Free Black Salamander by Marilyn Todd

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