guided the party to Vesontio for a mere fraction of the price.

XVI

Without haste and without the slightest trace of ostentation, Night spread her soft dark veil over the encampment, her labours made easier by low clouds and the dense canopy. Slowly, too, the fire died, until all that remained was a pile of smouldering ash, ghostly white in the blackness. Only the occasional red flash, a hiss, a spark ventured forth, each effort fainter than the last, like the final gallant breaths of a warrior bleeding to death on the battlefield. Moths, dark and furtive, fluttered warily, attracted by the glowing, ruby-red coals. An owl called. ‘Hoo-wit. Hoo-wit.’ Another, in the distance, answered back.

Claudia tiptoed down the path. Behind her, fitful snorts came from fitful sleepers, the beer and the roast heavy on their stomachs. One of the mares whinnied softly, scuffing the ground with her hoof. His head on a folded horse blanket, Hanno snored open mouthed and toothless and didn’t stir. Claudia passed on. Past the bright, white signposts of silver birch to the open space beyond, where the grass became springy underfoot and redolent with fragrant orchids and honey-scented clover, to the place where water seeped from a fissure underground in a series of soft clicks to form a deep, dark pool. Mice, voles and hedgehogs rustled unseen in the undergrowth around the little wooden shrine which had been built for a deity worshipped here since the very dawn of time.

The air pulsated with the heat, with the crickets, with the bubbles, with unknown pagan rites and with expectation overlaid with an irrational, unnamed fear…

She let her eyes grow accustomed to the gloom. No doubt the water from this spring picked up its skirts and ran full pelt once it was clear of its beginnings, but here, as though ashamed of itself, it crept away in silence through the grass. Claudia heard, rather than saw, bats flit across the pool and since only priests were allowed inside Sequani shrines, the infant river, its cries muffled by the grass, passed beneath the feet of a wooden carving as though crawling on its belly in obeisance. The nymph of the source, she presumed, for there was no question the figure was female. Even across the fountainhead, her silvered breast band glittered in the dark.

Crouching down, Claudia peered at her reflection, but such was the constant underground activity-ring after ring of tiny concentric circles, each one touching, overlapping several others-that the waters blurred her pale image, multiplying it, as though she was seeing double. Sweet Juno, she was seeing double!

‘Orbilio! Aren’t you ever off duty?’

‘They’ll be able to engrave “tireless to the end” upon my tombstone.’

‘They’ll be able to engrave it pretty damn soon, unless you ease up.’ Funny how her heart seemed to beat that little bit faster whenever he was around. Must be an allergic reaction to the sandalwood. ‘Talk about paranoia, connecting this little group with Republican conspiracies. From what I’ve heard, Tiberius will be named Regent any day, and with his stepson as deputy, Augustus will be sitting very pretty. Stable, one might say. Not that the word means anything to you, of course.’

‘Hmm.’ Orbilio scratched at his jaw, and above the sawing of the crickets, Claudia heard the faint rasp of stubble. And then, if further proof was needed that he was cracking up, Marcus knelt down, brought out a handful of wild strawberries from his handkerchief, laid them upon a flat stone then proceeded to arrange them neatly into a squishy, rosy cairn. ‘Do you know what I am doing?’

‘Yes. You’re going mad.’

‘I’m making an offering to Aveta, mother goddess of the Gauls.’

‘The diagnosis was correct.’

‘And the reason I’m making this particular oblation is this.’ He pulled off a figure-of-eight ring from his little finger and held it up. ‘The property of a girl with fiery hair and a spirit to match, with eyes as green as a summer-meadow, a girl, in short, called Remi.’ His voice grew wistful. ‘Because of Remi, I rode the fastest four hundred miles in history, travelling on horseback by day and catching what sleep I could in a fast trap overnight, I feared my bones would never fit neatly together again.’ He slipped the ring back on. ‘It’s because of Remi that I couldn’t bring the army along to rescue you, there’s no one-and I mean no one-I dare trust. And should you need any further convincing, Claudia Seferius, all I can do is throw myself at your mercy and ask: do people who are off their chump toss in words like “oblation?”’

Claudia stared at the grinning face, surrounded by its unruly mop, at eyes which twinkled like the morning star and felt a hammer pound the anvil of her ribs. ‘Are you telling me that it’s because of Remi you came to Gaul?’

The grin faltered, the stars fell to earth. There was a silence which seemed to stick like mud. He turned away to face the woods. Then finally he nodded.

Sparks flew off the anvil, hot and searing. Can’t even look me in the eye when you admit it. What arrogance. What bloody conceit. Claudia kicked the little cairn of strawberries over on the grass and squashed them with her sandal. Think I give a damn you’ve followed some redheaded floozy with eyes like, oh how corny can you get? Summer bloody meadows? She ground the last remaining berry into juice. I should bloody coco. A natterjack toad let out its harsh, craking call and she threw a stone at it. Six others started up.

‘She died,’ Marcus said quietly, his back still turned, ‘every bit a sacrificial offering as those wild strawberries there.’

Shit! Claudia scooped the pulp back on to the rock.

‘The situation is this.’ He spun round, and she thought she saw tears in his eyes, but it was dark and she was probably mistaken. ‘I’ve uncovered, at the very highest level, a conspiracy to overthrow the present regime by eliminating not only Augustus, but every leading general, magistrate, the lot.’

Claudia felt the weight of the knowledge slam into her stomach. Midsummer or not, she was cold.

‘Implying one barbarous sweep,’ he added.

Standing here, amid such holiness and peace, the prospect of so many good men, loyal men, despatched to Hades on a single ferryboat seemed not simply an assault on Rome, but on the gods themselves. By whichever name you worshipped them.

‘That smacks of poison,’ she said, and it was as though the icy Alpine winds were back, blowing through this sacred grove. ‘Bribe the servants, those with grudges…’

‘Exactly.’ He took it for granted she would understand. ‘But the problem facing the conspirators is that the army is one hundred per cent behind Augustus and would most certainly transfer that loyalty to Tiberius, they love him.’

A thought occurred to her. ‘You don’t think it might be him, do you?’ A full military coup?

‘Tiberius? Never. I suspect his name tops the death list, but more importantly, as Regent he could, if he wanted, work from within the administration to oust Augustus and spill not a single drop of his beloved soldiers’ blood. No, no, no, the brains behind this nasty scheme don’t have the army at their back, they’re reduced to buying mercenaries and heaven knows, the Treveri and the Helvetii are always on the lookout for a fight. Pay them for the privilege and you’re laughing.’ Orbilio sat down on the grass and snapped off a blade. ‘The idea is that Treveri warriors make trouble down the Rhine and the Moselle as well as on the border with a view to stretching our troops as thinly as possible. This has already resulted in legions being despatched from safe areas such as Aquitania, more are on the march.’

‘Won’t that leave whopping great holes in our defences?’ Claudia asked, and then she understood. ‘Of course. The Helvetii charge down Italy virtually unchallenged and march on Rome, which will be reduced to a state of chaos following the death of her imperial leaders.’

Divide and rule. The classic strategy. The Treveri head north, the Helvetii head south. In the aftermath they are united and invincible, because by then even subjugated tribes such as the Parisii and the Sequani would grab the chance to shake off their Roman yoke.

She thought about it for a while, then said, ‘I can see that, having uncovered the plot but with no idea who’s masterminding it, you’re unable to trust anyone with your findings.’ Even his boss. Whisper in the wrong ear and he’d be dead within the hour. ‘What I don’t understand is how you expect to thwart the conspiracy out here.’

Not entirely true, but let him explain anyway.

Orbilio chomped on his blade of grass for a while, listening to the gentle rustle of the aspens. ‘Neither the Treveri nor the Helvetii are friends of Rome, nor are they allies of each other. Put simply, both tribes hate everybody’s guts. Therefore, to amass several hundred thousand warriors will take some encouragement, and so far-’ He paused for impact. ‘So far, they haven’t been paid.’

Claudia’s breath came out in a whistle. Now that she hadn’t expected.

‘The amount involved is huge,’ he continued. ‘I don’t know exactly how large, but it has to be massive, to entice two warring nations to band together, and because no tribe can be trusted not to double-cross the other-remember, there are factions within factions, too-the treasure has been secreted away by the conspirators, the location of which was distributed among certain members of the delegation going to Vesontio.’

‘You’ve lost me,’ she said. Best to let him keep thinking she knew, or rather suspected, nothing of this.

‘Well, the map was so sensitive, they couldn’t risk it falling into any one hand. The plan would fail immedi ately.’ He leaned back on the grass and folded his hands beneath his head. ‘So the map was cut up.’

‘Why are you looking at me?’

He closed his eyes. ‘Can’t imagine.’

Damn. Claudia paced up and down the perimeter of the spring. Around the statue of the nymph, clay offerings had been left-figurines, doves, fruit, even imitation coins. (Cheapskates.)

‘Why are you telling me this?’ she asked. Something slipped into the water with a plop.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said airily. ‘Perhaps I thought you might like to help me save the Empire or something.’

Good grief! ‘Orbilio, do I look the sort of girl who goes around performing great heroic acts? The sort storytellers talk about two thousand years from now?’

She thought she heard him mutter ‘actually you do’, but that bloody natterjack had started up again.

‘This Fido you asked me about-’

‘Libo.’ He grinned.

‘Was he carrying a piece of the map?’

Marcus eased himself up on one elbow. ‘Libo was with the Security Police,’ he said gravely, ‘so would you now care to remember something about him which you’d overlooked before?’

‘Sarcasm can never be beneath you, Orbilio, there’d be no room for it to fit.’ Claudia folded her arms with militant precision. ‘I told you before, I’ve never heard of this Fido chap, why should I lie?’

She didn’t like the way he looked at her, so she turned away. And maybe there was another reason.

‘Of course, I may have seen something along the course of our travels which might give you a bit of a pointer.’ She studied her thumbnail in the darkness. ‘For instance, does the seal of the black salamander mean anything to you?’

The wait seemed interminable, and she was left wondering what crickets do all the time. Do they just spend eight hours solid rubbing their back legs, and if so, don’t they ever chafe themselves?

‘Salamander?’ he said at length, rolling over on to his stomach. ‘No.’ His voice was bleak with disappointment. ‘The Security Police keeps an imprint of every seal in case of forgery, but…’ he clicked his tongue, ‘no black salamander.’

More time passed, and it occurred to her that this silence was a professional ruse, in which case Supersnoop was right out of luck. Claudia lay down on the cool grass at right angles to him and closed her eyes. Something else slithered into the water, she could hear it paddling across, while on this side of the pond, a weasel chattered and churred among the trees. Funny, but until now she’d imagined the countryside was silent during the night-not like Rome, whose streets rang with dray carts clattering over the travertine flags, forcing porters to shout over whores touting for business and barrows trundling out the dead under cover of darkness. Heaven, how she ached to be among the thick of it again! Asses braying at the dogs which yapped under their hooves, cats yowling their territories from the rooftops and brawls which spilled into the alleys. However, as long as there was at least some noise around, Claudia supposed she could put up with this fresh-airsy deep-breaths stuff. For a little while, anyway.

‘I give in,’ he said eventually, yawning. ‘Tell me why you raised the subject of the salamander seal.’

Claudia shot a triumphant wink at the silvered nymph. ‘Now, it’s not that I was prying or anything-’

‘Perish the thought.’

‘-but during the course of our travels, I’ve had occasion to…help some of the others with their packing. There was a boy, a perfumer, I can’t remember his name, who carried a yellow deerskin pouch sealed with the salamander, although unfortunately he was robbed and turned back at Bern. But the curious thing is, Clemens is carrying an identical pouch. What do you make of that, Cleverclogs?’

‘Clemens robbed the perfumer?’

Claudia threw her sandal at him. He caught it in one lazy hand.

‘Tell me about your fellow travellers,’ he said, his fingers absently tracing the tooling in the leather. ‘The lyre-maker, for instance, who was swept away in the ferocious torrent-did anybody actually see him fall?’

No. ‘No idea.’

‘And Nestor. Hundreds of rocks raining down, what rotten luck he sustains a solitary blow, which kills him.’

‘Tragic.’

‘Mm.’ Orbilio tossed the sandal back to its owner and stood up, looping his thumbs into his belt as he gazed across the moonless glade, the heat throbbing with the beat of the cicadas. ‘My theory is this,’ he said. ‘Nestor, the lyre-maker, the perfumer, they were all carrying pieces of the treasure map, the same as Clemens and…well, let’s say at least one other person.’

He rubbed the back of his neck, where her glower had singed the hairs.

‘But suppose the conspirators don’t want the rebels to lay their grubby hands on the gold? They’ll need every gem and trinket in the coming months to purchase the army’s allegiance-after all, there’s no point in restoring the Republic if, two weeks later, a few uppity generals wrest control from you. They’ll need to convince the military high command that a Republic is in their better interests, bribing them with-I dunno, more lands for veterans, better garrisons, hospitals, generous pensions when they retire-while at the same time, they need to keep them occupied. The more time that passes after the overthrow, the harder it will be to dislodge the pretenders, and should the new administration manage to distract the army by sending them against the Treveri and the Helvetii, proven enemies of Rome, the takeover will be a resounding success, long live the new Republic.’

‘Hence the diversion of this section of the convoy.’ Whoops. She hadn’t meant to let slip her suspicions about sabotage, but either Hotshot hadn’t noticed, or…or he had taken her knowledge of the situation as read.

‘The conspirators need to fool the rebels into believing this detour was the result of a misunderstanding, that the landslide was a natural disaster. But I saw that rock from the top, Claudia. The iron wedges which had been driven into the fissures to weaken them were still in place. However, it goes deeper than simply stalling for time. The conspirators must ensure that, by the time this delegation reaches Vesontio, the map will have been rendered meaningless.’

‘Mercenaries have keen noses,’ Claudia protested. ‘They’ll smell rats.’

‘Possibly, but providing everyone who survives this jolly little jape testifies to the series of accidents which befell them, even the chieftains would find this hard to disprove, especially when they have been presented with so many of the missing pieces.’

And mine will be one of them, vowed Claudia. A whole year’s vintage rests on this.

Puzzled, Orbilio leaned over the strawberry cairn, muttering something under his breath about greedy hedgehogs and did the offering to Aveta still count. Then he turned his attention back to the matter in hand.

‘You do realize,’ he said soberly, ‘that each of the couriers is an accessory to treason? That when this plot comes to light, nothing I can do will stop the army, the Senate, the whole Roman people from taking retribution on anyone tainted with this conspiracy, however innocently they’d been duped.’

‘Clemens was never going to make Jupiter’s Priest, anyway.’

‘Claudia, for gods’ sake,’ he said, throwing up his hands. ‘I’m talking about exile, seven, maybe ten years, penniless and stripped of your assets.’

‘The couriers’ assets,’ she corrected silkily, and pretending not to notice the look of exasperation on his face.

‘Very well, we’ll play it your way,’ he growled. ‘Just remember that when this blows up, the conspirators are going to take as many with them as possible. They won’t want people to think they were an isolated group working alone, they’ll get their glory any way they can, and if that means hundreds of innocents dying horrible deaths, so much the better in their eyes.’

He fell silent, and Claudia knew it was gnawing away at him that, simply on account of their position in society, the conspirators themselves would be allowed to commit suicide. An honourable death…a system which no Republic would change.

A bird began to sing, even though the sky was still blacked out, but she didn’t hear it. There are times, she thought, when duty becomes an obsession. From the corner of her eye, she glanced at the investigator, his brow deeply furrowed, and wondered when he’d last taken a decent furlough. Relaxed properly. Found time to unwind. Sure, the Empire had been thrown into turmoil with the death of its Regent, sure, there were conspiracies, but these were constant, ongoing, and one man can’t fight every battle alone.

Claudia wondered why something wrenched inside her whenever she saw him like this, tortured and so terribly earnest. I mean, it wasn’t as if they meant anything to one another! Tall, dark patricians were ten a quadran back in Rome, and so what if they’d shared a few adventures now and again? It wasn’t as though she missed him when he wasn’t around-hell, she couldn’t escape his wretched baritone chuckle ringing in her memory whenever the moon was high and she had trouble sleeping, and all too often she saw him in a crowd-or at least a piece of him, reflected in the way one man strode so purposefully across the Forum, another spiked his fingers through dark curls, another smelled of sandalwood. And so what, when she re-ran the sequence of recent events in her head, if he was at the forefront? Too often her life pitted her against the law, and for heaven’s sake, he was the law. These things happen.

She jolted upright. Janus! He’d seen the rock, he said, with the damning iron wedges still in place. Did he realize the significance of this? Claudia’s hand clamped over her mouth to prevent her being sick. Sweet Jupiter, one among the party was a killer, she knew that.

But what she hadn’t realized, until now, was that that person would now be gunning for Marcus…

*

Crouched motionless behind a viburnum bush and heedless of the scent wafting from its flowerheads, white and flat as dinner plates, a pair of blue eyes watched intently.

XVII

July. When the sun is in Cancer and Jupiter watches over us, when fevered agricultural activity kicks in, scything hay and ricking it for winter, harvesting the barley, beans and wheat, pollinating figs. Everywhere around the Empire, Orbilio thought, hoes would be flashing between the vegetables, forks clicking under vines, there’d come the pungent hiss of burning fur as calves were branded with hot irons. Today’s the day when half-yearly rents fall due, giving rise to countless convoluted excuses, none of them original. Schoolmasters, the poorer ones, would look for work to tide them through holidays which start today, many coaching pupils they’d allowed to become lazy in the knowledge that their families could afford private tuition. With a quiet sigh, he watched the dawn rise over the glade. Some days, morning rushes to greet you like a child at play, wide eyed with open arms, but today’s dawn was a reserved and secretive creature, unwilling to reveal too much at once.

Rather, he smiled, like a certain firebrand he could mention.

Goddammit, why didn’t she admit she was a courier? That way he could relieve her of both map and culpability, and no matter what she was promised by way of payment, he could reimburse her, either through the state or his own pocket, heaven knows he was affluent enough. But would Claudia Seferius stoop to accept assistance? The sun would turn green before that happened.

He shook his head. Her and her bloody independence! For a second, he abandoned himself to the birdsong, the coils of mist rising from the grass, the geometric patterns on the water. Good grief, he was the first to admire self-reliant individualists, but someone ought to point out to her the difference between initiative and bone headedness.

The hour was still early, and the party slumbered on in restless, dreamless sleep. Claudia had left to snatch a couple of hours’ rest, leaving Marcus alone with the wooden nymph, both of them buried knee-deep in the mist. At one point, he thought he’d seen a shadow in the trees, but this was shortly after Claudia’s departure, and it was doubtless her shape he saw, or a deer perhaps, or simply a trick of the dawn light.

She knew much more about the deaths than she was letting on. But for all the problems weighing on his shoulders, it was funny that all he could think about was how sexy she looked in lilac pantaloons, the way they shimmered when she moved, clung to the curves of her thighs when she sat down, and stretched tight across the roundness of her hips. Every ripple in this pool, every rising bubble, reminded him of the silky way the cotton billowed and, despite the sweet lush smell of grass and clover, her spicy balsam perfume lingered in the glade. Faint, tantalizing, and now the ripples became her curls, loose and springy as they burst free of their bondage. Janus, Croesus, how he ached to scrunch them in his hands, pull out the hairpins one by one, that bone pin carved in the shape of a flamingo, the ivory fawn, and let the curls tumble round her breasts as he buried his face in their spicy warmth…

He laughed aloud in the clearing. Twice he’d used ‘spicy’, but was any word more appropriate than one which conjured up the exotic, the hot, the scandalous, the tempting Claudia Seferius?

The desire which had stirred his loins abated, filling the vacuum with a different warmth and longing. An ache to share the long, hot days of summer, strolling in the parks and gardens, rowing on the Tiber, with picnics in the hills. To discuss his cases, take her to banquets on his arm and, when the sun began to set, counteract the emptiness of his customary wine-buffered nights.

Whenever his work required him to travel, she would travel with him, alongside him all the way, and when they returned to Rome, it would not be to a rattling, great house on the Esquiline-they would come home. Together.

That he would have to share her with a blue-eyed, cross-eyed cat with the filthiest of tempers he tried not to think about.

No way, though, would he tolerate that bodyguard of hers. Junius. Uh-uh. Orbilio had not forgotten the malevolent glare he had shot at him when he had arrived, breathless and ragged, down the hillside to the valley where the group had been camped. Sometimes, he thought… Sometimes, the two of them… Bugger it, he was never certain what went on between Claudia and that drop-dead handsome Gaul. The way his eyes latched on to her. Possessive. Like a lover. Glances passed between them, coded messages for sure, but whether these were intimate exchanges or for business purpose, Orbilio couldn’t tell. (And didn’t want to, either.) But no, that last part wasn’t true. He did want to know, even if the knowledge drove a knife into his gut. In what way, exactly, was Claudia Junius’s mistress?

He stripped off his clothes and slid into the bubbling spring. With each minute of encroaching daylight, the water grew more and more pellucid, taking on a rich blue hue, the colour of a peacock’s breast. He let himself float, eyes closed, drinking in the happy warbles of the blackcaps, the fragrant woodland scents.

The Silver Fox would be banned from here. He must collect his water downstream for fear of offending the gods. Did he miss the spring, and everything it stood for? A man didn’t need to believe in Gallic deities to find in this place a holiness, a bonding. Man with nature, man with god. The woodsman’s name was Arcas, Orbilio had been told. A Roman name, one which he must have adopted himself, since it meant ‘son of the bear’, and he wondered what significance could be attached to that.

In legend, Arcas was the result of one of Jupiter’s many cavortings, this time of a beautiful nymph, who Juno, out of spite, turned into a lumbering grizzly instead. One day, when the boy was on the brink of manhood, he came across his mother in the woods and would have speared her with his javelin, had Jupiter not spirited them both away and set them as neighbouring constellations in the sky.

What should Orbilio read into that?

That the Silver Fox was the king of heaven’s son? All Gauls believed they were descended from Dis, so maybe it was not so much a god, as a chieftain he meant. Was Arcas therefore claiming to be a bastard son of the Sequani king? He wore the fox-fur armband, denoting nobility, that was one of the first things Orbilio had noticed in the firelight last night, and certainly it was no dog-Latin that he spoke. There was no air of peasantry about the Silver Fox. Was this an act? The product of deluded fantasies, which, when disproven by the Druid court, he could not accept? Or was the name taken from the bear aspect, him being the huntsman that he was? Did he feel in some way close to the constellations, guided by them? Or did he know nothing about the conquerors’ legends, simply picking a name he could get his Celtic tongue round?

The very fact that he had chosen a Roman name, however, was significant. It suggested he had turned his back on the Sequani, and maybe a man who was truly innocent of his alleged crime but still received sentence to be shunned would feel bitter. It would then be logical for him to live out his term in secrecy close to his village, reappearing in Vesontio as Arcas the Gaul (as opposed to Whoever the Sequani) when the sentence was up. New identity, new beginning. Arcas would not be the first.

That he trusted no one, Marcus read in his gimlet blue eyes. The challenge between them last night went beyond a squabble over money (although Arcas would be set for life after this.). Orbilio imagined every human encounter would be turned into confrontation as the Silver Fox took on the world.

People might not like me, he was saying, but by the gods, they respect me.

Orbilio left the fizzing waters of the pool and dried himself with his tunic. By allowing his mind to wander over subjects as diverse as Claudia and their enigmatic guide it had acted as a mental massage, leaving his brain refreshed and invigorated. Which was just as well because the next step was to work out who among the party was the traitor.

*

Outside the roundhouse, the travellers began to stretch and yawn, rubbing life into stiffened muscles and shaking the ants from their clothing. Among them, the murderer watched the patrician enter the camp, his hair dripping, his skin aglow. It was difficult to know what to make of him.

Designer of mosaic floors, he said, and when Galba’s agent had riffled through his belongings, up popped a well-used portfolio with no shortage of professional sketches and high-quality samples. Absently, the agent watched a squirrel grooming its tail in an oak. Virtually every patrician’s son, on account of their expensive education, ended up a lawyer or a civil servant, or else set himself up as a merchant, but even aristocrats recognized art when they saw it in the family and few stood in the way. True, they tried to channel it into a career with kudos-say, an architect-but Orbilio would not be the first patrician to follow his muse. Galba’s agent could think of numerous poets, painters, even one who became a musician. In fact, the combination of clout and contacts would ensure his commissions were of the highest order, so that in itself was not a problem.

But Libo had also carried excellent credentials. It was only when he was seen in whispered conversation with a centurion (not any old soldier, a centurion!) that the agent’s curiosity had been aroused, and when Libo handed over a sealed report, that was the clincher. He had to go.

In an ideal world, thought Libo’s killer, that would have been a necessary elimination, no more deaths. Other than the obvious complications of finding an opportunity to sneak away unseen, robbing the perfumer had taken very little planning and had had the desired effect that without the prospect of payment at the other end, the lad had no reason to continue. Most satisfactory. Then there was the lyre-maker. Oh, the music that man could conjure up! Truly, the agent would not have deprived the world of talent such as his, had not the man turned and seen the hand inside his trunk. The explanation had not been believed, and it had been relatively easy to toss him unseen into the river.

But if that sounds lucky, think again. Senator-Soon-To-Be-Dictator-Galba had not chosen his instrument without care. Aware of the consequences of being caught red-handed by the lyre-maker, the agent had picked the spot carefully beside the boiling waters of Alpine snow-melts, thundering over rocks, foaming, white and furious. Bodies are rarely recovered from torrents like that, which was really just as well.

Few victims of an accidental slip land on a knife whose blade is pointing upwards!

Nestor, of course, had been a doddle. Galba had arranged the rock fall right on schedule (that man was nothing if not thorough.), Nestor hadn’t see the blow coming. Quick, painless, no witnesses. The agent was well satisfied with events to date.

Apart from the patrician.

Who could be what he claimed to be. There was nothing to read into his air of smooth authority, breeding always throws up leaders, irritating though it be.

Then again, he could be another undercover man, like Libo. But surely, if the Security Police were suspicious, they wouldn’t rely on just one man? Unless, perhaps, it was only the circumstances of Libo’s death they were concerned with?

Or (a sour taste filled the agent’s mouth) Orbilio could be Galba’s creature. A double agent, as it were. To check up on the first…

Neither of those last two scenarios was acceptable, thought the killer, which left no option but for Marcus to follow Libo through the dark paths of the underworld.

Without emotion, the agent watched him select a clean tunic from his pack and slip it over his shoulders. Muscular and tanned, he walked with an easy grace, strong in mind and body, and to eliminate that particular threat would need some careful thought. Especially since he was familiar with one of the couriers! The agent’s eyes swivelled automatically towards Claudia and their hardness softened. Reluctant to kill her, several options had been mulled over and discounted, mostly, the agent was forced to admit, because she was constantly surrounded by that moonstruck bodyguard and her wretched cross-eyed cat. Orbilio’s arrival on the scene complicated matters even further but, during the course of the next two days, the agent had to separate the woman from her section of the map. It was imperative that the pieces the mercenaries ended up with were too obscure to pinpoint the treasure, hers was a pivotal portion. As, indeed, was one other’s.

‘Why don’t you send a fabricated map?’ the agent had enquired of Galba, and the fat man had stared back as though his brain could not translate the message from his ears.

‘What, and scupper the whole bloody scheme?’ The senator had snorted like a wild boar. ‘What do you suppose would happen once our tribal friends got wind this map wasn’t genuine? Keep the information to themselves, would they? Smouldering quietly at the unfairness of a double-cross? Or would they sell us out, d’you think?’

‘If all goes according to plan, they’d never know,’ the agent had protested.

‘Wouldn’t they?’ Galba’s laugh had echoed across the empty warehouse where they’d arranged to meet. ‘You think the Helvetii don’t have spies among us? You leave the planning to me,’ he’d said. ‘Concentrate on doing your job well and in a few weeks’ from now, you’ll be-’ He’d clicked his fat fingers with impatience. ‘Remind me again what you want out of the Republic?’

Furious and humiliated that Galba didn’t care enough about those prepared to carry out his dirty work to even remember their ambitions, the agent had simply mumbled something trite. But it had sown a little seed of doubt which had just this moment germinated. So much was at stake here, that maybe Galba, cold-blooded bastard that he was, had sent his own man to do away with the agent. The fewer who know, the better, or simply one less debt to be settled…

The agent smiled. Well, wouldn’t he be in for a surprise? For several happy moments, the agent savoured visions of this arrogant patrician being toppled from his perch. Orbilio’s pleas for mercy perhaps. Or that exquisite moment when the smug smirk was replaced with an expression of utter surprise But that, whichever way the agent decided to play it, was a treat for the future. Right now, it was back to the Don’t-Let-The-Mask-Slip theatrical performance.

‘Is there,’ the agent called out, ‘any chance of an egg with my breakfast?’

*

The party was in excellent high spirits. Their problems were over at last, they could relax, for the first time in days, their thoughts were forward-looking. Someone mentioned the bath house in Vesontio, and talk turned instantly to the enticing prospect of hot steam baths and massage, scented oils and beauty treatments for the ladies, while others considered the accommodation which awaited, swansdown mattresses, wine and proper food, or rich contracts ripe for the making. Laughter danced in the air like fireflies and since bickering had been rendered superfluous now there were so few anxieties left to niggle them, the travellers were content to drink in the birdsong of the morning and wash their rested bodies in the peacock-blue pool.

In short, Claudia thought, their guards are down.

The hide across the porch had been drawn back, the oak door flung open to reveal the reason for the incredible height of the roundhouse. A central circular hearth, piled high with fragrant fir ash, smouldered gently to smoke a multitude of hams, tongues and sausages strung from a crossbeam. Under the eaves of this single-roomed, windowless building, a ewe with long arching horns and two lambs dozed happily, as though gatherings on this scale happened every day, while two doves strutted and cooed on the thatch.

‘I don’t believe it!’ The bubbly blonde giggled, head to head with the slipper-maker’s wife. ‘She said that?’

Gossip. A sure sign everything’s on track.

Whistling under his breath, the tubby priest set up an altar to the Lares, pouring them a libation of spring water and beer in thanks for their protection of the travellers, and just to make sure they got the message, Clemens scattered meadow rue and scabious, honesty and orchids across the altar stone.

Iliona was belting out a bright little number, her ankle bracelets and bangles a jaunty backing group, as she followed the path through the birches, watched by Titus whose smile, for once, didn’t seem ambiguous, just proud.

‘Talk about opposites.’ Somewhere along the line Orbilio had sidled up.

‘Titus and Iliona? Nonsense.’ They complement one another wonderfully, each finding in the other a matchless counterpart. ‘It works,’ Claudia told him (men! Fancy needing to have this explained to them!), ‘because she is of the sea and he the land. She is light and bright and sunny, a product of broad skies and barren hills, of rolling endless seas, whereas Titus hails from dark, wooded landscapes, which are reflected in his repressed and cautious attitudes.’

‘In fact, a perfect merchant in the making.’

‘A perfect partnership.’ Claudia corrected him, waving a cautionary finger. ‘I’ll bet you a quernstone to a quadran that if purchasers are not swayed by Titus’s logic, Iliona’s charms tip the balance.’

‘But Titus is so moral.’ Orbilio laughed. ‘Is any man more prudent, more provident that he?’

Claudia found herself laughing, too. ‘Exactly my point, Hotshot. He may be provident, but our Cretan lovely will look to Provid ence for taking care of the future. I defy you to tell me there’s a more potent combination?’

‘I shall,’ he said, tapping the tip of his forefinger on the tip of her nose, ‘hold you to that on our wedding day. But in the meantime, I have an Empire to save. Do excuse me.’

Claudia laughed, watching him lope off along the track in the direction of the village. Sometimes, Marcus Cornelius, sometimes I can almost believe that I like you.

