The Sacrifice Stone (8 page)

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ I said. ‘You’re quite wrong. I don’t sleep with boys or men, I prefer women. I lost my virginity with a very cheerful whore in Coriosopitum — that’s in the north of Britannia — and I’ve never looked back. I was married, but my wife went back to her own people.’

Predictably, he said, ‘Why?’

I could have told him about Marcus, but at that time I tried not to think about him if I could help it. It was enough that he was always in my dreams. ‘We no longer loved each other enough to overcome her longing for her homeland and her family.’ It was true, as far as it went.

He seemed satisfied; the sympathetic understanding in his face made me the more certain that he had a home and a family he was missing, too.

He said suddenly, ‘I’m sorry I ask so many questions. Is it all right?’

I almost laughed. ‘It’s all right. If you don’t ask questions, you don’t learn. Now,’ I sat down beside him again, ‘what do you like best to eat?’

He paused, obviously thinking, then said, ‘Mussels. And those little honey cakes with nuts on them. And ewe’s milk cheese, and olives. Oh, and fresh-baked bread. And —’

I interrupted him. ‘I want you to crouch down in the corner behind this table,’ I said. ‘Nobody ever comes in here, especially at this time of day when they’re all getting ready to go home, but if anyone looks in, just keep still and don’t breathe.’

He grinned. ‘I hope they won’t stay too long.’

‘Me too. I’ll go and do some shopping, then, when we’ve finished eating and the coast’s clear, we’ll slip away. Is that a good plan?’

Moving silently behind my desk, he said softly, ‘It’s great.’

When I came back with the food — I’d bought a jug of cool white wine, too, which I certainly needed even if Theodore didn’t — I looked into the other rooms along the passage. They were all empty. Outside, there’d been the usual few people around the forum, but it was a dull evening and there weren’t many of them. There’d be even fewer by the time we left, and anyway nobody would be on the lookout for a man and a boy. With any luck.

I spread the food out on my desk, and Theodore fell on it. Cramming bread and cheese into his mouth with both hands, he choked and had to suffer me pounding him on the back before he could resume his meal. I’d brought a clay pot of cooked mussels, and had to elbow him off to get any at all.

My small hunger quickly satisfied, I sat back with my wine and watched him eat every morsel. When he’d finished, he gave a tremendous burp then, as if hearing some distant reproving voice, said, ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t mention it. Like some wine?’

He seemed reluctant. ‘I don’t drink wine.’

‘Fine. There’s a jug of water on the window sill.’

‘Wine makes people angry, doesn’t it?’ He sounded nervous, and I wondered if he was expecting my modest half-jug to turn me into a furious fiend.

‘Some people, yes. Especially those who don’t know how much they can drink and remain in control of themselves.’ I toyed with my glass, wanting to reassure him but without making it obvious. ‘Me, now, I used to take a pride in drinking other men under the table when I was a young man, but now I’m happy with rather less.’

‘I don’t like it when people get angry,’ he said, returning to his theme. ‘It’s ... it’s ...’

‘Scary?’ I suggested. ‘I don’t like it either, particularly when the people getting angry are bigger than me.’

He looked at me gratefully, then said, ‘Not many men are bigger than you, are they? You’re tall.’

I wasn’t the tallest in my century, but there hadn’t been a lot in it. ‘Not much fun in a tent when you’re tall,’ I remarked. ‘When you stretch out, your feet get cold.’

He smiled. ‘I made a tent out of branches and a blanket when I was little. I stayed in it all day, and my —’ He stopped, turning away.

My mother, had he been about to say? My father? I almost asked, but it wasn’t the moment.

‘You’ve finished all the food,’ I said instead. ‘We may as well be on our way.’

He stood up. ‘Ready,’ he said.

I was going to tell him to pack up his belongings, then remembered he hadn’t had any. That tunic — whose collar was now hanging by a thread, thanks to me — and a scruffy pair of sandals seemed to be his only possessions.

‘We may be away some time,’ I said delicately. ‘Is there anything you’ll need, anything you want to fetch from — anywhere?’

He seemed to sense my awkwardness. ‘I haven’t anything to fetch.’ He hesitated then, as if deciding that he should be as open with me as I’d been with him, said, ‘I’ve already sold the last of the things I stole. I spent the money on my sandals.’

I looked at him for a long moment. I was slightly disappointed at his admission — I’d convinced myself the break-in at the warehouse was truly his first foray into crime — but then, I asked myself, what did you expect? Here’s this kid all alone, sleeping rough, eating off scraps — he’s had to steal to survive.

I said in my senior officer’s voice, the one I used to use when I really meant business, ‘You must not steal again.’

Meekly Theodore said, ‘Very well.’

