Black Salamander

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.