Volso was huddled over his charts, muttering about suns in this, moons in that, cusps all over the place, trying to determine whether the calculations were on target for when the Dog Star starts to rise. Apparently this made a difference, if only Claudia suspected, to his income.

‘Drusilla? Where are you, poppet?’ Overcome with the joys of freedom, neither of them had come ‘home’ to the roundhouse, and the last time she had seen the cat, it had been with a thin, hairless tail hanging out the side of her mouth. Well, catching them is one thing. Leaving mangled mice on a girl’s bedding is another. ‘Drusilla?’

‘Hrrrrow.’

Good grief, what was she doing on the roof? Then Claudia noticed the cat, cross-eyed to start with, was experiencing considerable problems in deciding which of the two doves to chase. Both eyes seemed fixed on both birds.

Laughing, as she craned her neck to watch the antics on the thatch, her heel caught and suddenly Claudia was tumbling backwards over someone else’s belongings. Whoops! The heap of armour went sprawling, but no one seemed to notice, and certainly Theo wasn’t around to apologize to. In fact, she thought she’d seen him take his towel towards the spring just a few minutes previously.

What a mess! With downturned mouth, she leaned down to re-stack the heap-and then it happened.

Memories leapt in.

Her father, his features after so many years reduced to a haze, she suddenly caught the smell of him, warm and nutmeggy, and felt the bristles of his beard against her cheek. She swallowed at the unexpectedness, tried to fight this fierce tidal wave of emotion. He, too, had been attached to the army, a lowly orderly admittedly, but she’d learned so much about military campaigns from him and now absurd, inconsequential items skipped along the tunnel of her memory. His mimicking of the trumpeter who’d sound the call ‘Strike Camp!’ The way he showed her how to route march, the pair of them left-righting down the stinking slumland alleys, one little soldier in the shadow of the real one, dwarfed by crumbling tenements which stank of raw sewage and boiled turnips and which relied for their water on one erratic standpipe or a surly water carrier. A lump rose in her throat. So many times she’d seen Theo in full uniform, why now? Why did it all flood back at this moment? Eyes misted, hot and salty, as she ran a loving hand over the gleaming helmet, the iron-shod boots, the heavy cloak Theo used for a pillow, the yellow deerskin pouch he kept under it…

Her father, his mannerisms, even the stinking slums vanished like a pricked bubble. Gone. Fast. Without trace. And try as she might, by screwing up her fists and eyes, Claudia could not re-capture those golden, precious, carefree moments. The uniform, the weaponry, the armour had become inanimate again. Objects. Detached. Without soul, without life, without meaning. Just objects. Mother of Mars, she hated them for that, but more, she hated the little yellow eye which peeked out from the red woollen cloak, because it had taken her father away from her.

Claudia kicked back the corner she’d disturbed and spun away.

XVIII

In Rome, military dispatches were flooding in, the message in each one identical in flavour, if not in actual content. Dissidents were wreaking havoc with their guerrilla raids along the border. East of Trier, a stable block had been burned to the ground, the horses perishing inside. Fires had been lit under two separate garrison gates, and attempts had been made to burn crossings on the Rhine, Danube and Moselle. Sentries were being picked off with splendid regularity, supply wagons ran the gauntlet of ambush and in some cases the rivers which supplied the troops were poisoned upstream, overloading the military hospitals.

‘Bloody backshooters,’ a retired legate cried. ‘Why don’t they fight like men, the bloody cowards!’

But outraged as he was, he understood the tactics and, worse, could see they were successful. Random strikes, fast and unpredictable, meant no soldier dare let up his vigil, the Roman army was becoming tired and dispirited. They could not be everywhere at once. They could not see their enemy. They did not know who he was.

Civilian suppliers grew fearful of their safety. Patrols were increased, spreading troops ever thinner. Legions were divided first into cohorts, then cohorts into centuries. Intelligence netted next to nothing. Petty chieftains were marched in for questioning, which only undermined the diplomatic efforts so assiduously laid earlier, with the unhappy result that the tribes, far from assisting their Roman administrators, now prevaricated, content to watch the outcome from the sidelines. They, too, were not sure who was orchestrating the raids, but in them they saw the glimmer of regaining a long-lost independence.

The chiefs would not be rushed.

The situation worsened.

*

In Vesontio, proud and splendid, protected as she was by the great loop in the River Doubs and sheltered by the mountain soaring upwards at her back, street sweepers brushed away the debris of yesterday’s celebrations and agreed they’d never seen so much litter in their lives. Eggshells, pie crusts, melon pips and carrot tops were pushed into barrows, along with broken combs, false teeth, pottery shards and lost toys, while an army of slaves with buckets and shovels scooped up what the gentry quaintly called mule apples. Dogs had already disposed of the meat bones.

‘Aye, but it was worth it,’ a weathered Gaul called across the Forum. ‘Never seen a show to match it in me life!’

His companion paused to lean on his heather broom and wipe his brow with the back of his hand. ‘Handsome,’ he agreed. ‘Right handsome,’ and bent down to extricate a mussel shell which had become lodged between the paving stones. He’d never seen a mussel shell before. All the way from the coast they’d fetched them for yesterday’s festiv ities. The gutter sweeper slipped it inside his shirt to take home for his daughter.

‘Is it true,’ he called across, ‘that there was frozen puddings on the go at last night’s banquet?’

‘Not half!’ His friend laughed, tapping his broom. ‘A mate of mine was one of them sent to bring the snow down from the Alps, and watched it get mashed with flour, cherries and sweet white wine. But only for the nobility, mind. All us poor buggers get is the sodding stones to clear away.’ With reluctance he resumed his sweeping, his mind wandering back over the pageant.

What a spectacle. Riverboats decked out with banners, garlands draped from every building, music on every street corner and, oh my word, those horses which led the parade! Every one white as bloody marble, caparisoned in blue and gold and silver. Elephants there was, camels, yellow beasts with long necks (giraffes was they called?), and free beer. Wine if you wanted it, but he was a Celt and didn’t go for that nancy-boy stuff. My, there was trumpets, fanfares, dark-skinned dancers wearing saucy feather skirts and very little else, acrobats, jugglers and a sorcerer who magicked coloured smoke from fire and caused explosions loud enough to leave you deaf for days.

Aye, he was a simple man, the gutter cleaner, but in his opinion it was a smart move, building a temple here in the capital to these Castor and Pollux blokes. Not because they symbolized peace and harmony between Roman and Sequani. Rather, he felt, because Pollux had a distinctly Celtic ring about it. Hadn’t every king of note had a name ending with an X? Oh yes, only good could come of this.

*

The prefect charged with organizing yesterday’s spectacular was of a similar opinion, and despite his thumping hangover and the fact that his wife had got drunk again and taken all her clothes off in the middle of the banquet, by and large, everything had gone swimmingly, he thought. The processions and the inauguration ceremony reflected weeks of painstaking rehearsal, not a foot out of place anywhere, although the prefect had been a little concerned when the elephant peed over one of the horn players. However, apart from one extra honk, albeit high-pitched and off-key, the musician seemed to take it in his stride, and it was-the prefect smiled at his own joke-the only sour note in the proceedings. (His wife’s conduct aside.)

In manly defiance of the hammering inside his bruised and battered skull, he summoned his secretary.

‘Have those silly arses turned up yet?’ he demanded.

‘Um, now which exactly might those be, sir?’

‘The bloody idiots who got themselves lost, took some local byway and then couldn’t turn back because the bloody road had gone.’

‘Ah, the delegation! No, sir, they haven’t arrived.’

‘Right.’ The prefect sighed. ‘Send a message to the barracks, tell the commander to dispatch thirty men to meet them on the road and escort-’

‘You’ve already put that into practice, sir. Two days ago. Only with just a skeleton guard remaining in Vesontio, they could only spare us eight.’

‘Croesus, so they could.’ In the last final, frantic hours of the build-up to the ceremony the troubles to the north had completely slipped his mind and he thanked Jupiter Almighty there was no bloody dissension among the Sequani. ‘But no report from the legionaries?’ He’d forgotten about those bloody stragglers, too. Holy Neptune, if anything happened to those wretched civilians, it would be his neck on the line and his alone. The governor in charge of the province had made that abundantly clear.

‘No report so far, sir.’

The prefect ground his teeth. ‘Be sure the commander takes careful note of the names of those three soldiers who took it upon themselves to show our citizens the scenic route,’ he snarled. ‘Theodorus, wasn’t it?’ He could not recall the other two. ‘Tell him they’re to be posted to the hottest, driest, ugliest part of the Libyan desert for the next ten years, and after that they can spend another ten serving in the coldest, wettest, ugliest part of Pannonia. Together. All of them.’

Every day he wanted those three incompetents to see the misery in each other’s faces and remember exactly why there were there.

‘Morons,’ he muttered. ‘I’m sent to a place manned by bloody morons.’

Goddammit, he’d be glad to get his carcass back to Rome, away from these long winters, the bloody snow and cold. Maybe then his wife would have more to occupy her mind than a bloody wine jug. About to dismiss his secretary, the prefect suddenly realized he hadn’t seen her this morning. She deserved a bloody good spanking for her outrageous behaviour last night.

‘You haven’t seen the silly bitch, have you?’ he bellowed.

‘Your wife, sir?’ The secretary coloured, and looked away. Sweet Janus. Did the master suspect she’d slept in his truckle bed last night? (Or more accurately, hadn’t!) ‘No, sir,’ he said apologetically. ‘Not today.’

*

Deep in the forest one day’s march south-east of Vesontio, where the landscape was more rolling, the scenery more gentle on the eye, the bloodied corpses of eight men, stripped of their weaponry and armour but still in military uniform, were rolled into a single shallow grave.

The grave was shorter than might have been expected.

On account of the fact that each body was missing its head.

XIX

‘We must move through the woods,’ Arcas said, tightening the saddle strap on his stocky red and white horse. ‘It’s too dangerous to travel by road.’

‘How can it possibly be dangerous?’ Maria snorted. ‘The Helvetii are miles away, aren’t they?’ Behind her, Dexter whimpered that he thought he was getting a migraine.

‘Those ugly bastards know better than to set foot over the river.’ The Silver Fox passed the flat of his hand across his windpipe in a cut-throat gesture to emphasize his point. ‘It’s Sequani loyalists we want to avoid.’ He patted the stallion on its solid, rotund rump then turned his attention to his pair of pack horses.

‘Why should we want to do that?’ Titus looked up from where he was grinding laudanum in a mortar. ‘They’re-you’re our allies.’

‘You haven’t heard?’ Arcas continued to ram the hams, sausages and smoked tongues he’d cut down from his rafters into a hessian sack. ‘The Treveri are in rebellion. Fires, riots, sabotage, murder, ambush, you name it, they’re putting it in practice.’

‘Maybe so, but they’re doing it a hundred miles north of here.’ In the absence of wine, Titus stirred beer into the sticky sweet laudanum before measuring it into two cups to dose the injured drivers. Claudia noticed that the intervals between medication were growing increasingly shorter.

‘Seventy,’ the trapper corrected, stuffing a second sack with vegetables. ‘But word is, the legions are worried. Troops have been sent from Vesontio to crush the rebellion and, flying the colours of our ancient insignia, the Spider is crawling out of his web.’

‘I don’t like spiders,’ Dexter muttered. ‘Arachnophobia, y’know.’

‘You wouldn’t like this one, that’s for sure.’ Arcas snorted, knotting the sacks and throwing them over the first horse. ‘He gets his nickname from the web he casts, drawing in every dissident Sequani because, strange as it seems,’ he shot Theo a sharp glance, ‘not everyone adores their Roman tax collectors.’ He paused to check the knots. ‘When the Treveri started playing up, the Spider swung his underground army into action. You won’t mistake them when you see them. They fly the gold globe in a circle of red. Riches through blood, that’s their motto.’

Again Claudia noticed that Orbilio had contributed nothing, content, it seemed, to assist Hanno load the pack mules. Claudia caught his glance and with one raised eyebrow signalled have-you-heard-of-any-Spider? To which the reply was a subtle news-to-me facial twitch. But the keenness of his eye also said he didn’t disbelieve the Silver Fox.

‘Rebel, did you say?’ Maria asked. ‘I don’t believe a word of it! We’ve never heard of any revolutionaries terrorizing the area, have we, Theodorus?’

The soldier, buffing up his helmet with his sleeve, was forced to agree with her for once. ‘Military intelligence has never mentioned him,’ he said, though his voice made it plain that just because this was fresh, it wasn’t necessarily untrue.

‘I say we take our chances with the road,’ Maria said, leaving no doubt that she considered this backwoods route a ploy to justify the Silver Fox’s exorbitant fee.

‘Me, too,’ Volso cried. ‘We’ve lost enough time as it is.’

‘Well, I don’t know,’ the slipper-maker whined. ‘This man is our guide, we either trust him or we don’t.’

‘There’s thirty-four of us,’ the glass-blower reminded them, ‘no ragbag bandit’s going to tackle that. Not with the army in Vesontio.’

‘What army?’ Titus said. ‘You heard him, it’s a skeleton force.’

‘STOP.’ Arcas held up both hands and made a slashing motion. ‘That’s enough, all of you. I am not in your Senate, listening while you debate from dusk till dawn, neither am I some servant at your beck and call. Bicker all you wish, but be warned.’ He reached for a pitcher and with his dagger jabbed a small hole near the bottom. Beer gushed out in ugly, noisy spurts. ‘I leave when this is empty,’ he said, striding off to his roundhouse. ‘Either through the woods or on the road, the choice is yours, but decide quickly.’

‘Well,’ Maria said.

‘Well?’ Titus asked.

‘A vote,’ Theo sighed. ‘Who’s for the main road? Sixteen. So who’s for taking Arcas’s route? Sixteen.’ A flash of annoyance crossed his freckled face. ‘Who hasn’t voted? Oh.’ He gave a shamefaced laugh. ‘Me. Well, I feel we should go with the guide. Seventeen to sixteen, we follow the Fox’s trail.’

‘Young man, I’m not sure this is a joking matter.’ Maria’s finger jabbed her rebuke every bit as sharply as her voice. ‘Our lives depend on this decision-oh, will you listen to the Blubber Family back there? Can’t you lot put a sock in it?’

Her scorn only served to fuel the sobs of Gemma and her parents, neither of whom had adapted at all well to life since leaving the body of the convoy. Far from adventure being the making of the man, the brick-maker had become a gibbering wreck, barely able to speak without quivering, and his agitation was reflected in the behaviour of his wife, who clung to her daughter, weeping noisily, leaving Gemma to gulp back her own sobs.

‘Right then.’ A tightly packed quiver on his back, his bow in hand, Arcas pulled his oak door shut and secured the cattle hide over the porch. A long sword hung from his belt in an ornate scabbard. ‘What’s it to be?’ He cast a judgmental eye over the jug, where only a thin trickle remained.

‘The woods,’ Theo said.

Arcas grunted as if to say of-course-it-is, then strode towards the nursing ewe, dozing with her lazy arching horns resting against the low wall of the roundhouse. Claudia’s eyes widened. She froze. Oh, no! She could see before any of the others what he was about to do…the drawing of the dagger, the separation of the first lamb, the moving of the second, the lifting of the mother’s trusting chin…

Blood spurted in all directions. Quickly, cleanly, Arcas slit the throats of the two baby lambs and left them where they lay.

Gemma said, ‘I’m going to be sick,’ and didn’t disappoint her audience.

Maria hissed, ‘Barbarian!’

Most simply stared.

Blood still pumped from the lifeless body of the ewe, seeping into the fluffy fleeces of her newborn lambs. Claudia swallowed hard and looked away.

‘I don’t know what you’re gawking at,’ Arcas growled. ‘They’re my sheep, not yours.’ His eyes caught Claudia’s and held them. ‘I’ve been shunned,’ he muttered, and she saw that explanations were a stranger to him. ‘What was I supposed to do, leave them to starve to death?’

He glanced back at the limp and bloodied corpses, at the roundhouse, at the sharp point of the thatch, and Claudia knew he was looking at this place in farewell. Goosepimples crept up her arms. The holiday spirit, she reflected, hadn’t lasted long.

‘Now in the name of Father Dis, will you get going?’ Arcas barked, snapping free the tether of his horse. ‘And for gods’ sake, keep close together. You.’ His gimlet gaze singled out Orbilio. ‘You had better bring up the rear. Make sure they stay in line.’

‘I’ll do that.’ Theo shouldered his way to the front of the group. ‘I have the training and experience.’

Arcas secured his rolled-up cloak over the pommel and swung into his saddle. ‘That’s another thing,’ he said. ‘There are too many of you to deal with individually. From now on, I deal only with the man in charge. Him.’ His eyes fell on Marcus.

Theo erupted like a volcano. ‘Now listen to me,’ he began.

‘I told you,’ Arcas said, swinging his horse away. ‘I listen to him.’

‘Not me,’ Marcus said amiably. ‘I design mosaic floors.’

‘Then the rearguard might provide inspiration for your work.’

‘Now you just wait a second.’ Theo was as puce as a plum. He snapped on his helmet to add weight to his argument. ‘I’m Rome’s representative here-’

‘Take your hand off me, soldier boy.’ Arcas’s tone was mild. The warning came from the eyes. The set jaw.

‘How dare you! How dare you humiliate me in public, you bastard? Theo shouted, and this time it was Volso who was forced to calm him down.

‘Croesus, lad, you told me not to antagonize the Silver Fox, look at you, you moron.’

‘Theo, it really doesn’t matter who brings up the rear,’ Titus reassured him, ‘so long as we reach Vesontio alive.’ He shrugged at Iliona, who shrugged back. They couldn’t see the problem. But Claudia could.

The Silver Fox was enjoying himself.

*

An hour’s ride from the roundhouse, the forest opened out to reveal glimpses through the trees of the tall grey sentinels of rock which towered over them, but here, Jupiter be praised, there was open space between the soaring, wooded cliffs for pasture. Wide acres for short-horned cattle to graze-small, rangy black beasts which resembled goats more than cows-chomping away on the lush water-meadows beside the silvery brook which cut through this valley. Not that Arcas led the group across the flower-filled meadows. Hugging close to the woods, he circled round.

‘I don’t trust that man,’ Maria confided to Claudia. ‘I feel sure that any minute now he plans to rob and butcher us.’

‘Wouldn’t he have had more of an advantage on home territory?’ Claudia murmured.

‘Hmmm.’ That was Maria’s way of saying she had a point. ‘But I don’t go for that tripe about spiders coming out of their webs. I mean, how would he know?’

‘Possibly,’ Claudia suggested sweetly, ‘because he’s Sequani.’ Shunning, after all, did not entail being rendered deaf and dumb. Each village, under its petty chieftain, would have its jungle drums.

Ahead of them, Dexter was telling Gemma to keep an eye out for asphodel, it always worked for him when he’d been sick, and Claudia thought he might just as well tell her to wash her feet and drink the water for all the benefit she’d get.

She glanced at Maria, glowering at her husband’s back. Too often one had to remind oneself that the bookbinder’s wife was only thirty, she seemed every inch the matron, yet she was not an unattractive woman. Straight of shoulder, straight of talk, her complexion was good, heaven knows her face was handsome enough. Of course, if she kept at it the way she was now, in twenty years’ time her mouth would be a downward arch supported on pillars of deep lines, her eyes hard instead of comely. And what of Dexter? Hair which was floppy and brown in his early thirties would probably have receded into baldness, no doubt he’d be rubbing his head with wolf’s fat mixed with bitumen or something, and still moaning about non-existent ulcers, warts and coughs. Every day would be born another ailment, and still Maria would despise him Claudia wondered when they’d last had sex.

They weren’t a bad-looking couple, she thought. They weren’t even bad. Just mismatched. Grown apart. Neither finding support from the other and filling the vacuum the best they could. She with her snobbery, he with his hypochondria.

‘I wish he’d spend less time with that wretched human fountain,’ Maria sniffed, right on cue, ‘and cultivate the company of a merchant like Titus instead. He looks to have his wits about him.’

More than that, he looked to have his hand on Iliona’s bottom!

‘Gemma’s parents have let her down badly,’ Claudia said. The brick-maker kept mumbling over and over that he couldn’t go on, he wanted to die, those lambs were the very last straw. ‘They’ve all but gone to pieces, Gemma’s simply looking for a father figure.’

Maria cast a critical eye over the girl’s lumpy frame. ‘She’s already got one,’ she said.

Claudia’s head was throbbing, and not from the ride. Vigilance, she thought, is taking its toll, I am on my guard all the time. Could Was Dexter the traitor? Maria? Titus? Iliona?? You cannot rule out one half of a couple, because while the killer’s success hinged on working alone, a spouse gave an excellent alibi. Not, she felt, that the other party would be aware they were married to a murderer. Both Titus and Iliona would be doing this for the other, while in the case of Maria and Dexter, separate ambitions would carry them forward. As to those travel ling alone, well, there was Volso-what price being acknowledged the Dictator’s astrologer? Oh, the fame! The accolades! Clemens’ target was the most influential post in the priesthood. Hanno could expect to run the commercial stabling side of the new Republic in return. Theo’s military training could have him heading the Praetorian Guard, promoted to general, maybe even given a province to run.

Then there was the glass-blower, the slipper-maker, the drivers to consider, the other tradesmen and their women travelling with them. Cliques had formed, even in a group as small as this, Claudia couldn’t befriend them all… She rubbed her aching head and wished she’d never seen that wretched salamander seal.

When they reached the river Arcas said that, for safety, they must follow where it wound round the canyon. The sky was beginning to break up, faint patches of blue appeared and disappeared, but it was sufficient to turn a dull brown ribbon of water into a stream bejewelled with silver and blue lapis lazuli, diamonds and emeralds and pearls. They stopped for lunch, the woodsman’s own smoked hams and great, flat cheeses wrapped in fir bark-not the heavy, crinkly parts, but the papery insides after the outer layer had been stripped off, leaving everyone to remember that nothing was ever wasted in this country. Swallows dipped and dived for midges, kites mewed and made circles above. The lowing of the cattle drifted on the gentle breeze, which brought with it the scent of thyme and yellow gentian.

Sluicing her hands and face in the clear mountain stream, Claudia turned to find herself staring into the tall boots and russet coloured pantaloons of their guide. From here she could see the intricate engraving on his sword-the product of sophisticated granulating and acid techniques, showing the tree of life between two rearing ibexes. The reason she could see them, standing so completely tall and still, was because he happened to be leaning on the weapon at the time.

‘Do you always serve lunch off the hilt of your sword?’ she asked. There was a sweet, sharp, almost fiery smell about him, which at first she could not place. Then it came to her. Mushrooms. Dried boletus mushrooms, carried in a pouch hung round his waist.

‘I’ll give you some advice,’ Arcas said, squinting into the distance. ‘Not that you, of all of them, need it, but I’ll tell it to you, anyway. Trust no one,’ he said. ‘Hear me? Trust nobody.’ He turned and flashed her a grin, the first she’d seen. ‘But as I say, you already know that, as does he.’ He jerked a thumb in the direction of Orbilio, nuzzling one of Arcas’s stock red horses. ‘Now I suggest we pack up and get going.’ She heard him suck in his breath as he sheathed his heavy weapon. ‘Very, very fast.’

‘Wh…?’ The question died on Claudia’s lips.

In the distance, a hoarde of shiny insects shimmered over the open green pastureland. The insects rode in war chariots, gesticulating wildly, the erratic sunlight glinting off their bronze armour and their broadswords, brandished high.

The armoured war band were closing that distance with alarming speed.

XX

‘If you all do exactly as I tell you, we can survive this attack,’ Arcas said. There was an urgency in his voice, but the tone remained level, pitched to carry over the screaming which had broken out. A pulse throbbed in his throat, at the point where his roped metal torque ended in a golden globe.

Beads of sweat had broken out on Theo’s pale face and a quick calculation between the approaching war band and the Silver Fox told him it would be wise for him to listen to Arcas. He shot a contemptuous glance at Orbilio, because the patrician had already worked that out for himself.

‘All of you, start running. GO!’ He pointed deep into the woods on the far side of the stream, then turned to Marcus. ‘Fifty paces in you’ll come to a sacred oak marked with masks and votive offerings.’ He spoke quickly, keeping his gaze on the approaching warriors. ‘Bear left once you’re past it, to the wild pear tree, then turn right. There’s an animal track which leads towards the rock face, follow that up to the overhang of stone, huddle in there out of sight and for gods’ sake, keep them quiet.’ As an afterthought he added, ‘Good luck.’

Without waiting to watch Orbilio usher the panic-stricken travellers over the river, Arcas grabbed hold of Theo’s arm. ‘You stay with me,’ he ordered, stringing the horses together. ‘And you, too, old man, I need your horsemanship. Together we’ll lead these buggers such a dance, it’ll rip the wheels off their chariots.’

‘Hanno’s too frail,’ Orbilio protested. ‘Titus, did you catch the directions?’ The spice merchant nodded. ‘Good. Then you lead them up to the overhang, and take Hanno with you.’ His face defied Arcas to challenge his authority, but the Silver Fox was already pulling Maria’s tunics out of her bag and tying the sleeves to the pack mules.

‘They’ll see us gallop off, they’ll see these colours,’ he panted, ‘with luck, they’ll think we’re making a run for it together.’

Leaping into the saddle, he dug his spurs into the little red stallion, who shot off as though it had been scalded, his hooves sending up great splashes of water, and by the time the last of the train was across the stream, Maria’s tunics flying from its rump like naval pennants, the fleeing pedestrians had disappeared deep into the woods.

Long before the rest of the party had reached the wild pear, they could hear the thunder of the hooves, the clatter of the chariots, the harsh yells of the warriors and remembered what travellers and historians reported-that the Gauls, like the Germans and Scandinavian tribes, used bloodcurdling howls to unnerve the enemy as they charged down. Today they understood for themselves that, as a technique of war, it worked bloody well. High-pitched and ululating, it sent shivers down the spine and froze every artery solid.

Hoping, praying, the others were safe, Orbilio glanced over his shoulder and noted with horror how much ground the war band had gained. Too clearly for comfort, he could see flashes of red and of gold. Riches through blood… The chariots were primitive, he thought, but by Croesus, they were fast. Two wheels, two ponies, two men, it made them light and agile-but only on flat ground. To save the group, Arcas had despatched them to the nearest place to shelter and was relying on a diversion, which, in order to succeed, entailed racing through the valley for as long as he could before the war party could see that the tunics had no bodies in them and then riding hard up the mountainside and over the crest where the pursuers couldn’t follow, except on foot, which would not be fast enough.

In theory, Marcus thought, it sounded fine. But the Sequani chariots were shifting. He could see clouds of dust kicked up, their coats of mail, their shining helmets, even the glint of metal bosses on their wooden shields. Sweet Jupiter, it only needed one judicious arrow to bring down the rear mule for them to realize they’d been duped. And before Orbilio had a chance to cut loose and turn his horse round, half the war band would have backtracked to massacre the women fleeing for their lives…

‘Gee up!’ Even without spurs, his horse had got the message, and he bent low to duck under overhanging branches. He could smell the horse’s sweat, his own sweat, too, and wondered if this was the last thing he would ever smell. Mighty Father Mars, he prayed, look after her Glancing back, he saw the enemy chariots had trouble with the boulders that littered the riverbed. For the first time they were gaining on their pursuers. Suddenly his heart lost the vice which had been gripping it. She was safe ‘To the right,’ Arcas yelled. He pointed with his spear. ‘Keep going, and don’t look back!’

But both Theo and Orbilio were soldiers. They both looked back-and too late saw the hail of arrows raining down.

‘Shit.’ Theo said. ‘That was close.’

Then they were in the trees, charging up the incline, looping left, looping right to avoid the trunks. A horse screamed when it slammed on to its side, but Arcas doubled back, hauled it upright and off it galloped, more scared than hurt.

‘Wait.’

He stopped the little train and cut free Maria’s garments with his knife, ramming them into saddlebags, anything, even his shirt. Theo and Marcus followed suit, ensuring no material was left to catch on twigs to give the game away, or to fall off, or for brightly coloured fabric to be visible through the undergrowth.

‘This way,’ Arcas said puffing.

And now they clip-clopped up the exposed grey rock, Arcas leading the way with a confidence which even Theo couldn’t help admire. Grudgingly he looked at Orbilio, and felt it would have been better, this escape, just him and the Silver Fox and Hanno. Why couldn’t he have just led the bloody civilians to the overhang? Not him, he has to be a bloody hero, doesn’t he?

Hours later, when they were sure they’d given their followers the slip, they circled back to where the convoy huddled in admirable silence, despite the passage of so much time.

‘How did they know?’ Maria demanded, gaping at the tatters of her ruined wardrobe. ‘How did they know to come after us?’

But Arcas was exhausted after his ride and his reply was both in Sequani and terse to the point of rudeness as he flopped down on his back. It was left to Junius to translate.

‘He said that news of thirty-three Roman citizens wandering in the Spider’s little onion patch soon gets around.’

Maria shot the guide a venomous glare. ‘He said something else as well.’ No fooling her.

‘I did indeed,’ Arcas replied dryly, his eyes still shut. ‘I said these men were after trophies, but may Dis help them when they take your head, madam, the bloody tongue will keep on wagging. Now quit your prattle, the lot of you. If we’re to avoid ending up as keepsakes on a shelf, I need to think.’

*

As moonlight showed silver through the scudding clouds, the murderer thought, ‘This is going better than I hoped.’

True there had been times this afternoon when naked fear outweighed the prospect of a new Republic and the riches that went with it, but everyone’s familiar with the saying: no pain, no gain. How very true. To achieve one’s ambitions, sacrifices must be made-although when that bunch of savages came charging down this afternoon, even Galba’s agent had wondered whether they might not end up the sacrifice themselves.

However, there’s another saying, isn’t there? All’s well that ends well-and goddammit, if this doesn’t prove to the rebel chieftains that the diversion wasn’t for real, then Nestor’s killer would eat the Silver Fox’s roped gold torque.

In fact, I owe that white-haired woodsman a lot, the agent thought, allowing a warm glow of satisfaction to wash over. More than he’ll ever know.

In fact, Arcas’s first action, upon recovering his breath, had been to lead the frightened band of travellers away from the shelter of the overhang because they needed water, he said, especially the horses, and this limestone rock was like a leaky skillet. Water pours out everywhere, provided you know where to look-and Arcas did, of course. He’d led them to this waterfall, a wondrous natural beauty where an underground river erupted from a cave at the foot of a vertical cliff face, its gushing torrent at least six paces across. The water fell in a breathtaking triple cascade, settling in a deep green pool at the bottom, at which point it danced off down the valley in a series of foaming white rapids.

The sight took everybody’s breath away, and in this gently wooded canyon where birds sang and mayflies trapped the light on rainbow-coloured wings, the terror of their brush with the headhunters faded. They drank, they bathed, they feasted on smoked tongue and hunks of cheese, they sang, they laughed. They were glad to be alive.

Bar the brick-maker, of course. Reduced to a wreck of a man, he couldn’t stop crying. His whole body shook, he mumbled as though delirious and his wife, beside herself with worry, couldn’t-wouldn’t-be comforted. For them, the Sequani war band was the final straw.

But we all have to live, and after the terrors of this afternoon, the party only had so many resources to spare. Variously they offered sympathy, support, tried to ease them, tease them out of it-but you have to see a spark of response, no matter how faint. Tired, irritated, weary by turn, they left the unhappy couple to it and tacitly agreed that a good night’s sleep might do the trick.