*

We took the journey at a slow but steady pace. Theodore was far too skinny to have much stamina, despite the food he’d just stuffed away, and I didn’t want to show him up by making him have to ask for rest stops. For the same reason I didn’t let him ride my old horse all the time, sharing the riding with him turn and turn about.

It was fully dark by the time we reached my villa. Theodore was dead on his feet, but still noticed enough to comment that it was a big house for one man. Since I agreed with him, I didn’t reply.

The builders had been working on the bathhouse, and they’d left a mess in the courtyard. Cursing, I kicked some rubble out of the way, meaning to leave it till the morning. Theodore got down on his hands and knees and started to help.

Again, I wondered what sort of home he’d come from, what sort of a person had made him afraid of men’s drunken anger, had made him a boy who instantly started working for his board and lodging, even when he’d scarcely had any yet.

What sort of a person had made him run away to the precarious existence of a street child.

I touched his shoulder. ‘Leave it, Theo,’ — the abbreviation came quite naturally, and sounded somehow right — ‘I’ll see to it in daylight.’

He got up, looking sheepish. ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t be — you were trying to help.’ The next thing I had to say was rather delicate, but it had to be said. ‘Look, I usually have a bath before I go to bed, but it’s too late tonight, I’d have to light the furnace and it’d be ages before the water’s hot enough. But I’m going to warm a pan of water on the kitchen hearth, and I suggest that — that —’

His laughter rang out, happy and unrestricted in that sterile house that hadn’t heard the sound before. ‘That I have a good wash before I climb between clean sheets? I’d like that, I’m not this way by choice, honestly.’

I believed him. Relieved, I said, ‘I’ll find you some clean clothes. The least I can do, since it was I who tore your tunic.’

I heard him singing as he washed — I’d put a bowl and the jug of hot water in the corner of the yard, and I stayed in the house till he’d finished.

It gave me a funny turn to see him in Marcus’s clothes, for all that I thought I’d steeled myself for the sight.

‘Your room’s here, off the courtyard,’ I said, my voice horribly over-cheery. I wondered if he’d notice, if so, what he’d make of it. I was past caring — the funny turn had grown into something I could only just handle, and all I wanted was to get away to the privacy of my own room. ‘Here,’ — I opened the door — ‘just blow out the lamp when you’re ready for sleep.’

He looked quickly round the room, nodding in appreciation. ‘It’s great. Thank you.’

‘See you in the morning,’ I said, closing the door. ‘Sleep well.’

He muttered a reply, but I scarcely heard. Turning away, I ran across the courtyard and into my room, where I shuttered myself tightly away so that nobody would hear.

PART TWO

ARLES

THE PRESENT DAY

8

Beth didn’t mention the figure in the toga to Joe or Adam. Very soon she was feeling bashful about the whole thing — within minutes of the man turning and striding away, in fact: having made an embarrassing noise like a sheep being throttled, she’d run backwards for half a dozen paces, then forwards for rather more till she came to an archway that led through into the arena. There she’d stumbled across to lean against the wall, where Adam and Joe had found her.

What would they say, anyway? she asked herself as she listened to Adam describing the present-day bullfights held in the amphitheatre. Adam might have some sensible explanation — someone in fancy dress, or an actor in costume rehearsing for some pageant — and Joe would dismiss it as my imagination.

She had to admit that both explanations were entirely feasible. She wondered why they failed totally to convince her.

She fell into step beside Adam as Joe led them off round the perimeter of the arena. Predictably, he was still ranting on about Christians being martyred. When they were almost back at the entrance Adam interrupted, pointing out the towers which had been added to the top of the outermost walls in medieval times. She wondered if he was as sick of Christian martyrs as she was.

‘Let’s go up,’ she said, determinedly leading the way.

The view from the top of the tower was spectacular. Immediately below, the terracotta-tiled roofs of old Arles huddled tightly together, the narrow roads winding between them so deep in shade that they looked like black ribbons. Beyond the last houses was a thin band of greenery, and beyond that the river.

It was wide here, the Rh
ô
ne, and it had carved itself out such a deep bed that the huge volume of water seemed to pass slowly, as if it were weary and could only just summon the energy for the last few miles to the sea. Beth leaned against a wide window embrasure and watched a small boat chugging upstream, its laborious progress an indication of how powerful a current was sweeping down against it.

‘That way lies the Camargue,’ Adam said, coming to stand beside her. ‘Do you know it?’

She shook her head. ‘Never been there. It’s where the white horses and the black bulls come from, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. And it’s the home of the gipsies, too — Aigues Mortes, that I was telling you about?’ — she nodded, remembering — ‘is on the edge of the Camargue, where the Rhône delta meets the sea. Well, strictly speaking it’s no longer on the sea, since all the silt brought down by the river has built out the shore.’

