I bent down again and pulled at another bush. It might be interesting to see if Hierocles had died before or after his Imperial master. It did strike me as more interesting than the story Martin had struck up of the spot, somewhere ahead, where Saint Eunapius had failed to convert nine dozen philosophers by turning stones into bread. The panel here was broken, though, and the relevant section had fallen inward. Was it worth getting my hands dirty by pulling the section out? Probably not. On the other hand, Martin’s sudden fervour was getting on my tits. I could put up with the absurdity of stones turned into bread. That the wretched Eunapius was supposed to have done this after the philosophers had torn his head off was more than common sense could bear. I pushed my hand inside the tomb. I pulled it straight out again and, shaking, stood up. I looked at my hand. Unable to stop myself, I wiped it on my robe.
‘What is it?’ Martin hissed with a relapse into terror.
I ignored him and looked at the small area of blackness where the panel had fallen in. I nerved myself and bent down again. This time, I reached carefully in and felt about. It was a hand I’d touched — the cold, stiff hand of one recently dead. It was attached to a bare arm. That was as far as I could reach. I swallowed and took hold of the hand. I pulled it through the gap and stood up. I paid no attention to Martin’s little scream and looked down at the bluish hand of what may once have been a woman or an adolescent boy.
Chapter 12
‘The barbarians!’ Martin cried. ‘The barbarians!’
‘Shut up!’ I snapped. ‘Barbarians don’t hide their kills.’ I put a hand on his shoulder and shook him until he stopped babbling. ‘Let’s have a look round the back of this thing.’ I stepped off the road and forced my way into a mass of brambles. I barely noticed what these did to my red leggings. I did notice, though, how the bushes still hadn’t fully recovered from a recent flattening. The tomb had been built of marble only on the three sides visible from the road. Its back was of unrendered brick. At some time in the distant past, a hole about thirty inches across had been smashed into the brickwork. Its worn edges showed signs of recent disturbance. I couldn’t see anything in the blackness. But I reached in and felt about. The naked body was female. It had been doubled over as it was pushed through the small hole. I felt no congealed blood beneath the chill breasts. I ran my fingers up the body. Instead of a neck and then a face, I found myself touching a nasty and roughly crusted stump. I pulled my hand straight out and stood hurriedly back. Swallowing continually, I fought against the urge to double over and vomit.
‘Oh, there you are,’ Priscus rasped in his most cheerful voice since, off Cyprus, we’d turned west. His chair was about a dozen yards back along the road. Emerging from the mist, the whole front half of the party had caught up and now had come to a halt. ‘I was telling Nicephorus you’d not be able to resist grubbing round all these broken stones.’ He got down from his chair and walked with an uncertain jauntiness to the edge of the road. He looked into my twitching and doubtless very pale face, and grinned. ‘So, dear boy, will you enlighten us with your discovery? Is this the tomb of Socrates himself?’ He let out a sneering laugh. Suddenly, as if reading my thoughts, he looked down at the hand that was still poking through the gap at the bottom of the tomb. He arched his eyebrows and smiled. He was getting ready for one of his more flippant comments, when Nicephorus came up beside him.
One glance down, and the colour drained from his face. ‘My Lords,’ he stammered when he’d found his voice, ‘I do urge the unwisdom of delay on this road.’ Rich that was, from a man who’d had us take half the morning to cover three miles.
Keeping my face expressionless, I stared back at him. ‘What, My Lord Count, is the meaning of this?’ I asked firmly. I wanted to know. I also wanted to keep Martin from looking stupid in front of everyone else with a return to wailing about the barbarians. Correction: I just wanted to know. ‘Why do you suppose there is a fresh and headless body hidden just off the road?’
‘Athens is safe, My Lord, only within its walls,’ was the best answer I got.
Everyone else at the front of our long procession had now edged forward. I could see the cart where Sveta was looking after the children. As yet, she hadn’t poked her head through the leather flaps. If no one knew what, everyone else had guessed something was wrong, and there were nervous looks on all the faces of the carrying slaves. I heard Simeon’s voice raised in harsh complaint about the delay — he wanted his lunch. His earlier bounce quite gone, Nicephorus darted his tongue over dry lips and began a more insistent urging that we should get ourselves to Athens with all possible speed. The assemblymen had now crowded forward for a look at the body. They said nothing at all, but didn’t look happy.
‘So you are telling us this is indeed murder,’ Priscus snapped. ‘Don’t you suppose your duty involves at least checking whose body it might have been?’
Odd that he should be telling anyone to investigate a probable killing. Then again, it gave him an excuse to be horrid to Nicephorus. Whatever the case, I nodded. With hands clenched, Nicephorus looked up at the grey sky and then down again at the hand. He was looking for something to say, but not, it was plain, with any success.
‘Well, don’t just stand there, man,’ Priscus added. He swore and wheeled round to look at the main party. He pointed at his own chair’s carrying slaves. ‘Go and do as His Magnificence directs,’ he ordered.
Mouths open, they looked back uncomprehendingly. Priscus swore again. He stepped towards them, hand tightening on his stick. But Nicephorus now gave in to the inevitable and jabbered something at the slaves that bore a passing resemblance to Greek. They let go of their carrying handles and picked their way with slow reluctance through the brambles. I got them to pull at the loose brickwork until they’d made a hole big enough for pulling the body out. It had set in its doubled-up position, and getting it out was a right bitch. But a few kicks from me, and more jabbering from Nicephorus, and out it finally came. It lay huddled on the rocky ground beyond the brambles.
‘Ooh, but isn’t she lovely?’ Priscus crooned, now beside me. He bent down and ran appreciative hands over the pale corpse. Propping his stick upright within some of the bricks the slaves had raked out, he got on to his knees and reached into the tomb. He pulled his arms out and moved closer on his knees. This time, he poked his entire upper body inside. Deeper and deeper he reached. Then, with a cry of ecstasy, he was out again, holding the severed head between his hands.
One look at the fear-twisted face, and I had to look up at the sky. I could now smell death all about me.
Priscus, though, was going into some ghastly imitation of Salome with the head of John the Baptist. Holding the girl’s head between outstretched hands, he stared lovingly at the face. He brought it suddenly forward to bury his face in the dark, unbound hair. ‘Perfectly lovely, don’t you think?’ he mumbled between long inward breaths. ‘Can my darling Alaric tell me more than this?’ he finally asked with a sly upward look.
I swallowed and made my own inspection. ‘She was from the better classes,’ I said. I’d established from one touch of the hand that she hadn’t been of the free poor, or from the lower class of slave. ‘Free, or’ — I looked at the whole body: it had been finely proportioned — ‘some rich man’s concubine.’ I’d have put money on the first of these possibilities; most of the slaves I’d seen had the fairish hair of Slav prisoners, and this girl’s hair had been a dark and perhaps a glossy brown. I swallowed again and thought of the flask of perfume I had in my satchel. Without any breeze to carry it away, the smell of corruption was turning unbearable. How Priscus could have been rubbing his face in that hair without puking up would have been a mystery if I hadn’t known him better.