High above, between the fast-moving clouds, stars twinkled, teased, then disappeared, and with the waterfall hissing just a hundred yards away (not too close, Arcas warned, wild animals come here to drink) the agent’s eyelids closed in happiness. Around the mountain, all manner of barks and cries filled the warm night air. Foxes, wolves, lynx, bears, snarling out their territories, protecting their young. But the agent found them comforting. These sounds comprised the agent’s alibi. Testimony of further delay. As indeed would be the garbled reports of the convoy when they finally arrived in Vesontio. Sighing deeply before drifting into sleep, the agent reflected that everything was indeed running very smoothly.

XXI

‘What will you do with the money you make?’

‘Money?’ The glass-blower jumped from half-asleep to wide awake. ‘What money? I don’t know what you’re talking about!’ Wild eyes jerked round the camp, but few were awake. The hour was still very early.

‘From the contracts we’ll procure in Vesontio.’ The slipper-maker was sitting up, arms locked around his knees.

‘Oh.’ The glass-blower visibly relaxed. ‘That.’

‘We’ll be famous after this little episode,’ the slipper-maker said.

‘Notorious more like.’ The glass-blower laughed, knuckling the sleep from his eyes.

‘No, no. Once word trickles round about our exploits, people will come up to me and say, “weren’t you the slipper-maker who fought off a band of headhunters?” and one thing will lead to another, and then it’ll be “oh, these are the slippers made by that chap who fought off the headhunters, you know” until everyone in Vesontio will want a pair to tell their friends about.’

‘You might have a point,’ the glass-blower said thoughtfully. ‘In which case, I’d…I’d buy me a litter hung in yellow drapes, that’s what I’d do first. Let people see they’re dealing with a man of substance. Mind, Volso won’t net much trade, will he, poor sod? I mean, who’d consult an astrologer who couldn’t see his own misfortune coming?’

‘I heard that,’ Volso growled, throwing off his makeshift blanket. ‘Croesus, man, how many times do I have to explain I’m not a bloody soothsayer, no cross-my-palm-with-silver merchant! Astrology is long-term planning, studying the stars to map out future options. It’s a science, not some bloody magic trick.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ In the glass-blower’s opinion, fortunetellers were all the same. They put out a load of guff and charged you through the nostrils for the privilege. ‘What about you, Clemens?’ The little tub of a priest was stirring under the crab apple, scratching his belly and flattening what was left of his hair. ‘Do you feel this will help your cause?’

‘Undoubtedly.’ Abandoning his toilette, he puffed up like a cobra. ‘You see, because Marcus has the necessary contacts and his boss’s brother wants the job,’ Clemens’s tongue flickered round his lips, ‘he had already boned up on Jupiter’s Priest, and has tipped me a few of the wrinkles. I tell you, folks, any one of you who’s in Rome for the games in September will see me at the head of the inaugural procession.’

‘You sound pretty damn confident,’ Volso said.

‘I am, I am.’ Clemens almost bounced on the spot. ‘Test me, ask me anything,’ he urged. ‘Come on, anything at all-ask me about the bed that I must sleep on, the sacred oracles, the relics. I know every taboo on barbering’-he shot a grateful glance at the mosaic artist, slumbering peacefully on a bed of fragrant pine needles-‘my newly cut hair must be buried beneath a fruit-bearing tree, my-’

‘All right, all right,’ the cadaverous astrologer said, and everyone was grateful to him for shutting Clemens up. ‘But haven’t you forgotten something, Clemens? Like the fact you need a wife, for instance?’

Sniggering broke out among the party, especially among the women who couldn’t see Clemens’s podgy little fingers lighting any female fire.

‘That’s already in hand.’ Clemens sniffed. ‘Arranged through her father before I left Rome.’ He stood up, turned to the party, his hair still spiked and tousled, and drew himself up to his full height. Which wasn’t very far. ‘May I remind you this post is the most prestigious in the whole collegiate,’ he said. ‘It’s a role I covet more than life itself, and what’s more, one I intend to fill.’ His eyes travelled round the group, but found not the respect and admiration they expected to see shining back at him, they found themselves staring into doubt. Worse, patronizing doubt! ‘I will be Jupiter’s Priest,’ he blurted, in the manner of a child whose spinning top had just been whisked off him in mid-whizz. ‘You wait.’

There-there-of-course-it-will smiles settled upon the faces of his audience and tears of frustration welled up.

‘I will. I’ve been assured on the highest authority,’ Clemens spluttered, his chubby cheeks aflame, ‘I have the dowry to prove it.’ Then, with a gasp, as though he’d said too much, he spun away, his sandals stomping down the track, his long white robe billowing behind him.

‘Anyone else need cheering up?’ quipped the slipper-maker. ‘Our astrologer friend is just the chappie to lift a body’s spirits.’

‘How was I supposed to know he felt so prickly about it?’ Volso snapped. ‘Gemma.’ Good idea. Change the subject! ‘How are your parents this morning?’

‘Now you mention it, I don’t really know,’ she said. ‘Dex and Maria took me under their wing last night, to give me a bit of a breather.’

‘Dexter,’ corrected Maria. ‘His name is Dexter, if you don’t mind.’

‘He’ll be will be all right, won’t he? My dad?’ But it was to neither Volso nor Maria that she addressed her concern. It was to the bookbinder.

‘Of course he will,’ Dexter gently reassured her, ‘providing you don’t expect miracles, Gemma. Your father’s had a breakdown, these things take time to correct and you have to be prepared to be patient.’

She summoned up a thin and grateful smile, and he ruffled her hair. Maria’s eyes rolled heavenward.

‘Has anyone been at my laudanum?’ Titus said, tipping the contents of his satchel over his outspread cloak and rummaging a finger through the drawstring sacks.

‘Dexter doesn’t require flashy gimmicks to sell his skills,’ Maria said, fixing the spice merchant with a glare. ‘Quality will out!’ She turned to Iliona, who was coiling her long, dark ringlets round her long, dark fingers. ‘I could have married the son of a senator, you know. Of course, when I say son, the boy was actually a by-blow, not really what I wanted to introduce into the family, even though he was patrician on his father’s side-’

‘You haven’t seen it, have you?’ Titus asked his wife, who leapt at the chance to help him look for his missing lumps of gum. ‘Now the effects are wearing off, the injured men are jumpy, and I don’t like the look of that ankle. It should have healed better than that, I fear an infection’s set in.’

‘The advocate I could have married had a limp,’ Maria said, sniffing some of the resins. ‘Not that I’d consider for one second a husband with a disability, but he’s done frightfully well for himself, I gather. Grand house on the Palatine, hundreds of slaves and I think, yes, he has a litter with yellow drapes,’ she told the glass-blower. ‘Or are they green?’

Claudia, who during this whole interchange had pretended to remain asleep, could stand it no longer and slunk off for an early morning dip. The pool at the foot of the cascade should look wonderful this morning, a rich opalescent green, foaming white where the waters fell, but quiescent and enticing where the basin levelled out to paint reflections of the aspens and the firs, the glorious yellow flag irises and the silent, unmoving spectre of the heron at the margins. The sky was mottled with white cloud, but the blue background was a distinct improvement on the past few days, and maybe the sun could be coaxed out for a little while today. Maybe if someone pointed out to him that this was, after all, July? She glanced back over her shoulder. Most of the party, exhausted from both the efforts of escaping the headhunting Sequani and the subsequent celebration of the fact that they were still alive, slumbered on, or, if they’d woken up to Maria’s dulcet tones, were careful to maintain the pretence of sleep. Even Drusilla merely let out a faint miaow when Claudia disturbed her.

Arcas, as always, maintained his distance. Nevertheless it came as a surprise when she ran across him on her way to the waterfall. He had lit himself a small fire and was hunkered over it, toasting cheese on a stick.

‘The pool,’ he said, noting her towel, ‘is that way.’

Damn! Yet it was so easy to get lost, the woods, the rivers, these wretched canyons all looked the same, and noises were deceptive here, she found. Like the hoot of an owl, you could never quite place the sound of running water…

About to retrace her steps, Claudia heard a woman say, ‘You surprised me yesterday.’ Incredibly, the voice appeared to be hers.

‘Really?’ Arcas sliced off the melting drips with his knife and held it out to her.

The warm cheese was delicious on her tongue. ‘I thought you’d be enrolling in the Spider’s secret army.’

‘I am a huntsman, not a warrior,’ he replied, his blue eyes raking her curves as she crouched down beside him.

‘Silly me, what made me think you were,’ she said, leaning her elbow on his quiver, bow and sword.

A ghost of a smile softened the stern line of his jaw. He dipped the point of his knife in a cup, speared a dried boletus which had been soaking in beer and covered it with the dripping melted cheese.

‘Ceps, we call them, these dark forest mushrooms,’ he said, holding out the knife to Claudia. ‘You can dry morels, parasols, field mushrooms, earth balls, but always ceps are the best.’

Claudia inhaled the fiery, sweet aroma and let the combination of hot cheese and juicy mushroom dance upon her tastebuds.

‘With these,’ he said, ‘every meal becomes a banquet.’

Then suddenly he was on his feet, throwing out the contents of the cup and kicking over the little fire. ‘I must see to the horses,’ he said gruffly, and before Claudia had even swallowed her second mouthful, he was gone. Striding through the woods to where the mules were hobbled.

She watched his broad, strong back, the mane of white hair tied in a queue at the nape, the band of fox fur on his arm. Why ‘Silver Fox’? Simply because his hair had turned prematurely grey? Or was it more on account of his guile and cunning? When he’d told them about the Spider’s rebel forces fighting under the ancient insignia of red and gold (riches through blood, how barbaric!), his voice had taken on a slightly wistful quality, and yesterday, when he had looked around his little clearing, armed to the teeth and surrounded by dead sheep, Claudia had felt sure he intended to sign up with them. Guile and cunning were surely prerequisites for any insurrection?

And yet…

I’m a huntsman, he’d said, not a warrior. Hm. More Lone Wolf than Silver Fox, she mused, picturing the weather-beaten skin, the easy lope, the musculature straining through his shirt. Maybe his survival instincts earned him his nickname? Arcas was born to these wild tracts of forests, had bonded with them. A hunter, trapper, guide. Whatever was required, he’d turn his hand to, and he knows every inch of this stunning terrain, she thought. Like a young girl knows her lover Lover. She rolled the word around in her head. Lover. Arcas was an enigma, that’s for sure, but any commitment would be as deep as it was permanent.

The very opposite of Clemens! What made him yearn so badly for the job of Jupiter’s Priest? One thing. A smile lit her face, it would thwart the ambition of that weasel who headed the Security Police, and that, she felt sure, was why Orbilio so assiduously coached little Clemens. Anything to spike his boss’s guns.

Meanwhile, it was clear that the Salamander had lured Clemens into smuggling by offering him the money to pay for a dowry to a man desperate enough to want a son-in-law who was Jupiter’s Priest, and that the Salamander also had sufficient clout to ensure the fussy little list-maker got the plum job itself. All Clemens had to do was deliver a certain deerskin pouch.

‘That’s where you’ve been hiding?’ Orbilio’s mouth was smiling, although his eyes were not. ‘Junius was worried, he thought you were going for a dip.’

‘No, I’m taking my towel for its morning constitutional,’ she said, leaving him to make what he could of her sprawled leisurely across Arcas’s weaponry, munching chunks of his cheese. ‘Although I might manage a swim on the way back.’

‘I wouldn’t, if I were you,’ Marcus cautioned, ‘there’s something in the water.’

‘I’m not afraid of sharks.’

‘You’ve swum with enough of the loan variety,’ he granted her, ‘but I’m talking about fish.’

Claudia bit off another hunk of the nutty flavoured cheese. ‘I assume there’s some point to this story.’

‘There is.’ Orbilio knelt down and broke a piece off for himself. ‘You see, it would appear your faithful bodyguard gave you a head start to the waterfall then followed discreetly behind. Somewhere along the line you must have given him the slip, and from his tone I gather this is not the first time, but what concerned Junius more than the absence of his mistress was seeing two fish, floating face down in the pool.’

‘Orbilio, you have my undivided apathy.’

‘Then suppose I point out that the floating fish were the brick-maker and his wife?’

Cheese spluttered everywhere. ‘Dead?’

‘Very much so. Both of them. And the first thing Junius noticed, when he hauled them out, was a sickly sweet smell.’

‘Laudanum.’ No wonder Titus couldn’t find it.

‘Exactly. It seems the brick-maker and his wife had consumed the entire remnants of his supply.’

‘Good grief! Driven to despair, they drugged themselves stupid and made a suicide pact!’

‘Ah. Well. That was the first thing I thought. The instant Junius broadcast the alarm, your trusty investigator made a rapid examination of the corpses. Despairing, yes. Drugged, undoubtedly. But suicide doesn’t account for the bruising on their shoulders. The bare fact is,’ Marcus said gravely, ‘the brick-maker and his wife were murdered in the early hours.’

Whether they took the laudanum willingly or not he couldn’t say, but their heads had certainly been held under the water until they had drowned.

XXII

‘Drink this.’ Dexter pushed a grape-green phial at the brick-maker’s bereaved daughter. ‘No, Gemma, drink it,’ he said firmly, steering the liquid between her reluctant lips and holding her shoulders while she shuddered.

Gemma wasn’t the only one to need a shot of Arcas’s home-made liqueur, a golden distillation made from yellow grassland gentians, deceptively sticky and sweet until you swallowed it, after which, however, it was like swilling raw naptha. Nectar of the gods it might not be. Effective was another matter. Colour flushed Gemma’s tear-stained cheeks, albeit in two bright red splotches.

Out of sight, the heavy thwack of the huntsman’s axe resonated through the forest as the men cobbled together a double pyre for the funeral. Sniffing noisily, the glass-blower’s wife wove garlands of oak leaves to wreathe round the heads of the dead, while a couple of the other women dressed the brick-maker and his wife in a clean change of clothes and combed their hair. Maria slipped a coin under each of their tongues to pay the old ferryman who’d be rowing their souls to Hades, and Clemens, in the absence of cypress, was using spruce and fir to purify the cremation site, gentian liqueur in place of wine.

‘This rather buggers things up,’ Titus said to Claudia, stacking more logs on the pyre. ‘Sending out the biggest smoke signal imaginable to the Sequani headhunters-look-we’re-here, X marks the spot. And where’s our Silver Fox while this is going on? Marcus is the one swinging the axe, not him.’

‘He’s aware of the hazards,’ Claudia explained, tossing on a pile of twigs. ‘For the past two hours he’s been out laying a false trail, and believes that by the time the rebel forces spot the fire and then follow his bogus spoor, we’ll be well shot of the danger zone.’

‘I bloody hope so,’ Titus said, wiping the sweat from his brow, but nevertheless keeping sure that that single hank of hair remained over his eye. ‘He’s picked a good spot, right down in the valley, but this is going to be one hell of a bonfire.’

Claudia grunted noncommittally, because inside she felt sure the wily Silver Fox had no intention of leaving a giant blaze aflame. There would be no time to see the funeral through to the end, the area was too dangerous to linger until the fire died of its own accord, then wash and purify the bones, wrap them up and take them away for proper burial later. It would be dusk before this pyre burned itself out, and one more hour in this place was risky, much less another night. She suspected that, once the group was out of sight of the fire, Arcas would backtrack to douse the flames. It would be hard luck on the brick-maker and his wife, their remains ending up a grilled supper for wild beasts. But at least Gemma would be spared the grisly knowledge.

‘I don’t know how to break this to Clemens,’ Iliona said, helping Claudia throw on another heap of branches. ‘But I can only play party music on my flute.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Claudia assured her, ‘the clients won’t complain.’ But it was only when she was quite alone, gathering the petals from wild dog roses to scatter on the corpses, that she began to wonder why the killer had needed to dispose of the hapless couple.

The brick-maker had been in such a state that to rob him of his deerskin pouch, assuming he had one, would have been child’s play. So edgy was he, it would have been simplicity itself to plant the suggestion that it had become lost during yesterday’s rout, especially by removing a few other items from his bag. There was certainly no need to kill him for it.

Unless…

Unless what? That in his agitation he was about to blab about it? Big deal. Only other couriers would have taken his ramblings seriously-and they (we!) were in no position to shout. Besides, who gives a damn? The brick-maker didn’t know it was part of a treasure map, so what if he revealed himself to be a smuggler? No, no, he couldn’t have been killed simply for the sake of his silence.

What then? Showering the petals, white to pink to rosy red, over the luckless pair, Claudia could not think of a single advantage that had been gained by their murder. Except-maybe-time. Another half-day tied up. Another detour. Another delay before they arrive in Vesontio.

Claudia stared at the cold, waxy bodies lying on the woodland floor. In the canopy, chiffchaffs warbled and magpies chattered, and faint snatches of sunlight filtered through to stipple the soft, dark pile of leaf litter. A ladybird alighted on one of the oak leaves in the woman’s hair, and even now, long after death, Claudia caught the sickly reek of laudanum.

You have died, she whispered silently, because the killer is becoming a fraction too obsessive. There was absolutely no need for this butchery. No need to tweak out this extra half a day. But it would appear that he (she?) cannot help himself. The opportunity was simply too good to miss.

And maybe this same obsessiveness, she thought, this need to overplay his hand, will also prove his downfall. This was his first mistake, and this mistake might just be sufficient to bring him (or her.) to justice.

XXIII

‘I say. Guide!’ Maria pounced on Arcas the minute he returned to the camp. ‘I presume you do know what you’re doing?’

Cold blue eyes met hers and he pushed past.

‘Rudeness,’ she sniffed, ‘is no substitute for a reply.’

Poor Arcas. He hadn’t known Maria long and therefore hadn’t learned that you simply couldn’t ignore her in the hope she’d take the hint. There was stoat blood in that woman’s veins. Once gripped, she’d never let go. She stepped in front of him to block his way.

‘You must think we’re stupid,’ she said. ‘But since we left your village, we’ve been travelling south-west, whereas Vesontio, according to young Theodorus, was north-west of you.’

He stared at her for several seconds, then said, ‘I don’t think any of you are stupid. Now you must excuse me. As much as I’d love to stop and chat, we need to get the pyre burning.’

‘Actually,’ Orbilio stepped forward, the axe held loosely in his hands, ‘Maria’s point is worthy of an answer.’

To his left, Theo glared at him, and pulled the scarf higher up his neck to disguise the flush of scarlet. ‘Yes, it is,’ he said, marching up to Arcas. ‘Why are we travelling south instead of north?’

The Silver Fox ran his finger lightly under the gold torque round his neck and watched the soldier’s face turn redder still. For a count of maybe ten his face was merely inches from Theo’s, then he turned to Marcus. ‘It appears I am not to be trusted,’ he said mildly.

‘That is not what Maria is saying,’ Orbilio replied, ever the diplomat, and before Maria could open her mouth to correct him, he continued, ‘she was merely requesting an explanation.’ He paused and shrugged. ‘These are difficult times for us,’ he added. ‘We’re nervous and on edge, words don’t always come out as intended.’

‘Then I must make allowances for stress,’ Arcas said, swivelling his glance back to Theo. The soldier’s lips pursed white. ‘And explain, to those of you who are not familiar with Sequani country, that the lifeblood of our lands is the River Doubs. This river, which rises in the place we call the Jura, runs for hundreds of leagues in a broad semi-circle and, except for the earliest section, is navigable. Certainly we could have worked our way to the river and travelled in perfect safety by canoe. The journey would have taken twelve, maybe thirteen days.’

‘We can’t wait twelve days!’ Volso exploded.

‘So you told me,’ Arcas said, crossing his massive arms over his chest. ‘Please let me finish my geography lesson. The river flows north-eastwards in the foothills of the Alps, where its gorges form a natural border with Helvetii territory, although I believe you are familiar with that part.’

He flashed a grim smile at Theo, who didn’t see because he was staring at his boots, fists clenched in anger. To be humiliated like a naughty schoolboy in front of the entire class…

‘However, the Doubs is not a boundary for the hills. As your weary legs have discovered, many steep crests run parallel with the river, stretching for many, many miles until’-he snapped his fingers-‘no more mountains. Just like that, the land levels out for pasture and crop growing. Where any group of thirty or so civilians which happens to include women and wounded are sitting targets for the Spider’s men. We’ve had one narrow escape already, getting free of here is our second challenge, so I ask you bluntly, madam.’ He turned to Maria. ‘Do you have a death wish?’

‘No. Of course not.’ She at least had the grace to blush. ‘L-like Marcus said, I was merely-’

‘The bandits won’t give up on us,’ Arcas pressed on, ‘Roman heads make good souvenirs.’ He grinned. ‘And you have jewellery, horses-and, I hope, at least fifty gold pieces with you.’

‘Don’t fret, you’ll get your money,’ Volso snarled. ‘But only once we’re safe.’

‘Was that the deal?’ Arcas frowned. ‘My price, surely, was for acting as guide?’

‘To Vesontio, you bloodsucking shyster. Not to an early fucking grave!’

Whatever response Arcas was about to make was interrupted by the arrival of a smiling priest. ‘All set,’ Clemens said cheerfully. ‘Titus has provided myrrh for the pyre, torches are burning on each of the four corners and-oh.’ His beady eyes darted round the group. ‘Something wrong?’

‘Not unless you’re averse to a spot of horse-stealing,’ Arcas said.

‘Theft?’ This was too much for Theo. ‘Oh, no. My job is to uphold the law and if we need horses, I shall requisition them in the name of Augustus and-’

‘Bring the bandits on us straight away?’ The Silver Fox puffed out his cheeks. ‘We do this my way or not at all, I made that plain before, and my way is to follow this river as far as Vertiginorix’s farm-’

‘Who?’

‘It doesn’t matter who,’ he snapped, ‘except that he’s a stock breeder with horses and saddles. After that, we follow the ridge to Serpent Point and then it’s a straight dash for Vesontio. The gods willing, we should reach the capital by midday tomorrow.’

‘How can we be sure the bandits won’t follow us?’ Theo said.

‘Because I’m a huntsman,’ Arcas barked back. ‘Setting traps, pretty boy, is my business. Now, are there any more questions? Or shall we wait here for the Spider’s men to come and make us several inches shorter?’

*

Horses, in Claudia’s opinion, looked most attractive be-ribboned in parades. They looked fine in front of a cart. But bloody awful when you’re stuck on top of one. They joggled you about and made you seasick. They chafed your knees red raw and stretched the tendons in some unbelievably delicate places. Worst of all, they stank.

‘Bet you’re glad of that divided skirt,’ Iliona trilled over her shoulder, as they frisked along the track, her bangles drowning the jangle of her horse’s harness, but her trademark oregano oil unable to counteract the animal’s pungent odour. ‘I can’t imagine why you didn’t take up my offer, Maria.’

‘One has one’s image to think of,’ Maria explained, gripping the reins with all the elegance of a camel sipping sherbet through a hollow reed. ‘Pantaloons are hardly befitting attire for the wife of a master bookbinder.’

‘More like too tight on the hips,’ sneered the glass-blower’s wife.

‘Speak for yourself,’ Maria retorted. ‘My hips are the same size now as when I took my marriage vows, the waist also, for that matter. Self-discipline is my motto, and you’d be wise to adopt it as well.’

‘Miaow,’ someone sniggered, but Maria was impervious. With a toss of her head, she cantered forward, driving her pony between her husband’s and that of the bereaved daughter he was comforting.

The incline began to steepen, and through the gaps in the trees, Claudia caught glimpses of the farm below. A solitary roundhouse set beside a tree-lined pond, where a gaggle of redheaded children squealed and scrabbled to feed the clamouring ducks and geese, the racket audible this half mile away. On a stool beside a wickerwork box, a teenage girl plucked by hand the wool from the tiny, dark brown sheep which were such a feature of this land, singing while she worked, and an old woman, probably her grandmother, scraped out a cauldron for a snuffling pig. Further away, in a distant field in the clearing, a man in red and orange striped clothing ploughed up wheat stubble with an ard, while a boy followed behind, forking manure into the freshly made furrow. How long, Claudia wondered, before the farmer noticed his stock was missing? An hour? When he took a break from his ploughing? Tomorrow? She looked at the little homestead. Thirty horses Arcas had stolen from them. Thirty of these stocky red and white beasts with their golden manes and tails, which the Sequani liked to keep cut very short. What would it mean to a farmer like Stripey, a loss on this scale? Seven children that she could count, and doubtless the grandparents, and possibly great-grandparents as well to keep. As industrious as he was, the stockbreeder, capitalizing on this patch of pastureland in the valley, how could he hope to keep the wolf from his door, come the winter? Because winters in these parts were as long as they were rigorous Grimly Claudia patted her mount and spurred it up the incline.

‘Move into single file,’ came the order, rippling down the line. ‘The track narrows up ahead.’

Claudia glanced over her shoulder. Six nags behind, bringing up the rear, Orbilio performed a silent salute. She spun round to face the front again.

‘I don’t mind it crowding in from the side,’ Volso called up. ‘So long as it doesn’t encroach any more from above.’ The unfortunate combination of being tall and skinny coupled with his being quite unused to riding a horse meant he was hunched over half the time as it was. Any second now, Claudia expected to hear a yelp, as his chin made contact with the horse’s skull!

‘It’s not as bad as you think.’ Titus laughed. ‘Like low doors, people always duck too far. Straighten up, man, or you’ll do your back permanent damage.’

‘I can vouch for that,’ said Dexter. ‘My neck and shoulders are in a terrible state, and as for my pelvis!’

‘I don’t need medical advice from anyone, thank you very much,’ snapped the hollow-cheeked astrologer. ‘Once I reach Vesontio, I’ll be fine.’

‘I’ll bet he will,’ bellowed the glass-blower. ‘He’s a sly one, is our Volso. Did I tell you about that tasty bit of skirt I saw him with in Bern?’

Volso’s face descended closer to his horse’s mane. ‘Really!’ he mumbled. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Don’t be coy, lad,’ said the glass-blower. ‘She slipped into your bedroom around midnight, and it was daylight when I saw her slip out…’

Gibes rang through the party.

‘That… That was none of your business,’ Volso spluttered.

‘It makes life all the more fascinating.’ Iliona laughed. ‘Other peoples’ affairs. Tell me,’ she asked the glass-blower, ‘did you notice whether this luscious beauty happened to wear a ring on her forefinger, with a distinctive amber stone?’

‘Hey, hey! Now you mention it, she did,’ he jeered back. ‘You were witness to this assignation back in Bern, were you, Iliona?’

‘Bern,’ she confirmed, throwing back her head, so that her ringlets bounced up and down like springs. ‘Also Novara, six days out of Rome. That inn where we holed up for the night in the Lepontine Alps. The tavern in the Emmental…’

‘Volso?’ The slipper-maker was amazed. ‘With a woman? Well, come on then. Tell us what she looked like! Was she a long, thin dollop like her beau, or a beauty bewitched by his charm and his charts?’

‘The description’s down to you, I’m afraid, Iliona,’ the glass-blower said. ‘I only saw this lovely from the side, pulling her wrap low over her face.’

‘She was veiled every time I saw her, too, so I can’t help you folks.’

‘That suggests she was a married woman, travelling with a merchant in the delegation,’ Maria concluded, drawn into the gossip despite herself. ‘Volso, how could you?’

‘She…she’s… Look, can’t you drop this?’ he whined. ‘Please? This is excruciatingly embarrassing for me.’

‘That’s why it’s such fun, old man. Watching you squirm is the most fun we’ve had since leaving Bern.’

‘Right,’ everybody chorused, but in the end it was Mother Nature who spared Volso’s further blushes, because the ground rose up steeply at that point and they needed to concentrate on the track.

Bare outcrops of rocks appeared, slippery under the hoof, and Claudia’s lip curled as she peered at her horse. Sturdy enough little devil, with its short ears and thick legs, but typically of these squat Sequani ponies it had rounded jowls which gave it an oddly sullen expression, and this one seemed sulkier than most. But then again, perhaps it was homesick? Again something twisted in her gut when she thought of the farmer and his family ‘Shit!’

The voice was Volso’s, and it was pure terror. She glanced back over her shoulder, and saw that he’d pulled his horse up dead. Of course! Preoccupied with other matters, she’d forgotten his horror of heights. And this was certainly what you’d call precipitous. Hard to imagine that the river which gushed so forcefully out of the rock in a glorious triple cascade was invisible now, the only indication of its presence a twist in the tree cover below.

‘I c-can’t,’ Volso stuttered, ‘I can’t do this.’ Claudia reined in. Negotiating the treacherous path, the others had gone on ahead, leaving only Volso, Orbilio, two drivers, Junius and old Hanno. ‘Concentrate on the scenery,’ she said. ‘And look ahead, rather than down.’

The lines on the astrologer’s face had become deeply ploughed furrows, the hollow eyes caverns. His skin was sweat-beaded, tinged with yellow and green.

‘I can’t. You’ll have to leave me, I’ll find another way to Vesontio.’

‘Don’t be so daft, man,’ Hanno said. ‘See that rock?’ His gnarled old hand pointed two miles along the ravine to the tallest outcrop poking through the forest. ‘That’s Serpent Point. The gorge bears round to the left, but according to Arcas, and he should know, once we’re over the brow of Serpent Point it’s downhill all the way to Vesontio.’

‘I don’t care.’

‘Tch, stubborn as my mules,’ Hanno cackled, ‘but only half as handsome. Well, if you behave like a mule, I’ll have to treat you like one. Get down.’

‘W-what?’

‘Come on, come on, we haven’t got all day. Down, man. Off your horse. Can you two,’ he asked the drivers, ‘lead the horses on ahead, because we five need to walk the next bit.’

‘Walk?’ The sweat ran in rivulets down Volso’s face, and any trace of yellow in his skin had been swallowed by the green. His whole body trembled like an aspen in a gale.

‘Walk,’ Hanno reiterated. ‘And you won’t need to bother about the pretty scenery, because’-he untied the kerchief round his neck-‘you’re going to be blindfolded.’

His mouth formed the words ‘just like a skittish horse’ to the others, and his wizened face broke into a broad grin as he tied his scarf tightly round the astrologer’s eyes.

‘I’ll take one arm,’ he said, ‘you take the other, young feller, and them two lovebirds can follow behind. Everyone set?’

‘I am not a lovebird,’ Claudia snapped to the muleteer’s back, and behind her a tall, dark-haired patrician tried unsuccessfully to turn a laugh into a cough.

‘Having fun?’ he quipped, and if looks were weapons, he’d have been charred to the bone with a fireball. ‘I think maybe we should take our honeymoon in Gaul, what do you think? The picturesque mountains surrounding Lake Geneva?’

‘Drop dead.’

‘Oh, you’d prefer the southern coast of Massilia and the Camargue marshes, would you? Well, that’s fine by me, we can-’

‘Orbilio, there’s a scientific term for your condition. Lunacy.’

Ahead of them, the blindfolded, quivering, but nevertheless trusting, Volso was being chivvied along by Junius and Hanno. Three jackdaws cast off lazily from the trees on the opposite side of the gorge and began to caw as they circled the valley.

Marcus pulled a sprig of valerian from the rock face and sniffed its heady bouquet. ‘You have trouble with that word, don’t you?’ He grinned.

‘Lunacy?’

‘Marriage.’

‘Oh, no.’ Claudia beamed a radiant smile up at him. ‘It’s not the word I have trouble with. It’s the sentence!’

And with that, she strode ahead to link up with her bodyguard, Drusilla trotting at her ankles, tail held high.

They had not covered more than fifty paces, before Junius stuck out his arm. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Ahead.’

They squinted. Then saw what was happening.

‘What?’ quivered Volso.

‘Oh. A…a cloud,’ Claudia said. ‘Right over Serpent Point. For a minute we all thought it was the winged man-eating monster which is reputed to have its lair up there, but,’ she let out a merry laugh, ‘it’s just a cloud.’