She gazed downstream where he had pointed. ‘Wild horses, bulls and gipsies. It all sounds improbably romantic — I expect it’s just one big tourist attraction now.’

‘It isn’t. There’s a clutch of new businesses offering horse rides to see the wildlife, but most of the area’s quite unspoiled. The middle bit — round the
Étang de Vaccarès
— is a nature reserve.’

She had the feeling he was about to say something more, but he didn’t. ‘I read somewhere you can see flamingoes,’ she said. ‘I went to see the ones at Slimbridge once.’

He said, ‘Mm,’ but she wasn’t sure he’d heard. Then he began: ‘I’m going to —’ and stopped.

She waited, but he didn’t go on.

After a moment she turned away from the window and the stupendous view. ‘I’m tired,’ she said. ‘And I can’t take in any more.’ She looked round for Joe, and saw him staring out of the next window. ‘Joe, let’s go home.’

Without waiting to see if he’d follow, she walked back to the steps and slowly climbed down.

*

It must be the heat, and all this tramping round, she thought later as she lay in bed: Adam had suggested a drink as they left the amphitheatre, but she’d said no thanks, she wanted to go back and put her feet up, and Joe had said he had notes to write up. After a light supper, she’d left him to it.

Comfortable under the crisp sheet, very soon she felt herself growing drowsy. Sights and sounds of the day flashed through her mind, faithfully reproducing the atmosphere of the place, and she smiled. An image of the Alyscamps took on momentum of its own: she was dreaming, fast asleep.

Some time later, the sound of a telephone woke her. It only rang once then stopped, almost as if someone had been waiting for the call and had pounced on it as soon as the ringing began. Must be next door, she thought vaguely, turning over, but then softly her door opened and Joe peeped in.

‘Just going out to get some fresh air,’ he whispered. ‘Sorry if I disturbed you, but I didn’t want you to wake and find me not here.’

‘Thanks, Joe.’ How nice of him, she thought. ‘Night.’

‘Good night, Beth.’

She was too sleepy to dwell on the coincidence of the ringing telephone and Joe’s sudden need for fresh air: it was only later that it struck her as odd.

*

They were having breakfast out on the terrace in the morning when a white Peugeot drew up in the car park below. Just as she was registering that it had British number plates, Adam got out of it.

She went to the edge of the balcony, waving. ‘Adam! Up here!’

He looked up, smiling. ‘Good morning.’

‘Come and have a coffee?’

‘Thanks.’

‘Over there — up the steps.’ She watched him walk to the foot of the stairs, then turned to Joe. ‘It’s Adam.’

‘So I gathered,’ Joe said drily.

‘Isn’t that a coincidence, him parking right below our house?’

‘Not really.’ Joe went back to his notebook — he’d been engrossed throughout breakfast, and had hardly said a word. ‘I told him where we were staying.’

‘Oh.’ She tried to work out why he’d have done that, if he wasn’t keen on their spending too much time with Adam. ‘Why?’

He didn’t bother to look up, so she couldn’t read his expression. ‘He asked.’

‘How —?’ But just then the front door opened and Adam came striding down the hall. She shrugged. I don’t care, she thought.

*

‘What’s on your agenda today?’ Adam asked. ‘Lovely cup of coffee, Beth.’

‘Plodding on through the list of sights, I expect.’ She realized she could have been more diplomatic, thought briefly of ways she might mitigate her remark, decided not to bother since anything else would probably make it worse.

‘I want to go back to the Alyscamps,’ Joe said. ‘There are a couple of things I want to check.’

She felt mildly disappointed: she’d have preferred to look at something new. He can go on his own, she thought, I’ll take the morning off from being a research assistant and be a tourist instead.

‘Will you need anyone with you?’ Adam asked, catching her eye as if he’d been thinking along similar lines. ‘I only ask because, if not, Beth might like to come out with me — I’m going back to Avignon to try to record an ancient toothless gipsy woman singing what I fervently hope will turn out to be a Russian love song. I was going to ask both of you,’ he added earnestly, ‘only if Joe has to retrace his steps and revisit one of yesterday’s places ...’ He left the sentence unfinished. Beth suppressed a smile — he’d virtually made it impossible for Joe to ask her to go with him without sounding unreasonable.

‘No, I’ll go on my own.’ His tone was neutral.

‘In that case I’ll go with Adam.’ She got up, collecting the mugs and plates. ‘Strictly speaking it’s your turn to wash up, Joe, but I suppose if you’re engrossed I could do it for you.’

‘I’ll help.’ Adam collected the remaining crockery. ‘The sooner we get going, the sooner the work’ll be finished and we can break for lunch.’

You sound, she thought as she ran hot water into the bowl, like my kind of man.