Cloud be buggered. As the vanguard, a good half mile ahead by now, skirted the rim of the rock, the ledge seemed to give way. At the front, Arcas had sprung off his horse and was struggling to keep a hold of its reins. Panic had set in to the two pack horses tied behind. They shied and reared, although no sound came back because the wind carried it along the canyon to Serpent Point. Helpless, they watched as the horses bucked and kicked, and then the back horse missed its footing…

As though in slow motion, they watched the animal’s hindquarters slide over the ledge. Slowly, slowly, it fell, and for a moment it looked as though the front two could support its weight and pull it clear. Arcas was straining with the effort. Theo had sprung off his horse and was hauling with Arcas, the pair of them braced against the rocks as they pulled.

But the weight of three frightened horses was too much to hold. And with one final jerk, the whole string of them fell, tumbling through the air, crashing through the leaves. Down, and down, and down…

‘Are you sure it’s just a cloud? You’ve all gone very quiet-’

‘No,’ Marcus said. ‘Just a cloud.’

And as one the group moved forward again, and if Volso noticed that no one said a word after that, he didn’t mention it. By the time they rejoined the main body of the party, the bare face of Serpent Point loomed less than a mile away and Volso wasn’t the only one who stood, white-faced and trembling, hardly believing they’d survived that perilous ridge.

‘Mount up,’ Arcas said.

‘But what about you?’ Dexter asked.

‘Don’t worry about me,’ the woodsman growled. ‘I can keep up.’ Glancing back along the ledge to the place where his horses plunged to their deaths, he pursed his lips and scrunched up his face. Then with a sharp oath, he shouldered his pack, drew a deep breath and said, ‘Let’s get the hell out of here. Daylight’s fading, I want to be over that point before making camp.’

It was unfortunate that Volso’s vertigo had cost them several precious hours, but at least the going would be less treacherous underfoot once they left the canyon behind. What Claudia would have given for a shot of Arcas’s firewater liqueur. To cross the section which had given way under the horses had been harrowing in the extreme.

She shifted in the saddle. Was this her horse? It had to be, she supposed, only it didn’t feel at all comfortable. She checked the reins and saddle, but since all the equipment was new, it all looked the same, and while some barbarian horsemen rode with things called stirrups, civilized societies didn’t bother with these useless footrests, which was just as well, really. They’d never catch on.

The line spread out as they cantered down the path. Faster and faster she flew, the hoofs of the little pony clattering on the rock, and Claudia tipped back her head to feel the wind in her face. So this is what it’s like to be free. Urged on by a dig of her heels, the red horse broke into a gallop.

‘Giddy up.’ That’s the expression, isn’t it? ‘Giddy up there!’

Harder and harder the hoofs pounded the stone.

‘Yee-ha!’

Hang on. What’s this? Sod wind in the hair. Something didn’t feel right. Surely too much swinging? Joggling about? Claudia’s heart leapt into her mouth. Janus, the saddle’s come loose! Dare she let go of the reins to windmill for help with one hand? What could she lose? Praying to Apollo, who steers his fiery chariot through the heavens, she gripped the reins with her right hand and signalled frantically with her left. All that happened was the silly sod behind waved back. Sweet Juno! She grabbed hold of the reins with both hands. Did that idiot think she’s having fun? The saddle was swinging wildly, tossing her from side to side. To her left, trees passed below in a blur, calling, beckoning, offering the same fate which befell the pack horses.

‘Whoa!’

Holy Mars, help me in this! She jerked on reins, but too late she realized she’d pulled them too hard. The pony stopped up short. Oh, no! Sweet Juno, oh please, no. Keep me upright.

But the momentum was too great. Claudia felt herself thrown from the horse. The edge loomed towards her. She cried out. Flailed her arms. But there was nothing to grip.

Calling a man’s name as the blackness engulfed her, Claudia spun headlong into the void.

XXIV

Far from the gentle ferry ride she’d always imagined, Claudia hit the Underworld with a bone-crunching jolt. And it didn’t let up there. The force with which she landed propelled her onwards in an ungainly lumpy bumpy roll until she came to a full stop against a solid wall.

Some welcome.

Slowly she opened her eyes in the darkness. ‘Pttth.’ She spat out a leaf. Leaf? Dizzy, she looked around. Yes, leaves. Loads of them. Maple leaves, too. A long, long way in the distance, someone was calling her name. A baritone voice.

‘Marcus?’

‘Claudia?’ The voice echoed. ‘Claudia-a-ah. Can you hear-eer-eer me?’

I’m not dead? She sat up, and pain shot through her body. That sealed it. Ghosts don’t bruise, ghosts don’t bleed, ghosts don’t hurt like buggery. So if I’m alive, what happened? What is this? She shook her head and far from the giddiness passing, her vision blurred. Steady, she thought, steady, now. Let’s work this thing through. What do I remember? Galloping down the path laughing, feeling the wind in my face. Then the saddle worked loose and I tumbled over the edge. Right. And the fact that all I have are cuts and grazes means I didn’t fall far, simply fast. With the return of normal vision came fragments of a picture, which she slowly pieced together. Light was dim, but not too dim to see a scattering of twigs and leaves from the maple tree that had broken her fall, and the narrow ledge she had landed on. The rock all round her suggested she’d rolled into a shallow cave. She sniffed. Some wild animal’s den, by the stench. Idly she wondered what ran through its mind, this fox or wolf or whatever, snoozing lazily before it set off for a good night’s hunting, only to be shocked into wakefulness by a human catapult! Well, that’s the way to make an entrance. Some girls have it, others don’t.

‘Marcus Cornelius,’ she yelled through cupped hands, ‘are you going to get me out of here or not?’

‘Claudia?’ The echo came back as though cracked with emotion, but that was silly. It was more likely the acoustics in this smelly lair, she thought, and wondered why she was crying.

‘You know anyone else down here?’ she bawled back.

‘Only a few nodding acquaintances. Now whatever else you do, don’t move. We can see where you are, but it’s too dangerous for you to try and climb up.’

Really? On her knees, Claudia scrabbled to the ledge and peered. Janus! Talk about a yawning chasm. Dizzy again, she pulled back into the cave. ‘How-?’ Someone had wedged a block of wood over her larynx. Only a faint croak came out, but that didn’t matter, because clearly he was reading her mind.

‘Sit tight,’ he called. ‘We’re sending someone down on a rope.’

‘Take your time,’ she shouted back. ‘There’s quite a picnic down here.’

Grimacing, she kicked the assortment of bones aside, flesh and fur still clinging in many instances, and tried not to imagine what they’d been attached to.

Hours seemed to pass before she heard a crackling of branches coupled with masculine grunts and groans. Finally a pair of boots appeared. With hobnails on the soles. Theodorus swung himself into the cave.

‘Theodorus, am I glad to see you.’

His boyish grin made him look all of seventeen. ‘All the girls say that.’ He laughed, and then his face sobered and he was Augustus’s soldier again. ‘Are you all right?’

‘No bones broken.’ Only my dignity.

‘You were lucky,’ he said, untying the rope round his waist. ‘Damned lucky. Another inch and… What the hell happened up there?’

‘A heady cocktail of inexperience and cockiness,’ she confessed. ‘As a result, the saddle worked loose and I thought I’d see for myself what it felt like to be Pegasus.’

‘Pegasus was a flying horse,’ Theo pointed out, looping the rope around Claudia and then round himself, ‘not a flying rider.’

‘See what I mean by inexperience?’

‘Well, this next part will be something of an experience for us both,’ he said, shuffling out on to the shelf. ‘Ready?’ ‘What girl wouldn’t be, tied face to face with a soldier in uniform?’

With painstaking slowness, the pair were winched up through the trees, helpless against branches which bumped against their limbs, bark which grazed their skin, although Claudia barely noticed. It was all she could do not to look down. Theo was right. Another inch and she’d have been puree in that river a hundred feet below.

‘Nearly there,’ Theo grunted, and for both of them, it was not a moment too soon when strong hands grabbed hold and hauled them back to safety. Hanno slung a horse blanket over her and she wanted to say she didn’t need it, only her teeth were clattering like castanets and nothing came out.

‘That, young lady,’ the old muleteer cackled, ‘is the most extreme case of one-upmanship I’ve ever had the privilege to see.’

‘W-one w-what?’

‘Arcas loses three horses, but you have to go one better.’ Hanno let out his dirty wheeze of a laugh. ‘Mind, you’d never see him whingeing like young Theo there, I’ll wager.’

The soldier was complaining because his skin had been ripped to shreds through the canopy.

‘Reckon that’s how he earned himself his nickname. Just like the animal, you won’t find a trace of self-pity in our silver-haired fox.’ He paused and let out another lewd chuckle. ‘But then, you won’t find compassion, either.’

Arcas was sneering, telling Theo he didn’t need bandages for a few superficial cuts, he was a soldier, for gods’ sake, where’s his backbone? Now they’d wasted enough time, it would be dark in an hour, and if they wanted to camp in any degree of safety, they must cross the Serpent’s back, so let’s get a bloody move on. He looped the rope round his arm and threw it over the pack mule.

‘And as for you.’ Arcas shot a broad wink at Claudia. ‘You’ve had your share of attention-seeking for one day, you’d best ride Hanno’s mule to Vesontio. That cantanker ous old sod makes your average elephant look sprightly.’

‘I hope he’s talking about my horse,’ Hanno said, gurning up his toothless lips, and everybody laughed, and the procession set off once again, with Arcas on foot and Theo astride the leading horse. Junius had given his mount to the wizened muleteer, but not, Claudia suspected, out of a sense of altruism, more because he wanted to show everyone what stuff Gauls (Celts!) were made of.

‘Promise me you won’t pull a stunt like that on our honeymoon,’ Orbilio remarked, reining in beside her once they were over the peak of Serpent Point and the path had broadened out. ‘In my opinion, a woman ought only be widowed once during her lifetime.’

‘Hey, it was me who nearly died, remember?’

‘I’m not so sure about that,’ he rasped, and now she peered closely he did look rather haggard. Maybe the rope he’d helped haul on had slipped? Then again, maybe it was because twilight had all but faded and the dusk was playing tricks.

‘If it’s any consolation to you, Marcus Cornelius, I’ve learned my lesson when it comes to cavalry action.’ The worst that can befall you travelling in a litter is being tipped sideways into a steaming pile of doggy-do. ‘I’ve told you before. The only sensible thing to be placed on a horse is a bet, and from now on, I’m sticking with that philosophy.’

‘Don’t be too harsh on saddles,’ he said. ‘In future, Claudia-’ His hand flashed out and closed over hers. ‘Check the girth.’

Like a tree struck by lightning, Claudia felt a surge right down to her toes. ‘Why?’ she asked slowly. His hand wasn’t covering hers as a lover’s would. His strong fingers squeezed out a warning…

‘Oh, sweet Janus.’ There was no need to answer the question. She knew from the jut of his chin, the tight twist of his mouth.

Claudia’s saddle strap had been cut.

XXV

Never were rooftops more welcome than those of Vesontio! True they were not all tiled, like Rome. But rapid progress was being made in converting from timber to more solid structures-you could tell by the number of construction workers, as small and as industrious as ants, beetling over the scaffolding and operating cranes, whose giant wheels winched up timbers, stone and marble. Looking down over the city from the Black Mountain which protected it, the broad loop of the River Doubs sparkled like a silver ribbon as it all but encircled the Sequani capital and where the river failed, a sturdy wall stepped in to fill the breach. The armour of the sentries on the Neptune Gate glinted whenever the sun stepped out from the clouds.

Since the long legs of an aqueduct marched down from the hills with its arms full of spring water, it seemed the people of Vesontio used the Doubs for the same purpose as Romans used Old Father Tiber, namely to dispose of their rubbish and their sewage. No doubt the same old hoary joke applied to it, that anyone who fell in died of plague before they had the chance to drown. In the centre of town, to the left, the circular dome of the bath house shimmered lazily. Across the river, where woods had been cleared centuries before, both to obtain a clear sight of enemy advances and to provide lush pasture for the stockbreeders’ herds, work was underway to build a theatre so that next summer the bowl of those gentle grassy hills would ring with laughter from a musical farce by Plautus or maybe a bawdy pantomime.

Principally, however, what was plain to see as the weary travellers paused on the brow of the hill, was that there were no dignitaries or welcome party about to greet them, no trumpet fanfares to usher them through the city streets, no roll of drums or cavalcade, and that it looked like it was down to the group to find their own lodgings.

Claudia’s room was simply but adequately furnished, and at least boasted a beautiful balcony bedecked with roses and martagon lilies which, if you hung over the side and stretched your neck like a giraffe, almost afforded you a glimpse of the river. Voices filtered up from the wine room two floors below from those keen to make up for a regimen of nothing more civilized than beer and water. Clearly the drinking was hard, judging from the strong smell of wine which drifted upwards as well.

‘This is an utter disgrace,’ fumed the distinctive mournful tones of the astrologer. ‘I shall make a formal complaint to the governor about this.’

‘Why?’ Titus said. ‘Because we were destined to reappear as ignominiously as we vanished?’

‘Bet that wasn’t in his scientific calculations,’ sneered the glass-blower.

‘Come on, a week late?’ Volso screeched. ‘You’d think they’d send some kind of committee.’

‘I need to make my report,’ Theo muttered.

‘I’ll take payment now,’ Arcas said.

Sluicing water over her body, Claudia smiled to herself.

Funny how they were never happier, this group, than when they were bickering! Drying herself on a towel, she pulled on a fresh cotton gown smelling of peach blossom and thyme and dabbed perfume liberally round her neck and wrists. Apollo’s celestial light flashed out her reflection in the mirror and while the new frock she’d picked up that afternoon hung well and accentuated all the right curves, there was no disguising the thousand curls which tumbled round her shoulders. Dammit, she ought to have hired a maid, a girl capable of dealing with a tangle like this, but time was too tight and thus Claudia delegated the task of defying gravity to a dozen ivory hairpins. Satisfied with the result, she slipped on a pair of gold earrings shaped like leaping dolphins and reached for the satchel which, no matter what these past few days, had never left her side.

‘Scuse me.’ The door creaked open and a dumpling of a girl shouldered her way into the room, a leather bucket in one hand, a sponge and a heather broom in the other.

‘Out!’ Claudia ordered. For what she was about to do, she needed to be entirely alone.

Water sloshed out of the leather bucket in the servant’s red, chapped hands. ‘Can’t,’ she said, kicking shut the door with a fat clog of a foot. ‘My orders are to scrub this chamber.’ She gave a combative sniff. ‘Thoroughly.’

Claudia followed the girl’s narrowed eyes to the newly delivered crate beside the bed. ‘And my orders are for you to skedaddle.’

‘Sorry.’ She wasn’t. Not a bit. ‘The landlord insists. No cats in this inn, he says.’ Her gaze settled on the counterpane, still warm and hollow and furry from Drusilla’s recent sleep. ‘They moult, bring in fleas and scratch up the furniture, and the landlord says to tell you he’s very sorry’- he wasn’t; not a bit-‘but you can’t stay here. Not with cats.’

Claudia knew that if Drusilla was around, there’d be no question of any collision course with the management. One glance at that blue-eyed, cross-eyed Egyptian form advancing sideways across the floor, spitting like a cobra and yowling like a sphinx-dear me, not only mine host, but every member of his staff and distant family would be tumbling over themselves to extend the invitation. However, Drusilla wasn’t here. She had accepted without complaint the rigours of the journey, the company of strangers, even the smell of roses from the balcony. But the instant that carpenter delivered a new crate, she had made her feelings very plain indeed.

You can tame my spirit, her arched back screamed, but you can never cage it. And off she’d gone, no doubt stalking in the kitchens in a huff. A roasted quail here, a stuffed sardine there, she’d show them who was boss, and in fact any second Claudia half-expected to hear a terrified wail from the cook.

But that didn’t solve the problem of Miss Zealous Brush here.

In the street below, Arcas glanced left and right, then headed off towards the river like a man who knew his way around this town, but not, Claudia noted, like a man weighed down with several thousand silver coins.

‘Very well, you scrub the room. I’ll pack,’ she said cheerfully, waiting until the girl had set down her broom and bucket before adding, ‘only mind that satchel, won’t you?’ She timed her pause carefully. ‘Not that snakes are particularly active in the late afternoon.’

‘S-snakes?’ The servant eyed the satchel warily.

‘Only two,’ Claudia breezed. ‘And being pythons, they’re not very fast-oh, I say,’ she called after her, ‘you left your sponge behind!’

Down in the street, the Silver Fox was nowhere to be seen. Three youths, still drunk from their lunchtime binge, wove a zigzag path, their arms clamped round one another’s shoulders as they sang a loud and vulgar song. All right for them, Claudia thought. Rich fathers, you could tell by the cut of their clothes, the rings and the boots they were wearing. Probably taking the scenic loop home from university in Massilia, their futures all mapped out for them, jobs, wives, the lot. But when you’re born to the slums and orphaned young, it’s a different game you play, requiring skills no teacher in Massilia can ever impart or pupils would be jammed in to the rafters. Claudia ran the deerskin pouch lightly between her fingers, felt its velvety softness in her hand, inhaled the rich, warm smell of leather.

Now she knew that it was part of a treasure map she held, it seemed so much heavier somehow. She rattled it again, listened to the familiar chink. He was one smart squeeze, the Salamander Rat-a-tat-tat.

‘Go away.’

She was in no mood for come-and-join-us. What she had to do next required total concentration and no small degree of privacy.

Rat-a-tat-tat, tat, tat, tat, tat.

Hardly Iliona’s style. It must be that bloody landlord! Try to evict Claudia Seferius from the premises, would he? Ha! Well, next time his wife sees him, he’ll be wearing ears where his kidneys once sat The latch lifted. ‘Room service,’ carolled a familiar baritone, the scent of sandalwood preceding him into the chamber. His firm grip held a silver tray containing two stem goblets and a decent-sized jug of wine, together with a heap of steaming pastries.

Shit! Claudia dropped the pouch, kicked it under the bed and leaned against the door frame, as though too busy enjoying the roses on the balcony to notice tavern slaves. ‘Leave it on the table,’ she said haughtily, flicking her wrist.

‘House rule,’ he said. ‘New guests have to take a drink with the staff. Here.’ A glass of fragrant vintage red appeared in front of her. Strange, she’d never noticed that little scar on the inside of his wrist, white and old, but… ‘Now, now, don’t snatch,’ he chided. ‘Or I’ll suspect I have an alcoholic on my hands.’

‘Orbilio, I am about to go out for the evening. Kindly get the hell out of my bedroom.’

‘Anywhere special?’ He leaned his weight against the door frame opposite, their shoulders nearly touching.

‘Frankly,’ she said, ‘I don’t give a hoot where you go.’

‘I’-he focused on the building opposite, a warehouse, newly built and partly empty-‘was referring to you, actually.’

She didn’t need to look at him to know he was grinning. She took a sip of the wine, then another, then another. It was far too good a plonk to be sold in a smoky dive like this, and the pastries seemed somewhat superior, too. Especially that cinnamon bun…

‘Me?’ she replied. That bun had almonds in it, she could smell them, along with raisins and just a hint of apple. ‘Ooh, just out. See if I can’t find a decent place to eat.’ Since the better lodgings had been snatched up by the main body of the delegation days ago, he could hardly pick holes in that argument.

‘So how come you’ve taken two buns?’

Damn! ‘I dine late,’ she said, licking the honey from her top lip.

‘Then why are you going out early?’

Somewhere, Claudia could hear teeth grinding. Hers. ‘Orbilio, it’s a lovely summer’s evening, in case you hadn’t noticed. Who in their right mind wouldn’t want to explore this beautiful city?’

‘Mmm.’ He frowned in concentration. ‘Well-’

‘That was not a serious question.’

‘Maybe not,’ he said mildly, ‘but it deserves a serious answer. And I can think of at least one category of person whose thoughts wouldn’t be on exploring this particular town, where the Sequani tongue predominates, where the buildings are nothing to write home about, being mostly timber framed and thatched, and where organized entertainment is painfully thin on the ground. The person, for instance, who has an appointment to keep?’

‘Is blue blood a prerequisite for tunnel vision?’

‘An appointment, moreover, for trading certain packages?’

‘Marcus, Marcus, Marcus.’ Claudia fluttered her eyelashes. ‘Surely if you, as one of Rome’s leading investigative lights, believed a certain citizen was conveying treasonable information, you would do your utmost to ensure this was not passed to the enemy?’

‘I would.’

Still they stood side by side, leaning against opposite doorposts, sipping wine and not looking at each other.

‘Therefore you would be confident that said citizen was actually in possession of said document?’

‘I would.’

‘And to acquire said information, you’d have had to make a search of said citizen’s belongings?’ Breathe in. Deep breath. Cross fingers. ‘Therefore you must know by now I am not a courier.’

There was a beat of six. Had the bluff worked? ‘I haven’t searched your belongings,’ he growled.

Yes!

‘And you know damn well why.’

Don’t I just! Not because he couldn’t. Even though the satchel had been attached to Claudia tighter than a barnacle, a professional like Supersnoop had the nous to find a way, and neither was it because he feared Claudia would notice. His hands were far too deft for that. No, no. Marcus Upright Orbilio had not searched her satchel because it breached his code of ethics.

‘I have absolutely no idea,’ she said, topping up their glasses with a guileless smile.

Orbilio rubbed a weary hand over his face. ‘Time is running out for silly mind games,’ he said eventually. ‘So I shall spell it out.’

Although clearly the alphabet was not his strong point. Several minutes passed, in which Claudia could feel the heat from his body shimmering across the handspan which divided them. There were moments, she thought she could hear his heartbeat, even above the clamour of chariots rattling over the flagstones below, above the incomprehensible jabber of Sequani hucksters and the pleas of beggars, unmistakable in any language. Noises filtered up from the wine room below, the clink of plates, the chink of goblets, laughter, banter, and tantalizing aromas of roast boar and sucking pig, of garlic, leeks and fresh baked yeasty bread.

‘Jupiter alone is privy to what happened in your past,’ Orbilio said, so quietly she had to strain to catch the words. Then he cleared his throat, and his baritone was crisp and level once again. ‘I could have searched your bags,’ he said, turning for the first time to face her. ‘Any time I wanted, and you’d have never known. But I would.’ He would never know the strength of mind it took to keep on staring straight ahead, so he might only catch her profile. Unblinking and unconcerned.

‘And I am not prepared to live with that deception.’ His voice rasped. ‘On the other hand,’ and suddenly there was steel in his voice, ‘neither am I prepared to stand aside while you profit from Rome’s downfall.’

He could not see the hand at her side which clenched so tightly that her nails drew blood from the palm as they dug into the flesh.

‘Cheap shot, Marcus. Which, incidentally, has failed to hit its target’-my integrity-‘if only for the simple reason that, had you felt it prudent to remove and presumably destroy the various sections which comprise the map, you would have done so. Therefore your strategy must be to allow the rebellion to continue right on schedule.’

It was not enough that he nipped this plot in the bud. He wouldn’t rest until he’d brought the conspirators to book, and he could only do that by letting the couriers hand over their precious deerskin pouches and following the middleman, in the hope it would lead…where? The middleman was working for the rebels.

And then, as though snow had come blasting down from the Alps, Claudia understood why Orbilio was here, in her room this afternoon. It was his intention to be part of the plan. To relieve her of her portion of the map and hand it over in her place, to inveigle himself with the rebels. She wondered why that should make her sick to her stomach. After all, he ran risks every day, why should this be any different? Wasn’t he always putting himself in the firing line? It’s his job. He chooses to do it. She shouldn’t feel queasy with worry ‘Assuming our conclusions are correct,’ he said, and Claudia was glad she remained in profile, because without intending to, one renegade eyebrow shot skywards when he said ‘our’. Something kicked inside her stomach, too. ‘The conspirators in Rome are out to double-cross the rebel chieftains.’

‘Who must keep on believing that payment for their role in the overthrow of the Empire is still coming, even when it isn’t, because the conspirators need that money to keep the Roman soldiers sweet.’ Don’t think I haven’t been paying attention, Marcus Cornelius! ‘However, if the bribe is so vast,’ she said, ‘why don’t you trace it from source?’ Why join forces with the rebels, why put yourself in so much danger?

A wry smile twisted his face. ‘Tried that-and guess what? No single individual has moved the bulk of his assets within recent weeks, and believe me, we’d know about financial shifts on that scale in the Security Police-oh, and before you say it, a whole group of them couldn’t have moved bits and pieces of their fortunes-you’d be talking about a hundred conspirators, and even if there was just a fraction of that number, we’d have heard a whisper through informants.’

‘Suggesting how many are involved at top level?’

‘No more than two or three.’

A vague thought flickered on the edge of Claudia’s mind. Something Dexter had said. Dexter. Dexter. What was it? Connected with his work. Binding senatorial archives. Ah, yes! The State Treasury. Suppose the State Treasury had been raided?

‘The whole lot moved under cover to pay off the tribes?’ He shot her a do-me-a-favour kind of smile. ‘Impossible,’ he said, ‘Absolutely im-’ He stiffened. ‘But it’s funny you say that, because Senator Galba is in charge of the Treasury-and Senator Galba also organized this delegation to tie in with the inaugural ceremony of the temple in Vesontio.’

‘Four years ahead of the actual half-century to celebrate the Roman/Sequani peace deal.’

‘It will take four years to build a temple to Castor and Pollux,’ he said, although for an objective opinion, it came over as pretty unconvincing.

Down below, angry male voices rang out from the wine room. Theo, shouting that they should just pay the man and stop quibbling, while Volso argued back that it wasn’t that simple, was it? Five thousand sesterces were to be handed over, daylight bloody robbery in itself, but why should he, Volso, have to pay more than his share? For crying out loud, Theo yelled, where can the drivers, let alone the bloody horses, find that kind of money? This was a co-operative venture, why couldn’t he bloody co-operate. Co-operative? Volso was on the verge of apoplexy. Whose fault was it they took that sodding shortcut? Get the army to cough up, if Theo felt so strongly about co-oper-bloody-ration.

‘Unfortunately,’ Orbilio said, upending his goblet, ‘we’re on the wrong track. Galba’s personal seal is a burning torch, not a newt, and to start an investigation into his private affairs would be the best thing that ever happened to my boss. It would give him the supreme pleasure of sacking me without a reference.’

‘Unless you were proved right.’

‘I’d never get the chance to-hang on! The night I left Rome in such a goddamned hurry, I was due to dine with Senator Galba. I remember thinking at the time how my father would have seen this as a real feather in the family cap, and yet, even then, I thought it strange that Galba had heard about my investigation into rebel uprisings, and that he should be interested in the progress I was making.’

‘Then go back to Rome,’ she said. ‘First thing in the morning.’

‘You can’t get rid of me that easily,’ he replied, reaching for a duck and venison pie. ‘What we have here is speculation at best, slander against Galba at worst.’

‘Does it matter, providing the coup is foiled?’

‘Not in the least. Providing we are right.’ He caught a dribble of gravy before it splashed on his spotless white tunic. ‘But what if we’re jumping to conclusions? Galba has an unblemished reputation in everything he’s done. He’s ambitious, most senators are, and he’d be the first to admit he covets the role of consul, to be one of the three most powerful men in Rome. Quite frankly, the case against him is thin to the point of transparency. Think about it.’

He dabbled his hands in the warm water of the finger-bowl, scented with basil and balm.

‘Point one. I heard a rumour that the Treveri and the Helvetii were banding together. Is there evidence of this? None whatsoever, since the alliance is about not fighting side by side. Point one laughed out of court. Point two. Who’d believe the line about a plot to overthrow Augustus using foreign mercenaries? Without proof, and we have none, point two is ridiculed as untenable.’

‘What about Remi’s testimony?’

‘A dead Treveri rebel? Who, I, incidentally, killed? It’s turning into farce.’

Claudia scratched her head. Tricky, but surely not insurmountable? She had to talk him into returning home somehow…

‘With vital pieces missing, the map is useless,’ she reminded him-and fell straight into the trap. Of course! That was why he wanted to deliver it! To ingratiate himself with the rebels by pointing out that they’d been double-crossed, hoping they would reveal the names of the ringleaders in Rome. Bugger! Think, Claudia, think.

‘According to certain eastern cultures,’ she said slowly, ‘the salamander is a mythical creature born and living in fire.’

‘Holy Mars!’ Orbilio slammed his fist into the palm of his hand. ‘Why didn’t I think of that? It all makes sense. His burning torch-the salamander. Same thing, different depiction. Galba’s skin won’t be fireproof like his fabled reptile, I shall personally see to that.’ He turned round and grabbed Claudia by both wrists. ‘We’ve got him,’ he shouted. ‘We’ve bloody got him, don’t you see? All we need now is confirmation from the rebels.’

‘Not necessarily.’ Claudia jerked her wrists away. Dammit, he didn’t have to get that close. She didn’t want to feel the power of his hands, smell the goddamned sandalwood on his tanned and gleaming body, let alone see the excitement dancing in his eyes. ‘They’d be loathe to take your word for it,’ she snapped. ‘All that would happen is that the rebels would hold you hostage.’ Whichever way it goes, he’d be dog food. The instant they discover they’d been double-crossed, they’d kill the Roman pig. ‘Which would be sod-all help to Augustus.’

Exultation drained from his face. ‘You have a better idea?’

‘Tell your boss,’ she said. ‘At least you can trust him.’

‘I can?’

‘Oh yes.’ As far as one can ever trust that oily creep. ‘The Salamander promised the job of Jupiter’s Priest to our friend Clemens,’ she said, sinking her teeth into another spicy bun. ‘Don’t you think the gods would move house from Olympus before your boss allowed Clemens to usurp the role he’d earmarked for his brother?’

Orbilio threw back his head and laughed. ‘Claudia Seferius, you are sneaky, devious, cynical and underhanded, and those are just your good points! Worse than that, though, you are a veritable genius. Thanks to you,’ he made a gracious bow, ‘I can send word back to Rome to keep a close eye on Galba, based on the evidence I have accumulated, not to mention suggesting they make an inventory of the State Treasury which, or I shall eat my hunting boots, has undoubtedly been spirited away to Gaul. So with the Rome end all but tied up, what I need now is a list of rebel chieftains to wrap up this whole conspiracy once and for all.’

Bugger, bugger, bugger. Me and my big mouth!

‘Now then,’ he said cheerfully, ‘it’s none of my business how or why you’ve been drawn into this wretched courier lark, but whatever reward has been offered, I shall ensure you do not lose by it, so come on, Claudia. Be a good girl, give me the map. I know you’ve got it.’

Claudia sighed loudly. ‘You’re right, Marcus.’ You could almost see his little heart lift. ‘As always, you are absolutely right.’ She waited for the full beam to light his face. ‘It is none of your business. Now get out of my room.’

‘Goddammit, woman, don’t you understand what’s at stake here?’

‘You’d prefer I have Junius throw you out?’

His expression darkened, she heard him swear under his breath, but without another word, he turned on his heel and strode off, slamming the door to within an inch of its life.

Down in the street, a bow-backed donkey laden with panniers of cherries clip-clopped wearily in the direction of the river, a young redheaded boy following with a switch which he used to run along the walls. Claudia inhaled the bouquet of the roses and picked a lily from the pot.

‘Typical! Come home, now I’ve done your dirty work,’ she told Drusilla, who had taken advantage of the lull to sail over the balcony rail.

‘Prrrrr.’ Pausing by the window, sharp claws began to scratch splinters out of the frame before the corner of her slanty eyes remembered the reason behind her sudden departure. ‘Grrrr. Grrrrrrr.’

‘That is a cage, not a prison,’ Claudia reminded her, setting down a bowl of thick creamy milk.

‘Hrrrow.’ The squint became exaggerated, because this cat wasn’t stupid. She knew quite well what bars represented, thank you very much! On the other hand, the cook had thrown a ladle at her before she’d had a chance to scrape her long, pink tongue along the butter and boy, did that cream look appetizing. ‘Slup, slup. Slup, slup.’ She would drink it, but only as a favour to her mistress, and to make this clearly understood she stuck a decent show of hackles in the air. ‘Mrrrr.’

Claudia knelt down by the bed and fished out the yellow deerskin pouch. ‘What?’ She glowered at Drusilla. ‘Hand this over to Hotshot? No way!’

‘Bloop-bloop, bloop-bloop.’ Tiny splatters of white splashed on to the polished wooden floor.

‘Providing the rebels don’t get their hands on the actual gold itself, no harm can be done by keeping the appointment with the middleman,’ Claudia said, patting her wayward curls into place. ‘Especially when a whole year’s vintage rests on this.’

There was just time, she thought, to polish off that last remaining pastry.

‘Besides,’ she told the cat, ‘Claudia Seferius is a girl who always keeps her word.’ Particularly when it suited her. And as Drusilla sat washing her whiskers, Claudia wondered whether that little black thing which had just jumped through the air might be of any interest to the landlord.

‘Mrrow?’

‘Oh, don’t be silly. Saving Hotshot’s life by not allowing him to become embroiled in rebel politics is no big deal, poppet. I’d have done it for anybody, it doesn’t mean I give a fig for him personally.’

He’s just a man. Nothing special. The way the light reflects off the flecks in his hair doesn’t mean a thing. Or the way it felt, when he’d gripped her hand on the road yesterday ‘Right.’ Claudia kissed the yellow pouch. ‘Time to make a move, I think.’

And for this-she pulled the shutters closed and latched them tight-she needed total privacy. No chambermaids. No room service.

‘And now.’ Ten minutes later, she shook the folds of her gown and inhaled the sweet smell of peach blossom. ‘The finishing touch.’

She slid her hand deep into her satchel and extracted a thin-bladed knife.

‘Mrrrrrr.’

‘Don’t look at me like that, poppet.’ She stroked the cat until, pacified, feline ears flattened hard against her wedge-shaped head. ‘This is simply a sensible precaution. Junius will be with me at all times, nothing can go wrong at this stage, trust me.’

‘Rrrr.’

‘Nonsense. That business with the saddle strap? All settled.’ Didn’t she say at the time it felt like the wrong horse? Later Volso made the very same point and it was obvious, with hindsight, what had happened. ‘The astrologer was the killer’s target, poppet. Not me.’

‘Prrrrr.’

‘Exactly! The worst is behind us, it’s plain sailing from now on, and I can see no reason, Drusilla, my girl, why tomorrow morning the three of us, you, me and Junius, are not heading straight back to Rome.’

‘Prr.’

Although had Claudia Seferius thought to consult a Sequani dictionary at that stage, she may well have discovered that the Celtic definition of the word ‘worst’ differed considerably from the Latin interpretation.

XXVI

Apart from a pair of cresset lights burning on either side of the doorway, the house was total darkness by the time Claudia returned to her lodgings. One or two stars twinkled between the scudding clouds, but the night was warm and the river smelled sour, even from here. Down at the waterfront, where she’d spent several hours, the stench was considerably worse. Raw sewage, stale beer, the lingering odour of stevedores’ sweat. But at least there was life down there. Vitality. The shrill laugh of whores, drunken singing, brawls which spilled from the swillpens into the streets. Back here, in the dark, sinister shadow of Black Mountain, only the silent footfalls of a cat revealed the scene was not a still-life painted fresco.

Looking up at the bolted shutters, Claudia was suddenly conscious of the two distinct categories which divided her fellow travellers. On the one hand there were those, like Titus and Iliona, who’d found stimulation from their unplanned adventure and whose limbs would be intertwined, naked and sated, as they slept in one another’s arms. Then there were the Dexters and Marias who had not, and now lay side by side, awake and unspeaking, in the hollow emptiness of their room, separated by a hand-span and a gulf of understanding. Involuntarily, Claudia shivered. Then, dismissing Junius, she slipped into the tavern. What a night!

‘I’ll light you to your room, miss,’ the porter said, hobbling out of his cubbyhole.

‘You’ll do no such thing,’ she retorted, snatching the oil lamp from his hand. ‘I can manage perfectly well by myself.’

With a suit-yourself shrug, the porter retreated to his jug of ale and game of odds-and-evens, stubbing his toe on the table in the darkness and cursing as his counters scattered over the floor, ruining the run of play.

With an eerie flicker, the lamp lit Claudia’s way up the stairs. Wretched bloody Gauls. Can’t they build with anything but timber? Talk about gloomy. And even between the beams, they’d made no attempt to paint the lumpy plaster. All you got was a clumsily fashioned statue of some silly bitch riding side-saddle stuck in a niche in the wall halfway up this rickety staircase. Epona, didn’t they call her? For a goddess, Claudia thought, you’re not much of a rider. She was tipped sideways, rather like Claudia when she tumbled over the edge yesterday. Pausing to straighten the statuette, she realized that the sculpture had a thick stone spike on the bottom, which fitted-or in this case, did not-into a socket. Curious, Claudia peered into the hole and saw that it contained several bronze and silver coins, and it was this munificent offering which kept Epona offbalance. Easily remedied…

With the Celtic goddess upright once again, Claudia continued her way up the stairs and by the light of the porter’s oil lamp counted her profits. Previous guests had been generous to the lovely Epona. Twelve sesterces. Quite a What was that?

With one puff, she extinguished the lamp. All evening she’d felt sure she was being followed. Even Junius had clutched his dagger tightly in his hand, rather than loosely in its scabbard and she knew it wasn’t Supersnoop on their tail. He’d have throttled his own shadow rather than let it give him away. She tiptoed across the room and listened, there were faint scufflings on the landing.

Whoever it was out there would know she was still in possession of the deerskin pouch, although by the gods, it wasn’t for the want of trying! Her instructions had been clear. Go down to the waterfront to the Temple of Neptune, turn right, then take the first street right again. You’ll see a modern brick-built warehouse showing the sign of the salamander. Go inside, up the stairs, second floor, first door on the left, knock this signal: one long, two short, two long. Ask for the slave dealer, Ecba.

Like Clemens with his wretched taboos for Jupiter’s Priest, Claudia had memorized the instructions, could have recited them backwards and in Phrygian in her sleep. Therefore, after taking a convoluted route, as though out for a gentle evening stroll, she had worked her way down to the wharves. Here it would be much easier to give her tail the slip, and it would appear so innocent, too. After all, what wealthy Roman gentlewoman would knowingly make for the rough part of town, where sailors catcalled obscenities from the safety of their ships, where raddled whores with ravaged faces spat at her? With so much loading and unloading going on, barrels, sacks, crates, amphorae being wheeled, winched, hefted, rolled, it was easy to get lost in the crush.

For thirty dull minutes she and Junius had remained flat on their stomachs underneath the granary, conveniently raised on stone piers to prevent rat damage, their prostrate bodies hidden by a consignment of fleeces, while gangplanks were lowered and raised, masts stepped and unstepped, oxen hooked up to and unhooked from barges. Wagons rolled in, wagons rolled out. Chains rattled over the quayside, ropes dragged, hoofs scuffed impatiently, but no two pairs of boots which passed back and forth were the same.

The warehouse had been easy to find. A stone salamander slithered over the pediment, picked out in black paint. Up two flights. One long, two short, two long knocks on the door. ‘I’m looking for Ecba,’ she called. ‘The slave dealer.’

Nothing.

Next time louder. The third knock they’d have heard in Dalmatia.

He’s out. Why shouldn’t he be? He’s not to know the delegation has finally arrived. I’ll wait.

Two hours passed, with no sign of the slave dealer.

Why should there be? This was his place of work, not his home. She enquired at the barber’s shop opposite. The barber, a big man with the aquiline features of the Babylonian, sent a gobbet of spittle past Claudia’s skirt. He came. He went. He minded his own business. And if the grating of heavy shutters sliding across his shopfront between himself and Claudia didn’t get the message across, the rattling of safety chains did.

Terrific.

Two more hours passed. It got dark. She got hungry. No Ecba.

They picked up food from the wharves-hot spicy sausage, crumbly bread-then sauntered back to the lofty building marked with the black salamander. In this light, it looked sinister and menacing, as it twisted and slithered over the doorway.

‘Ecba? Ah.’ An inebriate sailor grinned, sprawled over the top step. ‘Yah.’

‘You know him?’

‘Ecba?’ The grin broadened. ‘Nah.’

Four hours had passed in total. Night had fallen, but the industry along the riverbank had not. Watermen still bustled about, porters balanced boxes, bales and hides. No one here had ever heard of Ecba, but then slave dealers were unpopular everywhere. Even if he was drinking in the tavern behind them, the dock labourers’ lips would stay tight.

By the wee small hours, Claudia had had it up to here with fishy smells and oxen, bad breath and oily fleeces. She would simply have to wait until morning to conduct her business with Ecba. But now, returning to her room, there were faint shufflings on the landing. Had whoever set out to follow her been waiting?

Sorry, buster. Claudia pulled out her little knife from the folds of her gown. Can’t hang around for you to make the first move. Now let’s see what you’re made of-silently, she eased open her door.

‘I love you.’

What?

Blinking in the blackness, Claudia wondered whether she was hearing things.

‘You must believe that, my darling.’ The voice was harsh and whispered, and came from two doors along. Whose room was that? ‘I can’t live without you.’

A crack of light appeared on the polished wooden floor, like a glowing golden poker.

‘All my lovers say that,’ a woman’s voice trilled.

‘Don’t! Don’t torment me like this.’ The gruff tones of the astrologer were unmistakable.

‘Oh, but it’s true.’ The girl let out a flirtatious giggle. ‘The oil merchant I hooked up with while you took your silly little detour, he said he loved me, as well.’

‘Well, I’m the only one who’s ever meant it,’ Volso rasped. ‘Can you imagine what it was like, without you this past week? Wanting you? Wanting to touch you, taste you, feel your arms around me? It was agony. Absolute agony.’

‘Good.’ The door swung wider and his female visitor skipped across the threshold, licking her finger to smooth the line of her brow with one hand and veiling her face with the other. ‘Maybe next time I’ll make you wait longer.’

‘No!’ Volso lunged and pulled her back, his hungry hands surging over her body. ‘I can’t live without you, you know that. Not another day. Janus, you drive me wild!’ For a count of thirty his lips noisily plundered hers before the girl broke free and ran, laughing, towards the stairs. At the top she paused, turned and blew him a kiss, then with a giggle and a fluttering of long, slim fingers, she skipped down the stairs.

Astonished, Claudia continued to watch as Volso, groaning, clicked his door shut. The glass-blower was right. You are a dark horse, she thought, and through the slit of her door, turned her eyes towards the girl. What a vixen. Clearly promiscuous, probably preys on lonely, unattractive men like Volso purely for the power she wields over them. Claudia frowned. Why, though, was she stopping halfway down the stairs? A dainty hand lifted the statuette out of its socket, and even in the darkness, she could see the flash of amber on the girl’s forefinger. What a lump it was, too! The size of an ostrich egg. Did Volso buy her that? The other hand was hidden, and Claudia realized it was fishing around in the hole she’d just raided. In the darkness, her lips twitched. Sorry, love. Beat you to it.

‘Bastard!’ The girl spun round and flounced back up the stairs. ‘Volso!’ She battered on his door. ‘Volso, you bastard, open up.’

‘Ssssssh.’ The urgency in his whisper was palpable. ‘Keep your voice down, my love. What’s the matter?’

‘Matter, you thieving bastard? I want my money, that’s what’s the matter.’

Smothering her mouth with her hand, Claudia stifled a laugh. So that’s Volso’s little dreamboat, his siren, his beloved? A common whore. He leaves the money-phew, some payment-rather than hand it over personally, no doubt it makes him feel ‘cleaner’ that way. Maybe he can even delude himself into believing that this nubile coquette actually wants him for his own sake.

A faint ray of pity limped its way across to the lonely, ugly astrologer.

‘I d-don’t understand,’ he stammered. ‘I left it where you told me to. Under the statue.’

‘Well, it’s not there now,’ she hissed, no longer the flirt, but the hard, mercenary whore. The veil had tipped back, to reveal a sheet of glossy black hair which shimmered by the light of the single lamp from Volso’s room, and Claudia could see other things, too, the earstud which glittered with a giant emerald, the kohl-rimmed eyes and bright red carmined lips, and the fact that Volso’s lover was barely past the age of puberty Suddenly, Claudia’s heart constricted. So young. So very, very young to be peddling your flesh to old men. Salty water filled her eyes. Far too young to be wise in the ways of obsessing men with your rare and tender beauty. Far too young to have a score of lovers, teasing, taunting, manipulating their fractured emotions as you play one off against the other.

Sweet Jupiter. Claudia swallowed in the darkness. Give it up. While you can. Get out now. You’re far too young to make middle-aged men clamour and compete for your fidelity, knowing inside-as they do-that as surely as the sun will rise in the east, you will leave them and move on.

The girl moved and the lamplight showed Volso’s whore in cruel clarity. Shit! His lover was not female at all. It was a youth. Dressed in women’s clothes.

XXVII

‘Claudia, wake up, wake up!’ A thousand pans clattered against each other in Claudia’s ear, each one greased with oil of oregano. ‘The procession kicks off in less than an hour!’

Shutters were flung wide, filling the room with a burst of unwelcome light and under the counterpane, Claudia groaned. ‘Iliona?’

‘That’s me. Now hurry up or you’ll miss it.’

‘Miss what?’

Iliona plumped down on the end of Claudia’s couch. ‘The parade to be held in our honour. Didn’t Junius tell you? We gave him the message over two hours ago.’

Claudia sat up and ran a comb through her hair, wincing at the tangles. ‘No Junius, no message,’ she said lightly, while inside a solid ball of concrete formed.

‘You mean you haven’t even been shopping?’ Iliona was appalled. ‘What will you wear?’ Her hands delved into Claudia’s pack, but before they’d closed round the first wrap, Claudia pulled them away.

‘I picked up a few gowns yesterday,’ she said, pointing towards the clothes’ chest and hoping her voice wasn’t as cold as she suspected it might be.

‘Clever you.’ Iliona darted across and lifted the lid, pulling out all colours of the rainbow, and either she was a consummate actress, or she was genuinely interested in Claudia’s wardrobe. ‘Oh, my! What a wonderful colour. Aquamarine. Do wear that,’ she cried. ‘It will complement your curls and dark hair right down to the ground. Now I must fly. See you in the Forum, don’t be late!’

With a silvery jingle, Iliona danced out of the room, her anklets gleaming in the morning light, her divided skirt billowing out in a cloud of deep lavender, the beads on her pale lilac bodice clicking as she ran, proving once again that she was a one-woman show in herself.

Buckling down the straps on the pack that those long Cretan fingers had explored, Claudia reminded herself, not for the first time, that whoever had sabotaged the delegation, arranged the landslide, killed Libo and Nestor, as well as Gemma’s parents and the lyre-maker, not to mention cutting through a certain saddle strap had only been able to do so because they had remained at all times above suspicion. Iliona?

The landing was deserted by the time Claudia had hauled on her gown, the lodging house eerily silent. She was still adjusting the girdle round her waist when a door opened and Maria burst through, resplendent in a robe of scarlet and gold. Surely, though, she hadn’t been drinking at this early hour? Yet what else explained the two bright spots of colour high on her cheekbones, her unnaturally bright eyes?

‘Have you seen Junius this morning?’ Claudia asked.

‘All the dignitaries will be there,’ Maria gushed, and Claudia realized it wasn’t wine which had intoxicated her, but an overdose of snobbery. The governor of the province, his prefects, his aediles, his magistrates. The army is form ing a guard of honour, there’ll be an equestrian parade and the prefect who’d organized the inauguration ceremony has been on standby for our arrival, so there’ll be jugglers, magicians, acrobats, the lot. Oh!’ She clasped her hands across her chest until the knuckles turned white. ‘This is the moment Dexter’s been waiting for!’

‘Dexter has?’

‘The Sequani king can’t make it, apparently. A toothache or something. Anyway it’s keeping him tied to his bed,’ she said dismissively, ‘but anyone who’s anyone will be there, and I tell you, Claudia, this will be a day to remember. Dexter will be able to secure contracts for his bookbinding business. I’ve told him straight he must make sure they know he intends to open a branch here in Vesontio. They’ll not want to ship their delicate documents to Rome, he must let them know we can handle the most sensitive issues-’

‘Junius,’ Claudia reminded her. ‘Have you seen him, Maria?’

‘Huh? Oh. Your slave. No, dear, I can’t say I have, but then,’ she let out a girlish laugh, ‘I’ve had other things on my mind.’

Bugger.

Claudia leaned over the balcony rail. ‘Junius?’ she called. ‘Get the hell back in here!’ But he was nowhere to be seen. Bugger, bugger, bugger. She ran down the stairs, calling his name as she went, checking the gardens, the kitchens and finally the slave quarters.

‘No, ma’am. Haven’t seen him. Sorry, ma’am.’

‘Junius!’

Goddammit, this is no time to play hide and seek. She sped across to the cubbyhole where’d he’d slept and felt the concrete inside her flip over. Junius’s belongings were gone.

‘Are you really surprised?’ a deep voice asked in her ear.

He was sitting on a maplewood chest, swinging his long patrician legs as he examined an object in his hands.

‘Orbilio?’ She pretended her heel had snagged in her skirt, and by the time she’d made the necessary adjustment, Claudia’s colour and vocal chords were under control.

‘You knew he was a spy, didn’t you? Sending information back to his people.’

Ice chilled her veins. ‘Don’t talk tripe.’

‘Oh, come on.’ He tossed the object in the air, and she could see it was a carved figurine. ‘He’s a Gaul, head of your bodyguard, why do you think Junius stayed with you?’

Claudia pictured the unsmiling blue eyes which followed her every move. ‘He’s a slave,’ she said flatly. ‘Where can he go?’

‘Slave.’ Orbilio rolled the word round on his tongue. ‘Mmm. Don’t I recall an incident where he was offered his freedom? And another when he was rewarded-by his mistress, no less-with a very respectable sum? More than enough, as I recall, to purchase his freedom thrice over.’

‘There are types of glass, Orbilio, which are manufactured in such a way that, when you hold them at a certain angle, the object you wish to view becomes magnified many, many times.’ Tipping her head on one side, she smiled sweetly at him. ‘Unfortunately, if I stacked a hun dred such glasses on top of one other, still I would not be able to find a speck of interest in your pitiful ramblings.’

‘Is that a fact?’

Dammit, did he really believe that by covering his mouth with the back of his hand she wouldn’t know he was smiling?

‘Listen to me, you slick bastard,’ she hissed. ‘Junius is not a spy for the Gauls, and I-I remember now. Last night I asked him to run an errand for me. In the rush to get ready this morning, I’d completely forgotten.’

‘You’ve forgotten to pin up your hair. But’-with his little finger he reached out and pinged one of her curls-‘Junius had no errand to run. Not for you.’ His eyes flashed across to the pallet on which the young Gaul had slept. ‘He’s gone, Claudia. Taken his pack and skedaddled.’

‘Yes. Well. That was part of the plan.’ Her eyes flashed defiance.

‘Hmm.’ With great leisure, Marcus replaced the carved figurine on its shelf. ‘This errand wouldn’t be connected with Ecba, would it?’

Holy Jupiter! How the hell did he know about that?

‘Who?’

‘You don’t know Ecba?’ He heaved himself off the chest and dusted himself down. ‘My, my, my, you do surprise me. Perhaps that’s another thing that slipped your mind in the morning rush, so kindly let me refresh your memory. He has an office down by the waterfront-ring any bells? No? Suppose I tell you he’s a slave dealer? Not a profession which is overly admired, of course. Which possibly explains why someone felt inclined to slit his throat from ear to ear last night.’

‘What?’

‘For someone who doesn’t know the fellow, you seem pretty upset by his death,’ he said mildly.

Claudia turned away so he could not see her face. ‘Not by the slave dealer’s demise,’ she said tartly. ‘More by the insinuation that one of my staff was in some way complicit. I suppose you have ruled out suicide?’

‘Not necessarily, although any help finding where he threw the knife while lying flat on the floor with his windpipe wide open would be greatly appreciated.’

‘Very amusing, Marcus. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a procession to catch.’

‘I’ll walk with you.’

‘I don’t want you.’

‘That’s irrelevant.’ And his hand clamped round her upper arm, as though he was worried she’d give him the slip.

*

Despite a pronounced Roman influence, Vesontio was very much a foreign city. Too much timber, too much thatch, only the major thoroughfares paved. In contrast to Rome, where wheeled traffic was not permitted during daylight hours because it clogged up the streets, here congestion was actively encouraged, to judge by the preponderance of jammed carts and blocked-in wagons. Claudia and Marcus were forced into the side streets, where deep ruts had dried out to leave ankle-breaking ridges, perfect for ensnaring slippery cabbage stalks and mouldy meatbones, broken belt buckles and scraps of tallow and, down here, everything but everything was made of wood.

Houses, in particular. Stodgy, windowless structures reeking of beer and stale air, where goats, even in the heart of the city, were tethered to the doorposts in such a way as to allow them access indoors and out. It was like a walk back in time. A primitive land with primitive customs, where shaggy woollen tablecloths and coarse plaid tunics were draped over cumbersome clothes lines which crisscrossed the street, where trenchers, beakers, even spoons and ladles were fashioned out of wood and, when the Sequani did opt for pottery, it was rudimentary and plain. No sophisticated glazes for these people, no comic ‘Drink Me’ slogans here! Chickens scratched round the hive-shaped communal ovens, shawl-draped women sat spinning wool in the doorways or else their deft fingers wove multi-coloured withies, because it seemed that every other building sported wickerwork for sale, baskets, cradles, chairs. Dark, dingy shops sold hoods or leather jerkins, leg bindings or woollen pantaloons, and Claudia realized that it was not so much a desire to cling to the old ways which fired the Sequani, more a dogged refusal to accept change.

Not in retaining their traditional dress. Stiff leather jerkins, for instance, kept out the rain, wind and snow, and the low buildings roofed with wheat thatch were designed not for style but to repel their worst enemy, the long and rigorous winters. Fair enough. But what she could not understand was their refusal to accept technological change. Why keep the old horse collar, for instance? Not only hard on the poor old horse, with its windpipe so severely constricted, but from a practical point of view, it cut down on efficiency. And why stick with the old-fashioned and highly ineffectual ard, when a modern plough can turn the soil over instead of just making a furrow?

Considering Sequani metalworkers were some of the best in the Empire, churning out the most amazing filigree, and Gaulish boatmen had invented craft suited only to the Doubs, the Rhine, the Rhone, yet which, if required, could actually be seaworthy when fitted with sails, well, all this smacked of…

‘It occurs to me,’ Claudia said, ducking underneath a pair of green-striped pantaloons, ‘that the Sequani are sorely oppressed.’ She outlined her reasons, but far from scoffing, Orbilio nodded slowly.

‘The king is a good man,’ he said. ‘Not for nothing has he been awarded the title ‘Brother of the People’ by the Senate, he is a good ally to Rome, he understands the importance of the two nations working together in peace. It was his father, remember, the old king, who asked for our help in the first place, after his disastrous fight for the Auverne.’

Although this took place long before Claudia was born, who didn’t know the history, and whenever a schoolmaster needed to define the word irony to his class, he’d cite the Sequani. In an attempt to annex the Auverne, what was then a hostile, anti-Roman tribe called in more and more German mercenaries until they found they’d bitten off more than they could chew. The German army was suddenly larger than the Sequani’s, and now it was their turn to face annihilation. In desperation they turned to Rome and pleaded submission.

‘Why keep his people down, though?’

‘You’re assuming this is the king’s doing,’ Orbilio said. ‘This smacks of behind-the-scenes trickery by nefarious generals, cousins, nephews. You see, I have a nasty feeling about the Sequani. I think this cauldron has been boiling for a long, long time, and I don’t believe the Spider is merely grasping the moment. The men who came after us were trained warriors.’

Visions flashed through Claudia’s memory. The bloodcurdling yells. The pointed lances. The chain mail, and banners. Scarlet and gold.

And just where was her bodyguard? Would he really have upped and left without a word? It was, she acknowledged, a real possibility.

‘How come you never heard a whisper?’ she asked. After all, if several thousand men had been in training over the years…?

‘Suppose I say “wicker man”?’ he shot back. ‘The power of the Druids is absolute, far stronger than the king’s. Druids are not priests in the sense we understand the word. Admittedly, they take omens and,’ he grimaced, ‘sacrifice, but first and foremost their word is law. If sedition comes via the guild of Druids, you can bet your boots it will remain secret.’

Fear of retribution would see to that. Claudia’s teeth began to chatter. Suddenly this city-no, this entire province-seemed altogether sinister and menacing and every unnamed terror she’d experienced trapped in the valley flooded back. Most of all, a feeling of impending doom ‘I’ll tell you what I think,’ Marcus growled. ‘I think Remi was stitched up tighter than a kipper.’ He began to rotate the figure-of-eight ring around his little finger and Claudia saw there were tears in his eyes. ‘Maybe the chieftain’s son was after her plot of land, maybe she rebuffed his advances, maybe she was simply unlucky, I have no idea-but that girl was set up from the start. All along we’d been fed these drip-drip-drips of information, an uprising here, an uprising there, it was very deliberate rumour-mongering, very clever. Then someone wanted to up the stakes.’

‘And so they set up Remi.’ Claudia thought of a girl she’d never met, a redheaded firebrand, newly widowed, with two tiny children to raise, leaping at the chance for extra money and taking on absolute trust the word of the chieftain’s son.

‘Yes.’ His voice was a harsh whisper. ‘They set up Remi, bait for us Romans, and we fell hook, line and sinker. The Treveri played their part to the full, ensuring our legions were moved to shore up the holes, while the Helvetii wait quietly in the wings for their turn. Throughout this plot there’s been double-cross upon double-cross and it’s not over yet. The Spider is behind it, I can smell it.’

‘ The Spider? Oh, come on, we’d never heard of him until a couple of days ago, and then it was only as a band of enthusiastic headhunters. You’ve been sniffing the hemp seeds again. It’s Galba, Orbilio. Galba who’s masterminding the plot to assassinate the Emperor.’

They were close to the Forum by now, and he drew her under the awning of a bronzesmith’s.

‘That’s not the point,’ he said. ‘Galba hires the Treveri and the Helvetii, right? He plans to kill Augustus and his loyal followers on one particular night, taking advantage of the fact that the Treveri have kept the legions occupied in the north so that the Helvetii can swoop down on Rome. Hey presto, a new Republic is born. Except that very quickly, both tribes will realize that the gold he promised them is not forthcoming. Before they can regroup, though, Galba will set the entire might of Rome on them, and I tell you, Claudia, the Spider knows this. He’s known from the very beginning.’

‘So?’ Claudia shrugged. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t sent a courier back to the Head of the Security Police, because I won’t believe you.’

‘Of course I’ve sent the message,’ Orbilio said, and there was an added note of urgency in his voice. ‘That’s not the point. The point is, Ecba has been murdered. Don’t you see what that means?’

Um…

‘Ecba was liaising between Galba and the tribes,’ he said. ‘We know that because of the salamander connection-’

‘Just as a matter of interest, Hotshot, how did you know about Ecba?’

‘Didn’t I tell you?’ he grinned. ‘Well, lacking the cooperation of a certain courier-’

‘Don’t look at me like that.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like that.’

‘I’m merely recounting events,’ he said airily. ‘How Marcus Cornelius was forced to apply lateral thinking. Start from the other end, as it were. Ask around about the seal of the salamander, and ho, ho, ho! Ecba’s name came up, because Ecba-surprise, surprise-has not only been supplying the good senator with slaves for many years, he is well-known for not asking questions. For instance, he never queries where his merchandise comes from. Which is mainly Scandinavia, by the way.’

‘Ugh.’

‘Universally despised, are slave dealers. The perfect choice for a middleman. Anyway, there’s Marcus Cornelius, hanging around the warehouse as the herald calls three in the morning, when who comes along? None other than our cheerful companion, the glass-blower, unfortunately denied admission by the simple expedient of a locked door. This sets your intrepid hero thinking-or more accurately, putting his manly shoulder to the door.’

‘Whereupon he instantly slips in a pool of Ecba’s blood and thinks, goody, another case to solve, polish that seat in the Senate, boys, politics here I come.’

‘Is it, though?’ he asked, with a flighty twitch of his eyebrows.

‘You have “ambition” tattooed on your forehead.’

‘Not politics. I meant, is it another case to solve-or simply a continuation of the first? We already have one lyre-maker dead, Libo the undercover agent, Nestor, the brick-maker and his wife, not to mention an attempt on your own life-’

‘Volso’s, my dear.’

‘If you say so. Anyway, Ecba has been eliminated and suddenly I’m reminded of the game I used to play as a boy.’

‘Losing your marbles?’

‘Musical stools.’ The twinkle in his dancing eyes died. ‘Last one standing is the winner. Claudia-’

He steered her away from the ears of the curious bronzesmith to the south side of the Forum. Tiered seating had been set up along the eastern and western sides, fronting the new basilica on one side and the Temple of Jupiter on the other. Maria was right next to the governor’s box.

‘Ecba’s job,’ Marcus said, ‘was to collect the pieces of the map and pass them on. He would not be privy to the information that certain portions would “accidentally” go missing during the course of the journey, therefore his role was, although distasteful, at least an innocent one. So who killed him?’

‘You tell me.’

‘I wish I could, but Ecba’s murder makes no sense. Neither side wants him dead, it’s not in either of their interests, any betrayal of trust.’

‘You said yourself this was one double-cross after another.’

‘But not yet,’ Marcus stressed. ‘From Galba’s point of view, it’s vital his middleman passes on as many pieces as he can, evidence of good faith and all that. From the rebel point of view, they’re clearly expecting a full set and couldn’t possibly know, it’s too soon, that several pieces are missing. The couriers have barely set foot in Vesontio. Therefore I ask again, who killed Ecba, if not a third party?’

‘Marcus, Marcus, Marcus.’ Claudia was pleased with the restraint she was able to show. ‘Granted our arachnid friend is a third party, but I don’t see how killing the middleman advances his cause. You’re trying to fit together pieces which are simply not meant to fit, so why don’t you abandon matchmaking for a while and ask yourself the question, not who killed the slave dealer, but why?’

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ he said cheerfully, and Claudia had a horrid suspicion he’d been working up to this all along. ‘And to reach a suitable answer, first we need to establish who among our party was the agent in Galba’s employ.’

‘I don’t much care for the “we” part of that.’

Crossing the open space of the Forum, she had the feeling hundreds of eyes could see the word ‘Sucker’ stuck on her back.

‘Can’t hear you.’ Marcus grinned. ‘For the elephant trumpeting.’ With a theatrical flourish, he offered her his arm. ‘Now then, milady, shall we take our seats for the show?’

XXVIII

Of the many fictions maintained, the one which informs us that class plays no part in modern-day living must be the largest. Or, if not, at least the cause of most mirth. Marcus Cornelius Orbilio, as befitted his aristocratic status, had been assigned a seat in the governor’s box, sending Maria’s eyes whizzing out of their sockets as it dawned on her that it was not Titus she should have been shoving her husband closer towards, but the designer of mosaic floors. The poor woman almost fell off her cushion when, after a muted exchange with the governor, Marcus excused himself, to park amongst the rest of the delayed delegation.

‘That’s breeding for you,’ she whispered to Dexter. ‘Refusing a seat in the imperial box. You be sure you sit next to him at the banquet tonight. Dexter, are you listening to me?’

‘My throat’s sore and the glands are right up.’