*

They reached Avignon after what seemed a very short time, but then, Beth thought, journeys do pass quickly when you’re talking. Adam, she’d learned, came from Northumberland, where, having travelled extensively after university, he was once more living, within sight of Hadrian’s Wall ‘on a clear day’. He had a cat called Barty, whom a neighbour took care of when Adam was away. He didn’t mention a wife or any other sort of permanent companion, and Beth didn’t like to ask. In return, she told him about selling folding bicycles and being a temp: there will, she thought, be a time to tell him the rest. I hope.

He appeared to know his way around the town, and drove confidently through narrow traffic-choked streets to an underground car park.

‘Well done!’ she exclaimed as he nipped into a small space, effectively stopping the queue-jumping ambitions of a pushy Frenchman in a rusty Renault.

‘It was nothing,’ he said modestly. ‘Getting into the Palais des Papes car park is the easy bit — getting out again can be tricky, even assuming you’ve managed to locate your car in the first place.’

‘We’ll manage,’ she said confidently.

They went up some steps that led into the great square in front of the ancient Popes’ Palace. She’d have liked to stop and look and, as if realizing, he said, ‘We can have a wander round now, if you like, or you can if you don’t want to come with me. Only I’m due to see this old Romany woman at midday, so I ought to go.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ she said. ‘If you don’t think my presence will inhibit her.’

‘From what I saw the other day, she wouldn’t be inhibited by a company of marines.’ He grinned at her. ‘It’s only fair to warn you.’

*

The gipsy woman lived with someone who seemed to be her daughter in a poky flat in the back streets, its small amount of space crowded by huge displays of plastic flowers and a large doll under a glass dome. The doll had bulbous blue eyes and an expression so vacuous that it was almost sinister: Beth sat down with her back to it.

The daughter, herself at least seventy, blundered about putting glasses and a bottle of something dark red and syrupy-looking on a tray, until her mother bellowed at her to stop. Adam said something in French, at which the old woman composed herself, sitting up straight and folding her hands in her lap. Adam produced a small tape recorder from his bag, put the microphone in front of her and started the tape running.

The old woman opened her mouth widely and began to sing. In the tiny, cluttered room, the noise level was incredible. Beth, appreciating that it would have been impossibly rude to put her hands over her ears, was amazed that so much sound could come from one human throat. If this is a love song, she thought as the loud soaring notes galloped towards a climax — unfortunately the first of many — I’d hate to hear her when she’s singing a battle hymn.

She hoped Adam was enjoying it. She didn’t dare catch his eye to see.

Some seventeen verses later, the old woman paused to pour some of the red liquid into her glass. Whatever it was — she forgot to offer any to Adam and Beth — it galvanized her for another eight verses. Or it might have been a different song: Beth wasn’t sure, since the tune seemed to have wavered into what sounded like a set of variations.

There was a click, and Adam said, ‘
Ah!
Elle
est
fini
,
la
bande
.’ The old woman leaned forwards, and Adam quickly put the tape recorder back in its case.
‘Quel
dommage!
’

The daughter came back into the room and, with smiles and nods and a great many ‘
merci
’s, Adam and Beth were ushered out.

‘Dear God,’ Beth said as they reached the bottom of the stairs and emerged on to the street, ‘I thought she was never going to stop.’

‘So did I.’ Adam was laughing.

‘What was that click?’

‘Me switching the machine off. I told her the tape had run out, but actually we had at least twenty minutes left.’

‘Did you get enough?’

‘More than enough,’ he said forcefully. ‘Beth, I’m so sorry, did you hate it?’

‘Yes, it was absolutely ghastly.’ She reached out to touch his arm. ‘But don’t apologize, I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.’

‘Liar.’

‘Is that all you have to do?’

‘Yes. Fancy some lunch?’

‘I thought you’d never ask.’

*

They went to an open-air restaurant in a wide, traffic-free area which he said was la Place de l’Horloge. At the top end of the square was a carousel, where excited children were being treated to five-minute rides to the accompaniment of cheerful music.

‘If they play a gipsy love song, I’m off,’ Beth said as they were handed menus.

‘If they play a gipsy love song, I’m going to nuke the carousel. The red mullet’s lovely — shall we have that?’

She noticed it was far from the cheapest item. Still it was his idea, and she had just sat through twenty-five excruciating verses. ‘Yes, let’s.’

‘And what about wine — ah! They’ve got Vin de Pays des Sables. I think you’ll like it — it’s a Camargue rosé from grapes grown in the sandy soil, and it’s got a sort of honey taste. It’s amber-coloured, it doesn’t look like rosé at all.’

‘Go for it.’ She closed her menu, looking up and smiling at him. She thought, I’m going to enjoy this.

She did. The food and the wine were excellent, the waiter friendly, and the carousel didn’t play anything remotely like a gipsy love song. And she discovered that Adam was the sort of person you could talk to all day without getting bored or the conversation flagging.