‘Never mind that.’ Maria turned and fluttered her fingers in Orbilio’s direction. ‘Marcus has contacts in all the right places, and if you play it right this evening, we might be talking of premises not just in Rome and Vesontio, but maybe Naples, Massilia, Byzantium. And for goodness sake, will you stop fussing over that lumpy tradesman’s daughter.’

‘Gemma is a sweet girl,’ Dexter protested. ‘Only yesterday she fetched some ointment for my big toe and this morning she paid a special visit to the herbalist to get a salve for my throat.’ He flashed a proprietorial smile over Gemma’s head. ‘The way she follows me around,’ he said, ‘she’s like a puppy.’

Maria’s lip curled. ‘Perfect training, then, for the dog she’s growing into!’

To a blast on silver trumpets, a procession of pure white horses entered the Forum, caparisoned in gold and silver and blue, their riders performing daredevil stunts-handstands, backflips and somersaults-on the backs of their dancing, prancing mounts. Musicians followed. Then tumblers, jugglers, acrobats. African dancers in skimpy feather costumes. Monkeys dressed up as cavalrymen and riding on black goats filled the Forum with laughter, and it looked like summer was about to join the festivities. The sun was breaking through at last, great chunks of blue sky pushing out the clouds.

‘Give me one good reason why I don’t post a bulletin to have your bodyguard arrested.’

Dear Diana, she knew Orbilio didn’t like the boy, but this was ridiculous. Briefly Claudia speculated whether there was a deeper motive behind his wanting Junius out of the way. From the corner of her eye, she watched him applauding the clowns. Now where did you get that idea from? Silly bitch. What makes you think he’d be jealous? Look at him. Not a care in the world. Sows oats faster than a farmer in November, different women every week. She wondered why that should cause a knot in her stomach.

‘Orbilio, let me give you three,’ Claudia said sharply.

‘One: Junius is no back-stabber. If he wanted to kill someone, he’d do it face to face.’ Where the hell had that boy disappeared to? Why take his pack? ‘Two: he has nothing to gain from working for Galba, since he’s not only a foreigner, but a slave to boot. Neither has a place in any fancy Republic, therefore it’s a Roman you’re after, not a Gaul. And thirdly,’ she leaned her face so close to his, she could smell the sweetness of his breath, ‘at the time Nestor got himself murdered, Junius’s body was pressed tight against mine.’ She counted to three. Let him take the bones out of that. ‘Are my points clear?’

Orbilio’s face darkened. ‘Extremely,’ he croaked, and his gaze remained fixed on the mock gladiators, the polished steel of their swords glinting in the sunlight, the clash of weapons reverberating round the Forum. There were net fighters, with daggers and vicious tridents. Small-shield men-bucklers-with their sickle-shaped blades. Big-shield fighters, with short swords and visors. Orbilio kept his eye on them all. Unblinking. Swallowing hard. Only when the last pair of lumbering armadillos had passed, their heavy swords clanging against one another’s gleaming armour, did he venture to speak. ‘We’d best run through the list, then.’

Dammit. Claudia’s fists clenched in her lap. His voice was level, he hadn’t even taken his eye off the parade. Silly cow, imagining he felt anything. That’ll teach you to try and incite the little green monster-serves you bloody well right.

‘What list?’ she asked, and he pressed his thumbs to the bridge of his nose. Her voice was airy. the toss of her head light. Mother of Tarquin, didn’t she know? Could she not read the signs? Or was she too busy pressing her body to that sly Gaulish bastard’s?

‘The lost delegation,’ he said evenly, part of him proud of his self-control, ‘starting with…well, how about our jolly astrologer? You told me he was hot as mustard with regard to the convoy remaining in the valley and, remember, the whole tactic was to delay their arrival as long as possible.’

‘Volso was a courier,’ Claudia admitted, not bothering to clap the giraffe, the camel and the elephant. Curiosities they might be in Vesontio, they were staler than pie crusts to her. ‘Clearly our Salamander invested a considerable amount of time and effort in identifying suitable carriers,’ she said. Men and women whose greed and ambition would override any scruples. She twisted uncomfortably in her seat and put it down to the hot summer sun. ‘In Volso’s case, his reward was probably a lovenest with his little transvestite whore plus sufficient funds to buy his (her?) fidelity.’

It wouldn’t, of course. Boys like that are so damaged inside, so lost, that the only time they feel close to being in control is when they’re wielding power over their infatuated lovers. Men like Volso, for instance, who can delude themselves that they’re ‘normal’, because the object of their desire dresses like a woman, moves like a woman. Flaunts her sexuality like a woman.

‘Excuse me, did you say transvestite whore?’

‘And in any case, his vertigo is no act. He couldn’t possibly have murdered Nestor, not on the edge of a precipice.’

‘Sorry, I’m still having trouble following that bit about the transvestite whore.’

‘When you grow up, sonny, I’ll explain all about the birds and the bees, but in the meantime, my money’s on old Hanno.’ Has been all along. ‘Never mind his age, he’s strong, cunning and enjoys everybody’s trust. Motive, means and opportunity,’ she said. ‘Arrest him, if you’re so fond of manacles.’

Another time, ‘let’s-save-that-for-our-honeymoon’ would have tripped off his tongue. Instead Marcus bit into his nail and felt a piece chip off. ‘Are you suggesting he killed his own grandson? That show of grief-’

‘The string of pack mules going down was part of the plan. To ensure we were without supplies such as ropes and the like. As you say, delaying tactics…and who better than a muleteer to predict the behaviour of horses? Unfortunately, in an attempt to save some of the others, the ledge crumbled and his grandson fell to his death. That was pure accident, I saw it happen.’

Often, in the night, she could hear the screams of the boy and the mares. Re-lived the sight of their bloodied bodies twitching two hundred feet in the ravine below.

Three rows behind, the unsuspecting Hanno was chortling away at the actors clowning out a pantomime in their cork masks and thick-soled buskins, his leathery face crumpled into crevices deeper than the rutted side streets, his bony shoulders heaving in merriment. What an act.

‘Why should a popular muleteer nearing the end of his life work for a creep like Galba?’ Orbilio asked.

‘Money. To retire in comfort and spend his final days in luxury. To set up a stud farm. Who knows? You can ask him while you slip him in irons.’

‘Sorry.’ Orbilio turned round to face the front again. ‘I can’t accept Hanno’s our killer.’

I can. ‘Why not?’

‘Because…’ he coughed apologetically, ‘because I like him, that’s why.’

Claudia laughed, and not at the mime. ‘Isn’t that the idea,’ she retorted. ‘The one person you never suspect.’ She glanced over her shoulder at the chuckling prune. It had to be Hanno. Who else?

‘What about Titus?’ Marcus asked.

‘Titus plans to make his fortune through the side door,’ Claudia said slowly. The day they were up on the plateau, before Theo spotted the coil of woodsmoke, she had rifled through the spice merchant’s pack. ‘It occurred to me then,’ she mused, ‘that when you told us to discard all bar the necessities, Titus kept certain gums and resins with him.’

Not the pepper. Not the cinnamon. Not capers, cloves or cardamom.

‘Presumably the most expensive of his stock?’ Orbilio suggested. ‘Or leastways, the most precious. After all, he carried myrrh, which he generously donated for the brick-maker’s pyre.’

‘The myrrh was a fragrant smokescreen,’ Claudia said, waving back at a squad of tiny tots dressed up as wild beasts. ‘The majority were narcotics.’ Of which laudanum was just one.

Orbilio’s breath came out in a whistle. While he digested the importance of her discovery, the leopard pulled the tiger’s hair, and suddenly two small boys were rolling around in the Forum, stripes and spots and tails flying to all points of the compass. A little ostrich flew in to help, and got her beak pulled off for her pains.

‘Titus,’ he whistled. ‘Running drugs.’

‘Those Armenian seeds, in particular, have a very distinctive aroma, which even myrrh cannot mask,’ Claudia explained. ‘Once sniffed, never forgotten-especially if one throws them into a fire.’ She watched as her point was absorbed and considered. The marsh plant, on its own, was harmless. But when heated, it smoked blue like incense, and was as intoxicating as a bucketful of wine-and every bit as addictive.

‘He picked a good market,’ Orbilio said, grinding his teeth because there was not a damned thing he could do to stop the filthy racket, Titus was breaking no law. ‘The Sequani have fires burning in their roundhouses from autumn through to spring, they’ll make him a very wealthy man.’ He swallowed the bitter taste which had risen in his mouth. ‘I should never have trusted that blasted fringe dangling over one eye.’

A tiny, fat flamingo pulled off the rhinoceros’s horn, making her cry, while the leopard and the tiger remained locked together, exchanging kicks and punches.

‘Don’t read anything sinister into that,’ Claudia said, catching the woollen hoof which came flying through the air. When they had hauled her back over the ledge, roped up to Theo, Titus had been the first to grab hold of her arm and vanity had not topped his list of priorities. ‘He trains that hank of hair over his face, because one eye’s green and the other is brown.’ Hardly a freak, yet curiosity enough to send superstitious buyers scuttling elsewhere, for who knows what other curse Titus might carry?

‘All the more reason for him to hook up with the Salamander.’

‘Uh-uh.’ Claudia tossed back the tiny grey hoof. ‘Titus might be misguided, but at heart, he is not a wicked man. Besides, he already has everything he wants,’ she said. ‘A failsafe get-rich-quick scheme and a wife who is as besotted with him as he is with her.’

He wouldn’t risk his wild adventuress for all the gold in Dacia, let alone a few bob from Galba! Not that Claudia could picture Iliona settling down anywhere, be it Rome, Vesontio or Crete, after this past week. Having had her spirit set free by its tumultuous events, her thirst for novelty and risk would grow stronger and, for this reason alone, Titus was unlikely to make the killing he hoped for. Iliona wanted to taste life, not waste it, and in that lay the Sequani’s only chance to avoid mass addiction.

‘If you want to put a stop to his trade before it starts,’ she said, ‘simply have a quiet chat with Iliona. Talk to her about land-locked Arcadia, where goat-legged Pan is worshipped. Reminisce about the sights of the Nile, the pyramids, spooky hieroglyphs and jackal-headed gods. Oh, and don’t forget to toss in a mention of Babylon, where the dead are buried in honey and bitumen forms fireballs on the ground in a thunderstorm. Then see how she fancies settling down to a rigorous winter in Gaul!’

That girl will put adventure before wealth any day, sweeping her husband along on her tidal wave of passion.

‘Happy ever after, eh?’ His laughing eyes swivelled towards the bookbinder and his wife. ‘Can you say the same for those two?’

Down in the Forum, a little hippopotamus was raining blows on a squirming crocodile, and the zebra pulled the whiskers off a wailing hyena. The polar bear was on her knees in floods of tears, because her white coat was black down one side.

‘Maria is bitter,’ Claudia explained sadly, ‘because life hasn’t come to her door, perfumed and covered with roses. She’s barren, and she channels her frustration through Dexter by convincing herself that this resentment has been brought about by marrying beneath her.’ Claudia crossed one leg over the other and rested her elbow on her knee. ‘For his part, Dexter has become the child he never had, his succession of ailments a means of getting noticed.’

But as for happy ever after? Oh dear. Gemma might be overweight and frumpy, but she was barely seventeen with twice as many childbearing years ahead of her as Maria. Were she to bestow on Dexter the attention he so desperately craves, and the signs were already there, who knows where it might lead? Maria, though, had already recognized that threats don’t always come in obvious packages and she was shrewd enough to see that the risk of losing Dexter might force her to re-evaluate both their lives. Well, she still had a marvellous figure. Time to use it, Claudia reckoned. Tonight in her husband’s bed.

More pertinently, however, was that at this juncture in their lives, both Maria and Dexter were too self-absorbed to venture beyond their own selfish needs-although it had given Claudia something of a shock this morning, seeing Maria decked out in the Spider’s colours. But these were ancient Sequani insignia, too, and Maria was out to impress the governor.

The tiny tots were finally pulled apart, to be led away squealing and squabbling, bawling and blubbing, leaving the Forum reduced to a carnage of fabric ears and woollen tails, of spots and stripes and manes. A fire-eater came along to take the crowd’s attention away from the sweepers.

‘Oh, and before you put forward our chubby priest as a murderous contender,’ she said, ‘take a look at his face.’

Was there ever a more graphic picture of misery? No prizes for guessing whether Clemens had heard about Ecba’s murder before he’d had time to hand his pouch over! There he sat, head in hands, rocking backwards and forwards, his mouth working silently, although whether this was to recite more taboos or to argue his case with the Salamander, Claudia couldn’t possibly tell.

‘Eliminating suspects could take days.’ Orbilio scrubbed his face with his hand. ‘Could-it-be-him, could-it-be-her, cases for, cases against.’ He shook his head and sighed. ‘It seems so long ago, the blocked ravine, the trek over the hills, that I’m starting to question whether the whole thing wasn’t a product of my own imagination.’

‘Why don’t you just arrest me and be done with it?’

‘You, young lady, have a fetish about manacles and as much as I’d like to pursue this interest of yours, have you seen Theo this morning?’ His eyes scanned the crowd. ‘I want to pick his brains about the eight men sent to meet us on the road. Strange, how no word’s come back.’

Claudia frowned at the fire-eater. How did he do that

‘Theo?’ She knew the sword swallowers’ trick-specially made collapsible blades-but fire? ‘Can’t say I have.’

‘You said he was a courier?’

‘So?’ The key had to be a special coating on the stick, so that the flames, though large, were at the same time lacking in heat.

‘Claudia, in case you haven’t noticed, the Salamander’s map carriers haven’t had an overly successful mortality rate.’

Fire-eaters were instantly forgotten. ‘You can’t imagine he’s in danger? He’s a soldier, for gods’ sake, he-Marcus?’ His eyes were staring into space, his mind somewhere between Africa and the moon. ‘Yoo-hoo. Anybody home?’ A glacier took hold of her body, chilling her flesh and freezing her marrow. Holy shit! Suddenly her lungs wouldn’t work. ‘Theo’s another of the agent’s victims, isn’t he?’

Orbilio said nothing. He simply stared deep into his thoughts. And the chill inside her bones deepened. She pictured his boyish face, the freckles, the wide silly smile. ‘Marcus? For gods’ sake, answer me! Is Theo dead?’

‘What?’ His gaze came back into focus. ‘Oh. No,’ he said, and his voice was strange. Kind of strangled. ‘No, actually. I don’t believe Theodorus is dead. In fact, I don’t believe he’s in danger.’ Serious eyes burned into Claudia. ‘But I do believe we’ve found our killer.’

XXIX

Think about it. Who’s the one person Libo, working undercover with the Security Police, would trust? Who’s best placed to dispose of the other two legionaries in the pre-arranged rock fall? Who’s in an ideal position to arrange which person travelled where in the convoy? And who’s word would never be doubted when it came to taking the secondary route round the mountain? Who resented Marcus from the outset?

All these points Orbilio made to Claudia, and in fairness she could argue with none of them. On the other hand Theo had applied no pressure on whether the convoy should wait for the rescue party or press on by themselves, she pointed out. Hadn’t he been as earnest as the next fellow to recover the dead? He’d spotted Arcas’s fire while it was still in its infancy, the killer would have played for time. Most importantly, Theo carried a pouch, which could hardly be for the purpose of establishing his cover. Each courier had been led to believe they were acting alone in smuggling gems to Vesontio.

‘Who’s to say how many other pouches he had hidden under his cloak?’

No, no, this was nonsense. The suggestion that he had a whole cache of them-Claudia couldn’t buy that. This was Marcus again. Under pressure. Overwrought. His face was drawn and pale with the strain. She knew he hadn’t slept last night (he’d found Ecba at three in the morning), and heaven alone knows when he last had a good meal. Well, it serves him right, she thought, flicking an imaginary speck off her knee. Not content with spiking Galba’s guns to allow the Emperor to live and breathe another day, oh no, Hotshot here has to be a bloody hero.

She knew full well the reason. In sending his report back to Rome, that oily weasel of a boss of his would arrest Galba, elicit a confession, round up the co-conspirators, prevent a mass assassination, save the Empire…and should the name Orbilio crop up, that would be purely an oversight. The credit would rest on the squat shoulders of the Head of the Security Police. It would be he, not Marcus, on whom medals and honours were heaped! To get any kind of mention, Orbilio would need to get results in Vesontio. A list of rebel chieftains, for instance, would advance his political ambitions greatly. As would arresting a multiple killer before Galba got round to squealing on his agent. And if he could hand over the map pinpointing the spot where Galba had stashed the State Treasury, then by Jupiter, he might even outwit his smarmy boss and attract all the kudos himself, for which lack of sleep and lack of food rated not at all in his view.

But he ought to put things in perspective.

Theo was no mass murderer. He lacked leadership qualities and authority, and took refuge in a good sulk. Hardly the demeanour of a savage killer. More than that, and this is what swayed it in Claudia’s opinion, was that Galba’s agent would know that Orbilio, having skirted the rock fall which blocked the ravine, would have seen the iron wedges which screamed sabotage. Had Theo been the killer, he’d have had ample opportunity to kill Marcus when they were evading the Spider’s war party. A quick stab, perhaps to the horse, bringing both down and abracadabra, the Sequani take home a trophy.

There was one other point, too. Equally valid. Namely, that Theo had risked life and limb to rescue Claudia when that loose saddle strap had sent her flying through space. On the slippery edge by the animal’s lair, it would have been simplicity itself for him to nudge her over the side and pretend she’d slipped before he could hook up the rope.

Indeed, Claudia would have outlined her objections, had Supersnoop not jumped up as though stung by a bee. ‘Stay close to the group,’ he warned. ‘Just this once, Claudia, do what I ask.’

‘Don’t I always?’

He let out a less than genteel snort of laughter through his nose then, with a wink, he worked his way to the end of the aisle. If I’m right, he’d said, and Theo’s the killer, he’ll have skipped town and not shown up at the barracks. I need to check, and so he was off, darting between the horn players and the pipers, on another wild goose chase, which would at least set his mind at rest, she supposed. And maybe throw light on the eight missing soldiers, for that was really quite odd.

You don’t lose eight men very easily. Not on a main road.

‘Pssst.’

Assuming they’d stuck to the road? Perhaps they’d reached Vulture Valley, seen that it was blocked, taken note of the abandoned wagons and taken it upon themselves to follow the trail over the hills.

‘Pssst!’

In which case, they could be tripping over their own beards before they reached civilization again!

‘Pssst!’ Is there a snake on the loose? ‘Madam!’

Junius? Told you so! Knew he wouldn’t sneak off without a word. ‘Where the hell have you been?’ Nevertheless, Claudia felt her shoulders slump with relief as she followed his urgent beckoning.

‘This town is dangerous,’ he said in a voice like gravel. ‘Like raw naptha beside a lighted candle, it could blow any time. You need to leave. Fast.’

‘Don’t believe every rumour.’ She laughed. ‘Sometimes the good guys win.’

‘I’m not talking about the plot to overthrow Augustus,’ he said irritably. ‘Those make-believe intertribal skirmishes, or the cut-and-run attacks on the legions. No, the Spider is involved in a dynastic war of his own, a challenge to both Rome and his king, which depends sod-all on the outcome with the Treveri and the Helvetii. He’s using this as a smokescreen for his own civil war. You daren’t stay here.’

Across the Forum, the elephant was trumpeting its head off.

‘Have you been taking medication from Titus?’

‘Did you know the Spider’s men butchered the soldiers sent out to meet us?’ He drew the flat of his hand across his throat. ‘All eight of them.’

Claudia pulled him under the wooden supports of the grandstand, out of the sun, out of main view. ‘How come you know so goddamn much?’ Her heart was pounding like a blacksmith’s hammer.

‘I’m a Celt.’

‘You’re a spy.’

For several minutes his blue eyes held hers, and it was hard to imagine the boy was barely twenty-one. Then his drop-dead sexy mouth twisted into a lopsided grin.

‘For the Parisii, though, not the Sequani.’ There was another long pause. ‘I’ve packed,’ he said. ‘Drusilla’s caged up, there’s a fast trap harnessed and waiting outside the Neptune Gate.’

Claudia glanced over her shoulder in the direction of the barracks. ‘I’ll take my chances here,’ she said. Junius meant well, but…!

‘Madam, your room was turned over, it looked like a hurricane had blown through,’ he said. ‘And you must have heard about Ecba? The Spider’s responsible for that, he knows about the map, that’s why the slave dealer was killed. For the pieces he was holding in safekeeping.’

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

Claudia drew a deep breath and tried to steady her nerves. ‘Drusilla’s all right? The cage, I mean.’

‘Would anyone dare tangle with her? She has a hump the size of Mount Atlas, but her cage wasn’t damaged, you picked a good carpenter there.’

Claudia’s breath came out in great shudders. How far to the Neptune Gate? Half a mile? And then what? Five hundred miles of open, hostile territory between Vesontio and Rome.

‘I ought to warn the other couriers,’ she said.

No use feigning ignorance with Junius. He seemed to know just about everything there was to know about this wretched mess, which meant he must have been spying on her and Orbilio, too. Goddammit, she didn’t know whether she should give him a raise or sell him at the very next auction block!

‘Madam, it’s a flat choice,’ he said grimly. ‘Your life or theirs.’ He scoured the heel of his hand against his forehead. ‘Believe me, I’ve grown every bit as fond of them as you have,’ he said wearily. ‘If I could save Clemens, Volso, Theo-in the name of Father Dis, don’t you think I would? But in warning them, panic will set in, which in turn puts the Spider on the alert.’

Claudia’s head was spinning like a child’s top. ‘Who is this Spider? Does anyone know?’

She could inform the governor, he could crush this rebellion with the snap of his fingers. True, the rebel army would be scattered throughout the Sequani province, Rome could never hope to unearth them. But take out the ringleader and you’re laughing.

‘A man called Sualinos, built like an oak tree, apparently, with about as much charm. Reckons he has a genuine claim to the throne. Says the king’s father diddled his father, there’s lots of talk of bastard sons with only half-royal blood in their veins, but mainly he’s whipping up his storm by insinuating that the king is in bed with Rome in a ploy to keep his people in oppression-slaves, if you like-to cream off the profits for themselves.’

‘Bullshit.’

The one thing Augustus sought above all was prosperity. Only through wealth could peace be achieved.

And then Claudia remembered the Spider’s insignia. Red and gold. Riches through blood.

Two powerful men, Augustus and the Spider. Both after prosperity, but whereas one saw peace as a goal, the other schemed to keep his people down, spilling their blood for his own grubby ambition. Bastard.

‘Come with me,’ she instructed her bodyguard. ‘We need to tell this to the governor.’

‘The Spider’s nest is hidden deep in the countryside,’ Junius said. ‘But its tentacles reach everywhere and the spread is wider than you can begin to imagine. Look around this city, madam. Surrounded by water, there’s barely six hundred paces between the two loops of the Doubs, Vesontio could be under his siege within hours.’ With only a skeleton guard remaining, the governor had no troops capable of holding off an army of fleas, much less a band of trained warriors. His only choice would be to close up the gates, sealing in heaven knows how many traitors.

‘Not for long, though,’ she reminded him. ‘The Spider could hold it for no longer than it takes the nearest legion to march on him.’

‘By which time,’ he said savagely, ‘you’d be dead. Sualinos operates a policy of terror, it’s how he maintains his fierce grip. He has agents swarming all over the capital, there’s no mercy for anyone who sells him out. You could never be sure that what you were eating wasn’t poisoned, or what you were drinking, whether that apple-cheeked maid was an assassin, the attendant in the latrines, maybe the landlord in your lodgings.’

Claudia’s vision was blurred. She was familiar with men like the Spider. Psychopaths who fed on power and terrorized their victims into submission. His first target would be Drusilla. Somehow he’d get to the cat and Claudia would find her proud, Egyptian corpse served on a platter. Then it would be her bodyguard’s turn. They would torture Junius and send him back in pieces, one by one.

A lot could happen in the shortest of sieges, and Junius was right. On the other hand. She swayed and fell against the nearest wooden pillar. She couldn’t just leave the others to be picked off, one by one, either, as the Spider sought to piece the treasure map together.

‘Put your head between your legs,’ Junius urged. ‘You won’t pass out then.’

Elegant, no. Practical, yes.

‘If only I knew which one of the party’s our murderer,’ she said.

‘Don’t you have any clues?’

‘Supersnoop thinks it was you.’

‘Me?’

‘He and I went through the list until we were blue in the face and since none seems a likely candidate, he went for the option which made him happiest.’

And yet, as sure as the moon will rise in the sky, one of that group is a killer. Somewhere along the line, she and Marcus had missed something. A vital clue, pinpointing the identity of Galba’s agent.

‘Maria. Dexter. Titus. Iliona. Hanno. Theo. Volso. Clemens. Take your pick,’ she said. ‘Because one of them’s a cold-blooded assassin.’

What the hell was it they’d missed?

Claudia stood up, shook the pleats of her aquamarine robe and adjusted the lie of her brooch. ‘Junius, I have reached a decision.’

Hadn’t she drummed it into Orbilio’s thick skull often enough? One man cannot fight a war. ‘We’ll leave Vesontio immediately,’ she said crisply. ‘Although I shall leave a note forewarning Orbilio.’ Knowing him, he’ll confiscate every courier’s papers and burn the leather maps in public, sending a blatant message to this wretched Spider character that he could take on Rome if he wished, but he’d have to do so without the benefit of the State Treasury.

‘Then I beg you, madam, write it outside the Neptune Gate.’

Junius turned to leave, but Claudia grabbed hold of his tunic. ‘Wait.’ How could she phrase this. ‘Can I trust you?’

For ten solid seconds, pained eyes stared into hers, his Adam’s apple working overtime, his jaw clenched.

‘Madam,’ he rasped, ‘I would stop an arrow for you.’ Then he smiled. ‘But given a choice, I’d rather not, so can we please get the hell out of here before neither of us is left with the option?’

XXX

The back streets were as silent as they were deserted. The good folk of Vesontio had packed themselves into the Forum, secretly delighted that part of the delegation got lost. Now their children had a second opportunity to goggle at rope walkers and perhaps pluck up the courage this time to pat the elephant and feed it a bun. Mothers could once again openly covet the racy, elegant costumes of their Roman counterparts, wondering how they themselves might look in rainbow-coloured tunics shot with silver and gold, their hair pinned up with ribbons and ivory pins. They could sigh in envy, aware their menfolk would never think to buy them alabaster pots filled with exotic Eastern perfumes. They spent too much time swilling free liquor and passing snide remarks about ‘men wearing skirts’.

Later, of course, the shops would buzz like honeypots. Trade would double-no, treble-now the sun was out, because when people were in a good mood, filled with the holiday spirit, they liked to spend money, and by the time night fell, everything from baskets to bangles would be stripped off the shelves and more than one girl would go to her bed tonight wearing a token of amber, silver or jet from a chap too buoyed up by drink to have properly considered the consequences of that rash impulse buy.

Except that would only happen once the procession was over. Right now, dogs draped themselves over doorsteps, barely lifting an eyelid as Junius and Claudia sped past. Once or twice a goat bleated, a hen clucked. On they ran. Hooking left, spinning right, careful to avoid the treacherous ruts in the roads. The tantalizing aroma of hams smoking high in the rafters filtered out of the houses, along with less appetising smells of animal straw, unripe cheeses and boiled lard. Wrinkling her nose, Claudia considered the olive-oil merchant in the delegation would have his work cut out, converting the Sequani from their attachment to solid animal fats.

Unlike Rome, where soaring tenements and lofty basilicas blocked out the light, the preponderance of low buildings allowed the rutted alleyways to fill with sunshine, which sparkled off the metal chains of the goats, the collars of the dogs.

‘This way.’

Claudia frowned. ‘Surely the Neptune Gate is ahead.’

‘It is,’ Junius said, flashing a glance over her shoulder. ‘But I have the strangest feeling we’re being followed. Just like the other night, you can’t see him, but goddammit, I know he’s there.’

A shiver ran through her body. It had never occurred to her, until now, that the Spider’s man might be after her for her piece of the map.

‘I’m hoping that by doubling back, we can give him the slip,’ Junius said. ‘Since only you and I know which way we’re headed, he won’t be lying in wait.’

‘Can I sell you folks a cup of hydromel?’ a cracked voice asked, and they spun round. One filthy, bare foot on the threshold, an old crone with her left eye socket sewn down held out a flagon in a palsied hand. ‘Made from honey.’ Her accent was thick. ‘Mead?’

By the time Junius had shaken his head, Claudia had already whipped round. ‘Love some,’ she gushed. ‘It smells divine.’ Sweet and fragrant, you could almost hear the bees buzzing round the wicker hives, although after the brilliant sunshine, this building without windows was as dark as the Styx. Stank like it, too.

‘Five quadrans a cup,’ the old woman wheezed, thrusting a rough wooden bowl into Claudia’s hand.

‘Cheap at half the pri- What’s that?’ From deep inside the hut came a scuffle. She could see two burly figures. ‘Junius?’

‘Get out,’ he hissed. ‘Get out! It’s a trap.’

Claudia ran to the door, but less than halfway across, a wrinkled, dirty and callused foot flew out. She went sprawling. She heard a grating sound-steel coming loose from its scabbard. Scrambling to her feet, Claudia saw her bodyguard’s dagger flash in his hand, but before he could strike, a figure filled the doorway and another, larger blade rose through the air. She screamed. The blade fell.

Junius groaned as he crashed to his knees. ‘Run-’ he rasped, sagging forward. ‘Run-’

‘Junius!’ She sprang to his aid, but before she was halfway across, a sack was flung over her head, her hands pinioned tight to her back with a rope as she was crushed to the floor.

‘Help?’ she screamed. ‘Somebody help us!’

Muffled by sacking, her voice didn’t carry, and in any case, who in Vesontio cared? Even knew? The streets were deserted.

‘Junius?’ Her voice was hysterical, but she had to know. Was he still alive? She tried to reach where she thought he might be, but the thugs were like oxen, their grip harder than steel. Words were snapped out, in Sequani, which she could not understand.

‘Let go of me, you bastards.’

Squirming, kicking, lashing out with her legs, Claudia shouted and screamed. No one came. Somewhere behind her, the old hag cackled and there was a clink, of coins changing hands.

‘I hope you die before you can spend it, you treacherous bitch,’ Claudia yelled, the ropes biting into her wrists as she pulled and twisted in a bid to get free. ‘Where’s Junius? What have you done with him?’

Was he dead? Her mind’s eye saw again the glint on the blade coming down, and the contents of her stomach flipped over. Please, I beg you, mighty Jupiter. Don’t let the young Gaul be dead. Don’t let them take his head as a trophy.

Great arms hauled her on to her feet and dragged her, screaming and fighting, into the street then, like a sack of turnips, she was tossed over one massive shoulder and carried at a trot until she heard the whinny of horses. With an ungainly thud, she was thrown in the back of a wagon, a giant boot in the stomach holding her down.

‘Help! HELP ME! Someone, please!’

With a crack of the whip, the horses sprang into life, and for what seemed like eternity, the wagon bounced and joggled along at top speed, throwing her about so badly her shins and elbows bled. Her nose became crushed against the woodwork as the wagon made its descent down a precipitous valley, until mercifully the wheels started to slow. Finally, from rough, distinctly un-Roman roads, hooves clip-clopped gently over proper cobbles. As they ground to a juddering halt, the sack was jerked off Claudia’s face and she was dragged, blinking in the unaccustomed sunshine, across the cobbled yard by a thug in a plaid tunic and grey pantaloons, his drooping moustache as thick as a squirrel and about the same size and colour. Bright red.

Wildly, she took stock of her surroundings, hemmed in by wooded cliffs which were such a feature of this hated landscape, fresh water burst free from its limestone captivity in a spluttering waterfall. Here, though, was no triple cascade, merely a shallow pool which drained into a bubbling brook. Any other time, Claudia would have suggested a picnic. Today her eyes searched for a means of escape.

And found none.

To the left of the courtyard, a blacksmith the size of Hercules clanged his hammer against white-hot iron as he fashioned a spearhead. Samples of his work were laid out on a trestle, some long and narrow, the type Claudia was familiar with, others were shaped with barbs and hollows, designed to inflict the most terrible internal wounds. A lump formed in her throat.

To her right stood a smelting works, its acid metal odour permeating the air and masking the freshness of the waterfall, the scent of the lush woodland ferns, of thorny dog roses and clumps of sweet-smelling water mint.

On a slow-moving part of the stream, a heron stood, hunched, intent on its prey and unconcerned about the human drama unfolding on the opposite bank.

The house in the centre was large, built of stone, with terracotta tiles on the roof and proper windows with shutters, though any resemblance to a Roman villa ended there. Planks and barrels littered the doorway, antlers hung on the exterior walls, the majority of the shutters were closed. A banner hung between two wooden poles-a golden globe in the centre of a blood red circle.

With a swish, the ropes binding her wrists were cut through, and Claudia was propelled inside so roughly that she landed with a crunch on her knees.

‘Do you know who I am?’ a voice growled.

‘Why? Have you forgotten?’

A gravelly laugh filled the room. ‘They said you’d be trouble.’

‘Don’t believe every rumour which comes your way. They said you had eight legs.’

‘I have a name, too. Sualinos.’ Not exactly built like an oak tree, although he wasn’t what you’d call puny. And his Latin was almost perfect, barely a trace of an accent.

‘Thanks, but I’ll stick with the nickname. It suits you, somehow.’

A flash of teeth showed white in the darkness. ‘Well, we’re not here to exchange compliments. You have something I want.’

Her eyes were having trouble adjusting from sack to sunshine back to shadows once more, and yet there appeared to be a familiar face in front of her ‘Theo?’ She could hardly believe it! Boyishly handsome, his freckles standing out clearer and darker as her eyes became used to the gloom. ‘What are you doing here with the Spider?’

Holy Mars, the strain of captivity was taking its toll, he looked ghastly. Grey skin. Sunken cheeks. His eyes were lifeless and staring.

Holy shit! She recoiled in horror. No wonder Theo’s face looked terrible. It was all that was left of him!

Deep in the room, the voice laughed. ‘I plan to have a special niche made for this one,’ it boomed. ‘Every time I see his head, it will be a reminder of these difficult times-and a salutary lesson to me that not every man has a price.’

‘You bastard,’ she said, swiping her hair out of her eyes as she staggered to her feet. ‘Anyway, you’ll find out soon enough, all Romans are honourable.’ Her hands, she noticed, were shaking.

‘This one wasn’t.’ He had perched himself on the edge of a table. ‘The sticking point between Theo and me was simply that I was unable to compete with the prize already dangled before him, namely a place in his new Republic.’

Theo? Claudia climbed unsteadily to her feet. Dammit, I should have listened to you, Marcus Cornelius. You said Theo was the traitor in the group. She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Wasn’t it Theo who tried so hard to recover the dead? Naturally, a little voice chirruped. Stalling for time. That’s the reason he was happy for the should-we-stay or should-we-go argument to continue unchecked. Any delay, no matter how small, was his goal… Yet, why the excitement at spotting Arcas’s fire? Of course. He was genuinely scared they were lost! All this passed through her mind in the splitting of a second. It was Theo who cut through the saddle strap, and yes, now it made sense, he could not afford any other person to rescue her, it had to be him on the rope. Hell, if she had admitted her fall had been anything less than an accident, one of the convoy might have remembered Theo hanging round the horses, and the game would be up. It was only when he’d satisfied himself that she suspected nothing that he had been happy to haul her back up to safety.

Claudia stared at the youthful face made haggard only in death and any pity she’d felt for Theodorus dissolved like bones in lime acid. He had killed two fellow soldiers, Libo, Nestor, the lyre-maker, the brick-maker and his wife, and for what? Not for a passionate belief in a new order for Rome.

For his own petty ends.

‘You and Theodorus have more in common than you might think,’ she told her captor.

‘I doubt that.’ He came towards her, stopping less than a pace away in the oblong of light from the door. Regardless of the circumstances, Claudia had to admit the Spider cut a fine figure. Still on the good side of forty, he was hardly the squat, repellent creature she’d imagined sitting at the centre of his web. Here was a lean, mean, fighting machine, every inch of him hard muscle with a no-messing jaw and lips that had probably kissed a thousand willing women.

‘Theo was a pretty-boy, weak and self-serving, who mistook cunning for intelligence,’ he said. ‘We had quite a long chat, in the end.’ He gave Theo’s hair an affectionate ruffle. ‘But then, of course, we have ways…’ He left the sentence hanging.

‘You think I’m cowed by your bully-boy tactics?’ She spat, folding her arms across her breast in defiance.

‘No.’ With a taut smile of agreement, he strode across to the window and flung wide the shutters. A rush of bright light flooded the room. Beyond the water sparkled and danced over the rock as a pair of yellow wagtails darted and dived for flies, flicking their tails on the rocks.

She wondered what he was waiting for. Why the smug twinkle in his eye. Damn you, Spider man. I’m not playing your game. She focused her gaze on the waterfall.

‘You still have something I want,’ the rebel chieftain said at last. ‘The final part of the map.’

‘It will stick in your craw to admit a mistake, but your thugs turned my room over this morning. Did they find it? Of course not. I’d already passed my pouch over to Ecba.’

‘Tut, tut. Untruths from a mouth as pretty as yours?’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Alas for you, my man-the drunken sailor, you might recall him?-informs me this was not the case and, frankly, of the two of you, I’m more inclined to take his word over yours. Now, then.’ With a broad sweep of his hand, he indicated the deerskins opened out and arranged on the table. ‘I have Ecba’s collection, Theo’s collection, and only this morning did my agents relieve the priest, the glass-blower and the astrologer of their pouches.’ He gave a deprecating shrug. ‘One barely needs to be observant to note there is a gap.’

Right smack in the middle. Claudia’s heart skipped a beat.

‘That’s my piece, that one there.’ She pointed to the north-west corner.

‘Bluffs are only as reliable as the intelligence of the person one is aiming to con. Please don’t insult mine.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Claudia said. ‘Anything that tiny isn’t worth bothering with.’

Dammit, what was he playing at? All this time, just standing there. As though waiting for something… As though bored with the conversation, she walked over to examine the map on the table. From the corner of her eye, something caught her attention. The far wall. She glanced back at the Spider. His grin was wider. She refused to look at the wall. What could possibly- Jupiter, Juno and Mars!

Spinning backwards, her whole body shaking, her skin clammy, Claudia ran to the door and threw up over the cobbles. Lewd and raucous laughter rang out from the rebel thugs. She didn’t hear. How many niches in his wall? Twenty? Twenty-five? Each filled with a dried-up human head.

‘You’re sick, you know that,’ she said, staggering back.

‘Don’t be squeamish. The head is the seat of power, and I hold for eternity the power of my enemies.’

‘Eternity, she scoffed, wiping her mouth. Inside, every bone, every organ seemed to have melted away, there was nothing inside but a great gaping hole.

‘We Celts are not superficial worshippers like you Romans. Ask any Druid and he will tell you that, when a person dies, their soul does not perish with them but passes to a life waiting to be born. When I die, these will be buried with me, so that when I am reborn, it is with the power I have accumulated in this life. Reincarnation, I believe, is the term you Latins use.’

‘Life’s a bitch and then you do it again, is that it?’

‘There’s no honour in taking the head of a travelling musician, for instance. The enemy has to be worthy. I don’t want you labouring under the impression that we kill for killing’s sake, we’re not barbarians.’

‘I’d hate to imagine your definition of someone who is. How do you explain keeping your own people oppressed?’

‘Oppressed?’ He seemed genuinely surprised. ‘That’s a new way of looking at retaining one’s traditional values.’

‘You could have your people growing rich, and yet you deliberately prevent it,’ Claudia snapped. ‘Their fields could produce twice the output with the use of modern machinery, and with proper harnesses, instead of those ridiculous and, I might add, extremely cruel collars, you’d get far more from your draught animals.’

‘These are our ways. Sequani ways.’ The Spider’s fist came down hard on the table. ‘Who the hell are you to interfere? You fucking Romans! You come to our country with your tarty dress and fancy manners, you think you know it all, yet look what runs your own economy. Slaves! You peddlers of human flesh dare, dare to accuse me of oppressing my own people? Ach.’ He threw up his hands. ‘And you wonder why I want rid of you?’

For a while, only the dust motes moved inside the house. Claudia could smell the sweet aroma of the water mint wafted in on the breeze as the rebel leader fought to control his heavy breathing. Outside in the yard, there was a graunching sound, of something being dragged over cobbles, and grunts of exertion.

Slowly the Spider walked over to her, she could smell the fresh sweat on his body. Lifting her chin between his thumb and forefinger, he asked, ‘Are you afraid?’

Inside she was quaking. ‘No.’ She looked him square in the eye, not batting an eyelid.

His lips pursed, and his hands closed round the neck of her robe. With one vicious jerk, he ripped open her bodice. ‘I’ll ask again.’ His eyes raked her naked breasts as he tore the material down to the ground. ‘Are you afraid?’

‘No,’ she said, and this time it was true. A strange calm had descended over her. ‘I’m not afraid of you. You can bluster and bully all you want, you can torture me, humiliate me, and still you won’t win, because my spirit is stronger than yours.’

‘I recollect Theo saying something along those lines, but, like so many others before him, he spilled his guts in the end. Literally, in Theo’s case. Right over the spot where you’re standing.’

‘Is this the only way you can get it up?’ she sneered. ‘Through sadism?’

‘Bitch!’ A backhand sent her spinning, as he picked up the shreds of her robe and shook them. No pouch fell out, and he swore under his breath. ‘Well, you don’t have the map on you, that’s for sure.’ Glittering eyes scrutinized every inch of her body, naked bar the most flimsy of thongs. ‘But I won’t be denied, I assure you.’

Out in the courtyard, whatever it was they were rigging up was obviously complete, because they gave themselves a quick round of applause.

‘You have balls, I grant you that,’ the Spider said, strolling across to the door, the remnants of her aquamarine robe still tight in his fist. ‘In fact, yours might be the first-perhaps the only-female head I take with me to my next life.’ He tapped his finger against his lip and nodded a gesture to his henchmen in the yard. ‘Somewhere out there lies the whole imperial treasury, and with that I can buy anything and anybody I want. The Sequani will rise again and this time we’ll need no German mercenaries to come and fight our battles, we shall not bend our knee to Rome for help. It is you who’ll plead submission to us.’ He turned, a black silhouette in the doorway.

‘You refuse to tell me where the map is?’

‘What map?’

‘I promise you a swift death, if you tell me. Clean, no pain, you won’t see it coming, you have my word of honour on that.’

‘Is that a blackcap I can hear, or a willow warbler? I’m useless when it comes to birds.’

He exhaled loudly. ‘Have it your way,’ he said, striding towards her. ‘Although you may change your mind.’

Roughly he pulled her by the upper arm towards the door. Seeing her naked, curls tumbling over her shoulders, the men in the yard whistled and jeered, but for a second time, Claudia failed to hear them. All she could see was the giant structure casting its sinister shadow over the yard. Twelve feet high it stood. A human figure formed entirely of wickerwork A ladder led up to its gaping belly. The arms, head and legs had been stuffed with straw, but high in its chest was a platform of wood from which a pair of manacles dangled. ‘You can’t!’ Claudia gasped. ‘That’s barbaric!’

‘No,’ he replied. ‘That is justice.’

From behind the smelting works, a young man, his face and hair dripping with sweat, was being dragged over the yard, pleading tearfully in Sequani as he struggled to break free. Behind him, his wife and three small children had to be restrained by the thugs as their hysterical screams begged for mercy.

‘The man is a traitor,’ the Spider said, pulling off his shirt. ‘The gods must be appeased.’

He pulled off the torque around his neck and tossed it on top of his shirt, then reached into a casket. Out came the most elaborate breastplate Claudia had ever seen. Nine spokes radiated away from a circular plate of gold-the spider in the centre of its web. Each of the spokes was joined by a bar of solid gold, and from the lower bar, six gold chains dangled, each ending in a hollow golden ball, something inside rattled. Probably a nugget of silver.

Clipping on a fox-fur armband, Sualinos suddenly looked every inch a king.

‘If you have a genuine claim to the throne,’ she said, ‘why not-’

‘I do not take the counsel of women, much less some foul-mouthed Latin whore who is doubtless as free with her favours as she is with her lies.’

‘I fear you mistake me for your mother.’

Calmly he strode across the floor and looked down on her, his hands closing over her breasts. ‘You have a sharp tongue, Claudia Seferius.’ His fingers began to caress her nipples. ‘I shall make its severance my first priority after’-he inclined his head towards the door-‘justice has been served.’

‘Big talk for a’-her eyes flashed to his crotch-‘little man,’ she said, fighting to keep the quaver out of her voice. ‘However, my philosophy is such a simple one, that even you should be able to understand it.’ Punching her fists hard against the inside of his forearms, she jerked his hands away from her breasts. ‘The first grope is always for free. After that, a man takes his life in his hands, should he try it a second time.’

‘Are you threatening me?’ The sarcasm was as heavy as his decorative torque.

Claudia feared he would hear the pounding of her heart. Sweet Janus, how would she get out of this? Trapped in a canyon with a psychopath and a hundred bloodthirsty henchmen? Hell, her knees could barely keep her upright as it was.

‘You call it a threat, I call it a warning. Remember who holds the key to your future.’

‘Oh, I’ll get the missing map, have no fear of that.’ His grin made her blood turn to ice. ‘In fact, I recommend you reflect long and hard while this traitor pays his debts and maybe when I come back,’ he slammed the door behind him, ‘in an hour or so,’ he rammed home the lock, ‘you might be in a better frame of mind to negotiate.’

Through the window, Claudia could see the prisoner, hanging limply from the manacles, whimpering for pity. The door in the wicker man was shut, the ladder removed. Round the base, two men stood, legs planted heavily apart, holding burning brands.

Claudia threw her hands wide and prayed. Jupiter, if you can hear me over this poor man’s wife’s screams, tell me it’s nothing more than the Spider trying to frighten me. I beg you, let this be a ruse.

The torch bearers glanced at their leader, who stood foursquare at the feet of the sacrificial offering, and muttered something in Sequani.

A sparrow swooped down and flew off with one of the straws which poked through the limbs of the wicker man.

Jupiter, are you listening, you bastard? Don’t let them light it. I beg you, don’t let them light it. Don’t let them Too late. At a signal from the Spider, the henchmen stepped forward, simultaneously placing their torches to the great wicker legs.

Flames shot up the figure, higher and higher. Crackling, burning. Igniting the straw, sending out clouds of smoke. The prisoner screamed. A pitiful wail. The effigy’s outstretched arms flickered alight. Black smoke swirled high in the air. Flames licked round the basketweave body. The traitor screamed louder. The thatch packed into the squat, square box of a head started to crackle and hiss. Stray straws floated down, blackened, on to the cobbles. Slowly the fire took hold of the wickerwork frame, still not yet touching the figure inside.

Then the prisoner’s scream changed.

Became bestial.

It was a sound straight from hell, as the flames took a hold of his clothes.

XXXI

As long as she lived, Claudia would never forget the harrowing screams of that man burning alive inside the wickerwork effigy.

The sight of his long hair, catching fire.

His moustache.

The frantic dance to break free of the manacles.

Sobbing through the poisonous black smoke, Claudia cursed the Spider with every fibre of her being. Whatever crime the prisoner had committed, whatever treachery, no man deserved being charred alive in front of his children. Sinking to the floor, Claudia hugged her arms round her body and rocked back and forth. What satisfaction did the Spider gain, watching a man burn to death while around him thugs actually cheered at every twist, every writhe made by the traitor in his manacled prison?

More surely than she had known anything in her life, Claudia knew that regardless of what torture he might inflict on her, the barbarian who called himself a leader of men would never piece the treasure map together.

Not out of bravery. Not out of spirit. Not even out of spite. Claudia would deny him out of sheer bloody stubbornness.

‘Quick!’ The crouched shadow which fell over her made her jump.

Dazed, bewildered, in shock, Claudia couldn’t think straight. Theo? Theo’s head was talking? I’m going mad. Then her nostrils picked up a smell. Mushrooms. Dried ceps. ‘Arcas?’

His silver hair shone white in the shaft of sunlight from the hole he’d made in the tiles. ‘This way.’

‘Did-’ Her voice was thick, and not from the swirling black smoke. ‘Do you see that, Arcas? They’re burning him…alive.’

‘Druid law,’ Arcas said gruffly, his mouth turning downwards as he glanced through the window to where the figure inside the wicker man twitched in its death throes. ‘Now, unless you want to remain in this place, there’s no better time to make our excuses and leave.’

He peeled off his own woollen tunic and stuffed it over her head. It was warm and heavy and smelled of gentian liqueur and ceps, and was soft and came to her knees. ‘I-I don’t think I can make it through the roof.’ Her legs had turned to aspic, she was quivering, nauseous and weak.

‘No?’ Suddenly she was swept up in his arms and, with a low-crouching run to avoid being seen through the open windows, Arcas carried her to the back of the house. Claudia could feel the thickness of his roped gold torque, the softness of the silver mane tied in a queue at the back. He set her down by the back door and, biting into his lower lip, he tried lifting the bar. It was huge. Oak and a ton weight. Grunting, he tried a second, a third time. On the fourth attempt the oak lever lifted, and the sweat poured down his muscular chest. ‘While they’re enjoying the show out the front,’ he growled, glancing round, ‘we should escape under this blanket of smoke.’

‘How?’ The valley’s sides were precipitous, its wooded flanks prohibitive.

‘The river,’ he said. ‘My canoe’s a half mile downstream, the water was too shallow to paddle further.’ Up close, she could see how startlingly blue his eyes were. Like forget-me-nots. ‘But I can’t carry you that far,’ he warned. ‘To have any chance of escape, you’ll have to run.’

Claudia swallowed hard. ‘I can run.’

‘Sure?’

No. ‘Absolutely.’

‘Then let’s hightail it out of this place!’ Arcas slipped round the door, his dagger drawn. ‘Shit.’

Like an eel, he was back inside the house, panting as he leaned against the frame. The heavy tread of a guard marched slowly past. Claudia felt a trickle of sweat run down the inside of her borrowed shirt. Through a crack in the open doorway, she saw the guard pause, then saunter down to the stream where he proceeded to pee into the water.

‘How did you know where to find me?’ she whispered.

‘Junius,’ he hissed back. ‘He was barely alive when he crawled back to the Forum, but he raised the alarm. Your patrician friend put two and two together and sent for me. He thought,’ Arcas shot her a keen glance, ‘that I might know where to find our friend the Spider.’

Junius? Alive? At least the Spider had been denied that notch on his scabbard.

The guard must have been bursting. ‘How did you know?’

‘I’m Sequani for one thing, a hunter for another.’ He gave a tight, lopsided grin. ‘Because I’ve been shunned doesn’t make me an imbecile.’

‘Druid law?’

‘Druid law.’

Her breathing was shallow and fast. ‘It was Theo, you know. The traitor in our camp.’

‘I saw his head-’ Arcas’s lips flashed into a pout.

‘But you’re not surprised?’

‘How many times must I tell you, Claudia? Trust nobody and you cannot go wrong.’ He squinted at the guard, at last fastening his pantaloons.

‘Didn’t it bother you,’ she asked, ‘that one among us was a killer?’

‘If you Romans want to pick each other off, that’s fine by me, although you forget I didn’t know you were harbouring a murderer until I saw the couple underneath the waterfall. That was when I realized. I saw bruising to both bodies which should not have been there and as for the soldier boy, no. I never trusted his baby face, not for a moment.’

So that’s why he’d taunted him? Pricked the lad? To see what he was dealing with? The Spider’s guard turned the corner of the building.

‘From the outset, I wanted Theo up front with me.’ Arcas’s mouth hardened into a thin line. ‘Where I could see him. Now,’ he said, ‘whatever happens, stay close. You might be rid of a killer, but we’re still very much in the Spider’s sticky web.’

*

Prophetic words. No sooner had they dashed twenty paces than the guard retraced his steps. Up went the alarm. Bloodcurdling yells filled the valley, high-pitched and ululating, and any doubts Claudia might have regarding her physical capability were dispelled the instant she saw the war band thundering behind, long hair flapping on their shoulders, moustaches whirling, brandishing their weapons as they ran. Great, heavy killing machines. Like rhinoceroses. Deadly, but without sophistication. And suddenly she was running for her life The set of Arcas’s face told her that he would not let them take her alive. ‘Faster,’ he panted, the distance between them growing larger.

His path through the river was swift and neat. Hers was lumbering. More splash than pace. Croesus, she couldn’t keep up.

‘You can do it,’ puffed the trapper. ‘You can do it.’ Hampered initially by the pall of grey smoke, the war band was now gaining ground, crashing through the shallow waters, their swords raised high. An arrow zinged through the air, twanging into the dark bark of an alder.

‘Careful,’ bawled the rebel chieftain. ‘I want that bitch alive!’

‘Not far,’ Arcas wheezed. ‘Nearly there.’

On the bend, high on the bank, she could see his canoe and in it-merciful Juno be praised-in it was a certain wooden crate. ‘Drusilla?’ she cried, and suddenly there was strength in her legs. ‘Drusilla!’

As though her ankles had wings just like Mercury, Claudia raced down the trickling stream. No boulder was capable of putting her off balance in this mood. No arrow could travel faster than she at the moment.

Arcas was pushing the canoe down to the water. Claudia flung herself in and laid low. Wily as ever, the Silver Fox paddled furiously, zigzagging down the river. Claudia heard the twang of an arrow, it thudded into the woodwork.

‘Are you all right?’ Wildly she looked round over her shoulder.

‘Keep your head down,’ he snapped.

‘Arcas, I don’t know how to thank you-’

‘Don’t.’ If anything, his voice was sharper. ‘We’re not out of the woods yet.’

‘Maybe not, but you thought to bring my cat.’

‘Your patrician friend said to see you safely to Bern. It was Junius who said you’d not leave without the wretched beast.’ Arcas grimaced at Drusilla who was howling like a banshee, her protest registering several decibels above the battle cries and the hail of arrows.

For a spy in the employ of the Parisii, Junius was not doing a bad job on the whole. ‘How is he?’

‘Junius?’ Arcas shrugged. ‘I reckon he’ll live.’

Claudia remembered old Hanno. Like an animal, he’d said of Arcas. Won’t find a trace of self-pity, but then, he had cackled, you won’t find compassion there, either. He was a hard man, Arcas, toughened by life as much as his surroundings, who wouldn’t thank being told he was kind with it. There’d be other ways to repay him, she thought.

With slower moving waters, the valley had opened out. Sunshine bounced off the maples and the birches, there was a vivid flash of kingfisher’s wings.

‘Ach.’ He spat. ‘Bastards!’

Claudia peered over the parapet, her blood turning to ice. Two dozen horsemen were dismounting, racing for boats moored along the bank. Large, fast craft, which could easily outrun a loaded canoe ‘They’ve cut us off,’ Arcas said, making for the bank. ‘We’ll have to travel overground. Can you make it?’

‘Damn right!’

Grabbing Drusilla’s cage, Claudia jumped out of the canoe and scrambled up the wooded slope after him.

‘I know a place we can hide,’ he puffed. ‘If we can lose them for just two precious minutes, I know where to head for. Quick.’

Grabbing her wrist, he jerked her sideways, crashing through the undergrowth. ‘We’re leaving a trail a blind hippo could follow,’ she said.

‘That’s the idea,’ he pointed out. ‘They come this way, then,’ he snapped his fingers, ‘no more trail. They’ll waste time looking, by then we’ll be home and dry. Right. Let’s play hide-and-seek with these bastards.’

They twisted left, hooked to the right, backtracked so many times that Claudia was breathless and dizzy.

‘See that?’ Arcas pushed her hard in the back. ‘That little overhang? You hide under there, flat on your belly, and for gods’ sake, keep that bloody cat quiet. I’ll rejoin you within a count of five hundred.’

Actually it was closer to eight hundred by the time he returned. Claudia had dragged Drusilla out of her crate, cradling her tight to Arcas’s shirt, where the cat sensed what to do and remained unaccustomedly still. By the time the Silver Fox returned to his lair, she was sitting upright in her cage, calmly washing her whiskers.

‘This way,’ he hissed, ‘and quietly. I’ve laid a false trail, there’s no reason for them not to fall for it, but we must lie low until nightfall, maybe even tomorrow night. This Spider,’ he shook his silver mane, ‘is not a forgiving man. His men are on the lookout for you.’

‘And for you now,’ Claudia said.

His pace barely faltered. ‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘Now me.’

The Spider would clear a nice niche for Arcas’s head.

XXXII

To all those who believed the city was a confusing place, Claudia blew a large and resounding raspberry. Never again did she want to clap eyes on hornbeams, oaks or aspens, and if she never saw another set of white, foaming rapids in her life, it would be too soon. You can stick your limestone schist where the sun doesn’t shine, she told the Sequani gods, your coniferous woodlands, your rushing rivers and your savage gorges. Praise be to Juno, we’re spared this at home. Ours are gentle rounded hills, whose lush valleys flow with wide, inviting rivers lined with proper things. Like vines! Our horses are not sulky red buggers, neither are our cows and sheep and goats pathetic little runts.

We don’t burn human beings alive either.

Or keep embalmed heads on our walls.

Reincarnation. She stopped to unhook her (Arcas’s!) shirt from where it had snagged on a thorn. Did they honestly believe that crap? That by taking the heads of ‘worthy’ enemies, they’d be reborn with their power? Can’t they see the flaw? That by now, the Sequani ought to be a race of super-beings?

‘We’re here,’ Arcas said.

Claudia looked around. ‘Where?’ There was nothing. Woods, woods and, excuse me, more woods.

The Silver Fox chuckled, and she thought it was the first time she’d ever heard him laugh. ‘That’s the beauty of it,’ he said. ‘Follow me, only be careful. The going gets treacherous at times.’

Down they slithered, down and down and down, maybe another hundred feet, to the foot of yet another bloody valley. Except, wait. This was no valley, this was simply a bowl in the rock. A natural hollow, maybe eighty paces across. The air was thick and damp. Instead of the ground becoming lush and fertile, though, the soil grew thinner as they scrambled down, until soon there was only bare stone left in which to make a slippery foothold. Ferns draped the crevices. On the south side, a few hardy creepers put out tentative fingers, a straggly bush or two clung for dear life. Other than that, the hollow was given to ferns. And bare, unforgiving rock.

But the steam… Why so much white steam? There was no river down here. No water. Why this thick, humid air?

‘What is that?’ Her eyes, she felt sure, were on stalks.

A giant chasm loomed out of the mist. A gaping hole, which went backwards and down into the mountain. It was glistening white on the inside.

She slithered down the slippery rock face, dislodging ferns as she went.

‘I don’t believe it.’ Claudia rubbed at her eyes. She was seeing things. The strain had made her hallucinate. ‘That’s ice.’

‘It is,’ he said cheerfully, ‘and providing you don’t mind the cold, we can hide here in safety.’

Trotting after him, Drusilla’s crate joggling in her hand, Claudia muttered something about beggars and choosers and sent a silent prayer to the god of weavers for this handy woollen tunic.

The arch, so perfect many a Roman architect would wish to emulate its beauty, was at least twenty paces across and the same high. As far back as she could see, blue-white ice twinkled in the darkness of the cave.

‘How can it stay like this without melting?’ she gasped. For gods’ sake, this is July. ‘Is it a glacier?’

‘Freak rock formation,’ he said. ‘Look at the angle of the cavern. At some stage, ice formed in here and being, I don’t know, a hundred, two hundred feet thick, only a very thin surface layer melts.’ Picking his footing carefully, Arcas led her to the right-hand side of the cave. ‘Walkways have been cut out of the rock,’ he cautioned. ‘Rings hammered into the wall, ropes looped through, but it’s still very dangerous. The slope is steep and the rock face juts out in places. You have to be careful.’

‘You know a lot about this cave.’

‘I’ve spent three winters here,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘The fluky nature of this place means that very often the temperature is warmer inside than out.’ About fifty paces into the cave he paused and picked a torch from its hook on the wall. ‘Soon it will be too dark for our eyes.’

Claudia glanced upwards over her shoulder. Thanks to the twisting nature of this freaky cave, very little of the massive arch was visible. She could see a gibbous moon in an otherwise starless sky. Turn another bend and natural light would be extinguished altogether.

In her cage, Drusilla yowled like a banshee whose bunion gave her gip.

Arcas’s torch hissed into life. ‘Many rented the accommodation before me.’

His flickering brand brought to life bison galloping over the walls, deer in mid-leap, and Claudia wondered why she wasn’t reassured by their painted vitality, their glowing beauty. She glanced upwards, to where black stalactites hung from the roof of the cave, pointing not as she’d expected, straight down, but angled towards the entrance by freak whirlwinds. Did the cave dwellers find peace here? Happiness in their icy refuge? Or did they, like Claudia, endure it as a gruesome necessity, this place with no soul?

Strangely the narrow walkway, while treacherous going, was neither damp nor slippery and by taking it slowly, one pace at a time, Claudia followed Arcas down the spiralling ramp, the wall of ice rising higher and higher above her. ‘How far does it go?’ There were stalagmites growing upwards. Thick, chunky brutes.

‘To where we’re going,’ his voice echoed eerily in the stillness that was either black or it was white. ‘Not far. There’s a curve to the left, can you see it? A small cave leads off to the right. We’ll be safe there.’

The path levelled out, became a natural ledge where quartz twinkled like fireflies in the light of Arcas’s torch. It was a different world down here. Eerie, echoing and silent. Claudia set down Drusilla’s cage. More elaborate stalactite art-a cow with udders and long arching horns, a jellyfish, many of the formations had creepy mushroom-like gills. More sinister still was the constant drip-drip-drip of water from the roof. Claudia found her teeth were chattering and not necessarily from the chill in the air. This was a godless place, cold and unforgiving.

‘We’re not at the bottom?’

In answer, Arcas guided her by the elbow to the edge of the rope handrail and held his torch out as far as he could. Claudia sucked in her breath. The path went on and on for ever, disappearing into the icy depths of the cave as though this was the entrance to Hades… Above them, the tower of ice loomed silent and menacing and white. She shivered.

‘My winter quarters are behind us,’ he said. ‘Make yourself comfortable-I have hams smoked last winter to see me through the next-I’ll make sure no one can follow.’

By the light of the single spluttering torch, Claudia studied her surroundings. Couldn’t the Spider track them? If Arcas camped out here, surely the rebels would know of its existence? High-pitched ululating battle cries rang in her ears, and she didn’t know whether they were real or imaginary.

‘Off you go, poppet.’ She lifted the latch and out sprang a cat whose fury would only be appeased with a sliver of ham blackened for months over a fire of fir, the ash white and fragrant in the hearth he had built.

‘Come on, Arcas,’ she whispered. Come on. What was taking him so long? She pulled some of his blankets around her. They were damp and smelled of must, but at least they blocked out the cold, and inside her wigwam of wool she could pretend she wasn’t trapped in a tunnel with solid rock on one side and a great wall of ice on the other.

‘That should do the trick,’ he said, and she jumped. With a dull thud, a thick coil of rope landed on the stone floor. ‘I’ve concealed the entrance with branches, removed the handrail and laid one or two rather neat traps. No Spider can reach us in here.’

‘Then what’s that whining noise?’

‘Sequani war trick, designed to flush out the enemy. By pitching their voices high, the sound carries further, appearing closer than it actually is. Rather like birdsong in that respect.’

‘Give me a chaffinch any day.’

‘Hrrrow,’ said Drusilla. ‘Meeee tooooo.’

‘Right then.’ Arcas rubbed his hands briskly together. ‘We can’t light a fire, for obvious reasons-’

‘How long are we stuck here?’ Claudia asked. ‘You said yourself the Spider won’t give up on me, he’ll have men posted everywhere.’

‘Yes,’ Arcas nodded, chafing the circulation back into his naked chest and arms. ‘But after a couple of days, they’ll be less vigilant. We can easily slip through the net when their guard is down.’ From a pile of woollens, he selected two tunics and pulled both of them over his head.

‘Like we did from the Spider’s own house?’ She grinned.

‘We escaped, didn’t we?’ He cut a long sausage down from the beam which he’d fixed over the hearth. ‘Better this than what he had in mind.’

True.

From the back of the cave he brought out a large stoppered wineskin. ‘Pine liqueur,’ he said. ‘Helps pass time in the winter.’ He took a swig then passed it over to her. ‘So then,’ he said, slicing her a large chunk of smoked sausage, ‘what do you think of my cosy little nest?’

‘What intrigues me,’ she said, ‘is why you live here.’

His lips pursed, then pouted, then pursed once again. ‘Reasons.’ He shrugged. ‘Have another drink.’

‘My dear Arcas, are you trying to get this girl tiddly?’

‘Possibly,’ he admitted, stretching out and crossing his legs at the ankles. ‘Do you mind?’

Claudia thought of a man with dark, wavy hair. A man who had sent someone else to rescue her.

‘Not at all,’ she said, taking a second long swig. ‘Getting drunk is one thing I excel at.’

By the gods, though, this stuff fair makes one’s eyes water.

‘Tell me.’ Arcas grinned, propping himself up on one elbow. ‘Where did you hide that map?’

Beneath her blankets, Claudia suddenly shivered. It was as though her very marrow was ice. Tell me, she prayed. Tell me it’s just this wretched ice cave…

‘Why, Arcas?’ she said slowly. ‘Why do you want to know?’

‘Just curious,’ he said, flipping the stopper back in the liqueur skin. ‘Only you couldn’t have hidden it on your person-’

Was it the gentian liqueur which made her head spin? Tell me it is. Tell me it’s drink which is making me queasy.

‘Why did you bring my belongings with you, Arcas?’ She was shivering inside. This isn’t happening. It can’t be.

‘To escort you over the border.’

‘Earlier, you said Bern.’

‘Yes. Well. Your fancy patrician wanted me to take you to Bern, I told him I don’t know the place, but I’d see you as far as the border.’

Her heart was beating so loud, she thought it would deafen her. Arcas. She rolled the name around in her head.

The Silver Fox. Tears welled in her eyes. Not of anger, at being taken in by this man. But of sadness. Goddammit, she had liked this rugged woodsman ‘You’re one of them, aren’t you?’ she said quietly. ‘The Spider’s men.’

She dared not look at him.

Across the cave, she heard him inhale deeply. ‘I’m a huntsman, not a warrior. I told you.’

‘But first and foremost, you’re a trapper.’ You baited this trap. And removing the rope rail was not to impede the Spider’s men. It’s to hinder my progress, should I try to escape. A thousand emotions thundered in her head. ‘Dammit, Arcas, this whole bloody thing is a set up.’ Choreographed from the start…

Faster than she could have imagined, he sprang across the floor. ‘No!’ she screamed, making a bolt for the cave entrance, but already he was upon her, thrusting her on to her face as deft hands tied her wrists with strips of leather. ‘Let me go, you duplicitous bastard!’

‘You know I can’t do that,’ he panted, hauling her upright to a sitting position. ‘Although if it’s any consolation, this doesn’t make me feel good.’

You arrogant sod! It’s me tied like a sacrificial hog, yet all you’re concerned about are your own bloody feelings! She squirmed, and the bindings bit into her flesh.

‘One million Celts died defending their homelands, did you know that?’ he said sadly. ‘A million more taken to be sold into slavery. That’s half the population, Claudia. Half! No one held it against the old king when he pleaded submission, we’d been brought to our knees, many tribes wiped out completely. But times change. We are strong again. We will fight back.’

All right. He’s not like the Spider, a raving, sick psychopath. Let’s debate this in a civilized fashion.

If you call being kidnapped and hog-tied civilized. ‘Under Roman occupation,’ she said quietly, ‘civil war is a thing of the past, surely that’s worth celebrating. Or have you forgotten how you GauCelts used to be at one another’s throats? You and the good folks of the Auvergne, for instance. It’s not so long ago you sought to annihilate the whole bloody tribe.’

With an irritated flick, he sent the stopper winging over the floor and gulped greedily at the liqueur.

Wrong, Claudia thought. Don’t rub him up the wrong way. We’re being civilized, remember? ‘I can’t condone the loss of two million,’ she said with commendable calm, ‘but after two generations of peace the population is not only back to its original level, numbers are actually swelling. With men at home, instead of off fighting, lands have become fertile and prosperous-’

His fists clenched, and he rammed a punch into a pile of blankets. ‘Goddammit, we’re a vassal state! Don’t you have any conception of what that might mean?’ He shook his silver mane and his anger seemed to fall with it. ‘Well, that’s of no consequence. We need the last piece of the map, Claudia, and I know what you think of me, but I swear, you have my word as a Sequani nobleman, that once it’s in my possession, I shall personally see you to safety. My word.’

A vision flashed through her head. Of him giving his word to Marcus, of their gripping forearm to forearm, staring deep into each other’s eyes as they weighed one another up.

‘Is Junius dead?’ she asked woodenly. And knew the answer.

‘It was part of the plan.’ He shrugged.

Ah, yes. The plan. I was forgetting. Right from the very beginning, Sequani spies must have informed the Spider that Theo was acting for Galba. The Treveri and the Helvetii might not know the senator was about to double-cross them, but by the gods, the Spider did. The rock fall was his signal to swing into action. After that, it was watch-and-wait time. Someone-probably Arcas-would have kept an eye on the convoy, doubtless laying a trail for the hapless travellers to follow which would lead them to the plateau where they’d see a plume of smoke, and in their frazzled state they wouldn’t think to ask themselves, who lights a fire in midsummer?

Guided to the village, it’s plain sailing. From then on, they’re in the Silver Fox’s hands, dancing to whichever tune he pipes. He would be well aware of Theo’s role, and it wasn’t that he mistrusted him. He wanted the lad close to keep tabs on him. For similar reasons, he recognized in Orbilio a man who was not what he claimed to be, and wanted him at the back, separated as far as possible from the man who was collecting the maps.

‘That day the Spider’s war party descended on us,’ she said sombrely. ‘We weren’t in any danger.’

‘None at all.’

‘You signalled the charge by leaning on your sword, letting the sun send out a message.’ Then it was playtime. Lead them a dance. Sow seeds about headhunting Gauls. Sow panic. Pandemonium. Make them trust you.

‘I tried to warn you, Claudia,’ he said thickly. ‘How often did I say to you, trust nobody?’ Almost to himself, he added, ‘But you wouldn’t listen.’

No self-pity, Hanno had said. And no compassion, either…

Claudia thought of the ewe with her lambs, her cut throat pumping blood. She thought of the horse breeder, whose stock Arcas had so heartlessly stolen. Never mind that family might starve, be forced to leave the lands they had worked for, spend the rest of their lives in poverty. This was in the name of ‘the cause’. Try as she might, Claudia could not contain her rage. "What bloody cause? Did Arcas and his brutal leader imagine they could take on the might of Rome? With or without the chaos of the new Republic, did he not know how great the army numbered? How far the Empire stretched? No, of course not! To the Sequani, a few hundred miles was big territory. Oh, you stupid, stupid, ignorant sods! Sending good men into battle when any soldier could tell them, the whole bloody lot would be slaughtered!

Doubtless Theo had tried, but the Spider, in his arrogance, wouldn’t listen.

Double-cross upon double-cross.

Where would it end?

Now, though, one other thing, finally, made sense. Dammit, you silly bitch, you only have yourself to blame for this predicament. You should have been suspicious from the start when it was Arcas acting alone who came to rescue you. Not, she thought, because Orbilio holds a torch for you. No. He’d have tagged along for the simple reason he always had, to play the bloody hero!

She wondered what he was doing. The sun would be shining in Vesontio. The parade would be long over, the banquet underway. Wine would be flowing like nobody’s business, business contacts set up, orders placed as sucking pig and roast boar were wheeled in. There’d be dancing and music, jugglers between courses, acrobats, poets and mime. He’d have gone to the barracks, established Theo hadn’t turned up, and then what? Unable to proceed further on his own, would Marcus have gone to the party? He’d notice her absence. Maybe check up on her lodgings, but she’d checked out, he would find. He’d be cross, call her names, and when he calmed down he would see that she’d simply slunk back to Rome and since he was only concerned with his precious map, he’d be happy knowing it was not in rebel hands. Right now, she thought, he’d be feasting on lobsters and quail, taking his pick of a score of young women He would never know that the Spider, having searched her room, had then arranged her kidnap (no doubt a rebel fed false information to a gullible Junius that the Neptune Gate was perfectly safe). He would never know how, in order to retrieve the final portion of the map, the rebel leader had tested her resolve by trying to unnerve her with Theo’s head-with a whole cavalcade of heads-culminating in that harrowing human sacrifice which was the wicker man.

Marcus Cornelius would never know the Spider’s tactics. How, under torture, some people talk, others never will. How the Spider could tell (from heaven knows how much experience) which type he was dealing with, and having assured himself that tough measures would fail with Claudia Seferius, arranged for Arcas to effect a rescue.

The hue and cry that followed was another piece of theatrical romp. Designed to make her place her trust in her saviour…

With weighted eyelids, Claudia looked around the cave.

At the hams hanging from the beam above. The slimy walls. The Silver Fox whose lair she had been lured to. Where would, could they go from here? The friendship ploy had failed, she had seen through Arcas. Admittedly a tad late, but nevertheless, she knew who he was, as he knew she would not yield to torture. They had reached an impasse, and from here there was no way out.

This grotto was Claudia’s grave.

XXXIII

How long did they sit there, Claudia and Arcas-one hour? two?-without speaking? At one point he lit the fire, since the need for pretence was over, but far from comforting, the flames made the cave steamy and because the damp wood smoked badly, he kicked over the logs. Now only a few wayward coils of grey rose from the fragrant fir ash. No sound intruded into this subterranean grotto, only the constant drip-drip-drip of water from the roof and the blood pounding in Claudia’s temple.

Her teeth chattered from the fear and the cold, and she tried not to think where this would lead. The rebels would not give up on her, so how would Arcas proceed from here? He had given himself thirty-six hours to win her confidence and ultimately the map. Then what? She shuddered as she saw the Spider’s thugs storm the grotto, cart her off to that torture-house in the valley where they burned men in front of their families That wouldn’t happen, she vowed. Somehow she must break free of these bonds. Kill Arcas. Kill herself. A silent tear trickled down her cheek. Big words from a big mouth, she thought. I’m trussed up like a game bird, and what of Drusilla? The single raindrop became a thunderstorm as Claudia realized she would have to kill Drusilla, too. Think, girl, think. There is a way out of this. There has to be.

‘He’s my brother,’ Arcas said out of nowhere. ‘Sualinos. He’s older than me by three years.’

‘What?’ Claudia’s spinning brain tried to focus. ‘You’re related to that psychotic piece of shit??’ Dammit, she hadn’t meant to say that. Caught on the hop, it slipped out. Still. The damage was done now the damage was done. ‘And because he’s your brother, you back his campaign to the hilt without questioning his motives or his methods?’

‘His methods are not my methods,’ the huntsman said, staring at the ash in the hearth. ‘But he acts within Druid law and he has a just claim to the throne. For my part, I’m happy living in the wild.’ With his toe, he flicked over a smouldering log. ‘Fresh air, open skies, that’s all I want, but I am Sequani. Above all, I want my people set free.’

Claudia stared at this man who had, in the past couple of hours, become a stranger to her. The face was still familiar, of course. The muscled torso, the torque, the long white hair, the headband. But the guide she believed she understood no longer existed.

Thirty-six years old, she thought, and while he knows the backwoods inside out, he has seen nothing of life, of what lies beyond these vast tracts of forest. In the villagers’ eyes, he would be cultured-gentry, who’d been to Vesontio!-and as such they’d have viewed him in awe. Shunned or not, he was a man of the world, a sophisticate, while his brother would be venerated somewhere between demon and god. A man who wielded terror on the one hand and on the other, a true romantic hero preparing to shake off the yoke of Roman oppression.

Did they not see that, even in the unlikely event the Sequani gained independence, together the Spider and the Druids would conspire to keep them under the cosh? Even Arcas was blind to the fact that men like his brother and Galba sought power for its own sake and cared not a fig for the responsibility that went with it. She thought again of the stockbreeder, robbed of his horses. That was responsibility. Ensuring they were cared for, not thrown to the wolves. No wonder the incident stuck in her throat. The theft was as cruel as it was unnecessary, and she wished now she’d listened to what her heart had told her at the time.

Without self-pity. Without compassion, either.

So much old Hanno had known, and yet Claudia had suspected the muleteer as their traitor. Purely on the grounds of monetary rewards. She swallowed the lump in her throat. Because that’s how your mind works, you mercenary bitch, you tar them all with the same brush.

Snap out of that, a little voice barked. Maudlin self-pity won’t get you out of this mess. You can indulge as much as you like once you’re free, in the meantime think of the Spider’s house. The patrol.

‘I need to pee,’ she said firmly.

There. That jarred him. ‘Oh.’ It was too dingy in the cave to be sure, but she thought Arcas blushed. For the first time, his voice lacked confidence.

‘Urgently.’ That’s it. Up the pressure.

‘Well, I…’ He rubbed a nervous hand over his mouth. Good. This situation hadn’t occurred to him. ‘I, um, usually go down there. Near the foot of the cave.’

‘Then I’ll go down there,’ she said. ‘But I can’t hang on much longer.’

Blue eyes scoured her face for tricks, and saw only lips twisted in female anxiety.

‘This way, then.’ With one hand, he gripped her upper arm and hauled her to her feet. The other grasped the torch.

Outside, the narrow walkway was slippery, the air damp. Drip-drip-drip. Didn’t the continuous ooze grate on his nerves? The path became steeper, more sinister. Lit only by the flickering brand, the wall of ice seemed to move in. Whenever I want, it cried out, I can crush you. Claudia fought to control the shakes which had gripped her. Deep breaths. One, two, three. Keep pushing down on your stomach. One, two, that’s better. Remember. Only by remaining in control can you hope to escape.

‘There.’ He pointed in the Stygian gloom. ‘The ice levels off. You can…’ His voice trailed miserably off. ‘I-I’ll hold the light for you.’

For thousands of years, the people who had dwelt in these caves must have used this for perhaps ceremonial purposes. Weddings. Funeral services, even, for it was not a natural plate, but man made. Hollowed out of the ice, many hands must have laboured to create this flat space.

‘I’m not having a man stand over me while I am…indisposed,’ she snapped, and relief flooded his face. ‘Cut me free, will you, Arcas.’

‘You’ll have to manage the best you can.’

Damn. Damn, damn and double damn. Nice try, but now what?

‘Spoken like a true gentleman,’ she said, heaping on the discomposure, because it’s funny how a simple female bodily function can set even the most hardened member of the opposite sex squirming with embarrassment. And how a different female function-wile-can exploit it.

Down here, conditions were arctic. This was almost the floor of the cavern, ice would have lain here for centuries. Maybe hundreds of centuries. What she was looking at was creation itself.

‘I can’t see you,’ Arcas called.

‘That’s the idea,’ she yelled back.

Her eyes quickly grew used to the gloom. What she needed was a stalactite-mite-whatever it was. A sharp splinter of ice to hack through her bonds. There’s one! Under a flickering halo of gold, she could see the misty silhouette of the hunter, stamping his feet to keep out the cold. Her teeth were chattering as she chafed leather against ice. Come on, come on.

‘What’s keeping you?’ he asked.

‘How do you expect me to manage?’ she retorted. ‘With my hands behind my back?’

It was no use. The ice was simply melting against the heat of her arms, wetting the leather. Shit! Angry tears prickled her eyes. There had to be a way, surely?

In the dark, eerie silence of the cavern, two hundred feet below ground, Claudia let out a scream.

‘What’s wrong?’ he called. ‘What’s the matter.’

She waited several seconds. ‘I slipped,’ she called back, and there was a catch in her voice. ‘Hit my head when I toppled backwards.’ She limped towards the huntsman, who was holding the torch out as far as he could. ‘I…’ Tears of shame welled up. ‘I can’t manage alone. I…need your help.’

Contrition swept over his face. ‘Look, I’ll cut your hands loose, just while you, er-’

‘Thank you.’ She sniffed. With the back of her hand, she scrubbed away the tears. ‘Only I couldn’t get my underclothes off…’

‘Yes, yes.’ Arcas didn’t want to know the details. ‘Well you, um-I’ll wait here.’ He watched the pitiful figure dissolve into the blackness.

Free of her bonds, Claudia’s mind span like a mill race. Backtracking to make a break for the entrance was out of the question, since that entailed leaving Drusilla behind, the best she could hope for was to creep up and try to surprise him.

A betting man would have laughed and walked away.

Claudia wouldn’t have blamed him.

Maybe, though… Maybe there is another way…

‘This is better,’ she called out to Arcas. ‘I can take off my thong without falling over.’

The misty silhouette did not require intimate details. It shuffled in acute embarrassment and stared at the cave roof and did not see the figure which flitted past him on the floor of the cave. Before the ice rose up into a wall again, Claudia pulled off her shoes, stuffed them into the waistband of her thong and jumped. Her fingers caught the ledge of the walkway and quickly she heaved herself up. Keeping her back to the rock, she scuttled barefoot up the spiral tunnel.

‘Claudia?’ Anger echoed round the grotto. ‘Come here, you bitch!’

Arcas held up his torch. No one! He swore under his breath.

‘I’ll find you,’ he yelled. ‘You won’t get far.’

In the darkness, his ears strained for sounds. They heard nothing. Just a drip-drip-drip from the roof.

‘Even if you make it to the entrance, I can track you,’ he shouted. Track-you-ack-you-ack-you echoed back at him, that was all. No frantic footsteps, no scrabbling against rock.

‘You can’t get away from me, Claudia.’ He paused to listen. ‘I have your cat,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to harm it, but if I have to, I will.’

Still no sounds. Where the hell was she? Hiding on the flat part of the ice? He sprang down and made a quick search. Maybe hiding between the rock and the ice? His light moved back and forth over the gap. Nothing there.

‘You can’t stay hidden,’ he called. ‘I’ll find you. Frozen to death, more than likely.’

Goddammit, she was hiding somewhere. He looked around, hoping to see telltale steam from her breath. She could not have gone far. He’d have seen her.

‘That’s it,’ he said warningly. ‘I’m coming after you, Claudia.’

He ran back up the walkway to the little cave. Carefully he approached the entrance. Could she have made it this far without him hearing her? He didn’t think so. His memory replayed the sounds when he’d guided her down the ramp. The sounds their shoes made on the stone, her ragged breathing, the shivering, the chattering of her teeth with the cold. Pausing in the doorway, he saw that nothing had changed. The blankets she’d wrapped round herself were still heaped. Coils of smoke rose from the fire. He listened hard. Nothing. Confident, he strode inside and reached down for his sword.

‘Meeowrrrr.’

Something black flew at his face. ‘Aaargh!’ As the torch fell from his grasp, blood streamed from his face, where the cat’s claws had left wide open gashes.

‘ Mrrrrrow! ’ Drusilla, incensed that she’d been used as a weapon, shot past his legs.

‘Bitch,’ he cried, but before his hand closed over his weapon, the full force of a log sent him spinning sideways, knocking his sword out of reach. ‘I’ll see you pay for this.’

‘You and who else?’ Claudia sneered. Think he was the only one who had tactics? What’s the first thing a child learns when it grows up in the slums? The art of invisibility. When your parents are drunk, fighting drunk, pulling the hair out of one another drunk, you learn pretty fast. Flatten yourself against the wall. Take short, soundless breaths through your nose. Never seen. Never heard. Hey presto. Invisible.

In the last rays of guttering torchlight, Claudia saw him draw a dagger from his belt. She lunged for the sword and swung. It swooshed through the blackness and clanged against the stone wall, sending shock waves up to her shoulder. Shit! She hadn’t realized it would be so heavy.

‘Think you can fight me and win, do you?’ he hissed. ‘Well, I have news for you, pretty lady. We need that map, and by old Father Dis, I’ll see that we get it, and if you think my brother’s tactics are brutal, think again, because I won’t just kill that fucking cat of yours.’

He lunged in the darkness, and she knew he’d mistaken her for the log with which she’d hoped to poleaxe him. With a clang, the log bounced down the walkway. He wouldn’t make that mistake twice.

She held the sword in both hands. Holy Jupiter, what a weight!

‘I swear I’ll torture that cat before your very eyes. In the end, I’ll have you begging to hand over that map.’

She believed him! ‘You’re two of a kind, you and your brother. One a repellent insect. The other vermin.’ Whoooosh. Again the sword sliced through thin air. ‘That’s how foxes are viewed, isn’t it, Arcas? As vermin?’

She heard him scuttle across the cave and so she dodged sideways. ‘You think I give a fuck about your Roman insults?’ A hand lashed out and grabbed hold of her tunic. Another trap. He’d anticipated such a move.

So had she. Like an earwig, she wriggled free of the shirt. The cold air against her naked flesh made her gasp. He heard the sound and his arm followed instinctively. The blow caught Claudia full in the mouth. Sent her reeling. Blood spurted out.

‘All I care about is freeing my people,’ he said, and she caught the sweet whiff of dried ceps. ‘You should have given me the map when I asked.’

Why didn’t I? she wondered. Why didn’t I just hand it over?

Her head was pounding from the force of the blow. She saw stars.

Dammit, she’d landed right in the hearth. Blood from her mouth dripped into the ashes. The air here was dry. Tickly. Any second now she would-‘Atchoo!’

Bugger. The sounds in her head intensified, the stars grew ever brighter. She was cold. Bitterly cold. The heat from the fire had long died. She was weak from the cold, the sword was a ton weight in her hand…

‘So that’s where you’re hiding.’ His laugh was soft and gentle. Superior in victory. ‘Very smart.’ A fist grabbed her hair and yanked her bodily out of the hearth.

‘No, you don’t,’ she spluttered, and threw a handful of ash in his face. Choking, Arcas released her.

Claudia took a wild swing with the sword. Whoooosh, through thin air. Frantically she swung it backwards. There was a crack. A dull thud. Then a roll. Great shot, girl. You’ve cut down a ham.

Suddenly the stars in her head became lanterns. The pounding in her ears turned to voices. Male voices. The Spider’s men! A crowd filled up the doorway. Clamouring. Shouting. With both hands, she hefted the sword. By the gods, it was heavy, but they wouldn’t take her alive. She would fall on it first.

‘Claudia?’

Tears streamed down her face, runnels in the blood and the ash. Sweet Janus, I’m hallucinating with fear. Now I’m seeing It was a trick. Another of the Spider’s ruses. That in the sudden burst of lamplight, she’d mistake his man for Marcus. Look, that one even looks like Junius. His arm and shoulder bandaged convincingly ‘Claudia?’

Both men rushed towards her, but it was the patrician who reached her first. ‘Arcas,’ she babbled. ‘You have to arrest him.’

Dammit, he’d escaped! He’d known they weren’t his allies and scarpered.

‘I know where he’s hiding,’ she said. ‘Down-’

‘He’s dead,’ Orbilio cut in, wiping her face with the hem of his tunic. ‘You killed him, remember?’

‘Me? Don’t be daft.’ One minute we were fighting. I threw ashes at him. He choked. I slashed with the sword. Cut down a ham…

Claudia’s stomach flipped somersaults.

‘Oh, no…’ She could hardly form the words.

‘You didn’t realize?’ Gently Marcus blotted the cut on her lip.

Her heart set to burst free of her ribcage, Claudia grabbed the torch from his hand and with quaking hands held it aloft. It can’t be…

Arcas lay sprawled across the slimy cavern floor, his russet pantaloons the colour of dried blood, his double tunics barely concealing the bulging muscles of his arms and chest. The dagger was still clutched tight in his hand.

Claudia’s trembling eyes moved across to the hearth, where a mane of silver hair was camouflaged in a pile of white ash.

In the little cavern, Claudia swayed, and before the blackness closed in to swallow her up she finally accepted that it was not Arcas’s smoked ham she’d chopped down from the beam.

Claudia had chopped off his head.

XXXIV

The fluting trill of a nightingale brought Claudia back to consciousness, and fluttering hands felt the touch of the fine linen which encased her nakedness. As her eyelids flickered open, she smelled sandalwood.

‘You’ll catch your death,’ she told him, then realized that she was warm, that sunshine was washing over her, flooding the bowl in the hills with its liquid, golden heat.

‘Me?’ His laugh made something jump under her ribs. ‘It’s you who insists on dicing with death, Mistress Seferius. Will you never learn?’

She struggled into a sitting position, and saw that most of the others had melted away, presumably off to hunt spiders. Only Junius remained, hard-faced and sulking, and she wondered why his expression should be so unutterably sour. After all, if the Spider’s plan had gone according to schedule, he’d be dead.

Claudia turned her face to the sun, and flinched at the swollen tender lump that used to be her mouth. ‘How did you find me?’ she asked.

Inside her crate, a hard-boiled glare blazing in opposite directions, Drusilla yowled out her objections, at being used as a weapon and that if it ever happened again, she didn’t want Claudia to think she’d lap her cream any more, and as for sleeping on her counterpane at night, think again.

‘For a man of my calibre, it was nothing.’ Orbilio grinned. ‘Despite being left for dead, Junius somehow raised the alarm but was mystified why your possessions should have been taken from outside the Neptune Gate. I made enquiries of the sentry, who reported that a chap with grey hair took them. The reason was obvious, the next question was where.’

‘You didn’t think of the roundhouse?’

‘It was a possibility, but-’ shamefaced he glanced away, mumbling something under his breath.

‘You what? Didn’t know where to find it?’ Actually, neither did she, but that wasn’t the point. This was the man who was supposed to be a hero, remember? Heroes don’t mislay roundhouses all over the place.

‘Luckily,’ manfully he ploughed on, ‘our Silver Fox was well known in Vesontio, someone mentioned the ice cave where he holes up in winter, someone else guided us here. So you see, a few logical steps, one lucky hunch-’

‘Hunch?’ Claudia’s voice rose in outrage. ‘I could have died back there.’

‘Ah, but you didn’t,’ Orbilio said, passing her a goblet of fresh mountain water. ‘Hades is not up to the challenge. Ice?’

‘Very funny.’ She snatched the goblet from his hand. ‘Anyway, who needs the cavalry?’ she snapped. ‘I saved the Empire single-handed.’

One lazy eyebrow rose in query.

‘I’ll have you know, the Spider had every piece of the map, except mine,’ she said haughtily. ‘Without me, he’d have his grubby paws on the entire State Treasury.’

‘Oh.’ Orbilio rubbed his hand back and forth over his jaw. ‘Did I give you the impression the map pinpointed the Treasury?’

If Claudia had had claws, they’d be out. ‘Why?’ It was no mean feat, talking through both a fat lip and gritted teeth, but she managed.

‘No, it’s just that… Well, I apologize if you believed…’ He decided that staring at ferns was a better course of action than being speared by her lacerating scowl. ‘It was Galba’s supreme double-cross, you see. The whole point… Ah, how can I put this? There…never was any great cache of treasure.’

‘Orbilio, I’m warning you, I do not find this amusing.’

‘Neither, I’m sure, would the Treveri. Let alone the Helvetii.’ He tried for a smile. And failed. ‘I-I did tell you that the Security Police would know about any large sums on the move. I mean-’ He tried for a laugh. This was worse. ‘Surely-ha, ha-you didn’t imagine Galba could spirit away the entire Treasury of Rome-gold, silver, paintings, gems-and nobody notice?’

Claudia said nothing. She was too busy deciding whether flaying him alive was too good for him, or whether she should simply settle for throttling him with her bare hands.

Finally she asked, ‘Do they know yet, the tribes?’

‘They do.’ He quickly befriended a different fern. ‘My…boss doesn’t, though.’

Claudia blinked. She blinked again. In the end, her lids could hardly stand the pace. ‘Marcus Cornelius, I do declare! You haven’t sent a report back to Rome at all, have you?’ Still intent on the fern, he merely gave a tight-lipped shrug.

‘You scuppered Galba’s chance of setting up a new Republic through the back door.’

She pushed a hank of hair out of her eyes and ticked the sequence off on her fingers.

‘Once you realized what was happening, you sent word to the Treveri and Helvetii that there was, in fact, no treasure trove. They’d immediately check with their spies in Rome, where one quick visit to the Temple of Saturn would put them right, because they’d see it snoring contentedly in the temple basement. At this point, the chieftains would want a quiet word in the senator’s ear’-after which they’d probably chop it, and many other bits, off-‘and doubtless tell him what he could do with his seditious ideas before they roasted him slowly over an open fire then boiled his gizzards for tea.’

You don’t double-cross the Gauls and not pay the price! Galba and his co-conspirators would be dead already. By their own hand, if they had any sense, because the alternative didn’t bear thinking about.

What Claudia didn’t understand, however, was why Orbilio should choose this method. Augustus would continue at the helm without being any the wiser, it wouldn’t advance his career one single step…

Of course! She snapped her fingers and in the hollow of the hills the sound was like a twig cracking.

‘The Emperor never gets to hear about it…but neither does your boss!’ She laughed.

Who’d never know, poor little creep, how close he came to having his career shot into orbit by his patrician employee. Because it would not have been Orbilio who came out with the credit, but his boss. She watched the flecks in his hair dance in the sunlight.

‘Marcus Cornelius, that is devious, sneaky and extremely underhanded.’

‘I knew you’d approve.’

‘The Spider?’ she asked. ‘Will you catch him?’

He exhaled loudly. ‘I don’t honestly know,’ he replied. ‘Whatever happens, it’s a farm of maggots we’re opening up. Alive, he’s a thorn in Rome’s side. Kill him, he becomes a martyr. Take him as a prisoner of war, you can never turn your back.’

‘There is one solution,’ Claudia said. ‘If you ever catch him.’ She told him about the wicker man. ‘Leave him alone with the burning man’s widow…’ The hatred on that woman’s face would haunt Claudia for the rest of her days. That, and the screams of her husband.

‘Too many innocent people have died for my liking,’ Marcus said, twisting the figure-of-eight ring as his mind’s eye pictured two small flame-haired children running in the garden of their new foster home. ‘I’m glad it’s over. But one thing bothers me still. Where did you hide that map?’

Claudia smiled to herself. Her very first action, on arriving in Vesontio, had been to hire a carpenter to make a new cage for Drusilla. A good, solid piece of Roman craftsmanship. With the usual false bottom. Doesn’t every girl carry their secrets that way?

‘Map?’ she asked, fluttering her eyelashes. ‘What map might that be?’

Laughing loudly, Marcus rose to his feet and offered her his arm. ‘Going my way, milady?’

Claudia glanced up the precipitous sides of the bowl, then back to the tall patrician standing at her side.

‘Definitely,’ she quipped back. ‘After all, the only way is up, am I right?’

Because, when all’s said and done, there’s a lot to be said for a hero.

Content

Marilyn Todd
Black Salamander

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

XX

XXI

XXII

XXIII

XXIV

XXV

XXVI

XXVII

XXVIII

XXIX

XXX

XXXI

XXXII

XXXIII

XXXIV