'What's going on in there?' wondered a seal. The three mammals surveyed the scene from the waterline of the small bay. Their whiskers bristled curiously. Above them, steps led up the hill to the sumptuous villa. Torchlight blazed from every room in the place, where noises of human activity could be heard despite the lateness of the hour.

They were not happy noises. There were sounds of hasty packing, of loads being carried down to boats on the water. Clanging of armour being prepared and tested. Neighing of horses being fed, exercised, and prepared for transport. The horses were complaining about humans who didn't know what time it was. There wasn't a lot of conversation going on, but humans could be heard – a lot of them women, and most of them wailing.

Scribonianus had lost his bid for empire. He and his co-conspirators were in the main room, strategising. The seals could hear snatches of conversation.

'Gather the factions! Assemble the troops still loyal to us! March on Rome!'

'We can't! The VIIth arrested our supporters, all the ones who didn't get away with us.'

'I've had word from Rome. The Praetorian Guard is making arrests there already. Vinicianus has chosen voluntary death. You might consider doing the same.'

The seals couldn't tell who said that – the suggestion seemed to come from someone senior – and they didn't really care. They only wanted to know what the conspirators' next course of action would be.

A group of well-dressed Romans could be seen crossing the peristylium. Some of them were women. More conversation ensued.

'Vibidia, what are you doing here? This doesn't concern you.'

'The hades it doesn't! I'm your wife! What do you think is likely to happen to me, now that you've botched this whole business? I need to know where we're going next. We can't stay here on this gods-forsaken island! Claudius's troops will be coming! How wide do you think the Adriatic is, husband? This expanse of water you were so recently sure of crossing with an army bound for victory?'

Even at this distance, her voice dripped with scorn.

'O tempora, o mores,' commented one of the seals. Only it came out as a series of short barks.

'Hush!' barked the largest seal, quietly. 'We don't want to get chased away. We need to hear this.' The seals swam in tight circles and listened to the panicked Romans.

The next voice was obviously Scribonianus's. 'I intend, wife, to go on fighting. We shall gather our forces and retreat into Asia Minor. If necessary, I shall gather allies there.'

Like hades you will, was the thought in the heads of three seals. It hung there, that thought, almost palpable above the water.

'Paete, what will you do?' This, another woman's voice, was solicitous. 'Wherever you go, my husband, I go.' Obviously a real Roman, this lady. Given that the man addressed was Caecina Paetus, one of the conspirators and a senator, she must be his wife Arria.

'I shall follow Scribonianus. We've taken an irrevocable step, gods help us.'

Scribonianus called to his servants. 'Hurry up with the packing! We leave at dawn!'

'Dawn would be good, Domine, as the low tide is in the last night watch.'

'How sinni-, er, big, is the low tide around here?' bark-whispered a seal.

'About four inches low,' came another whisper. Sound of two seals laughing.

'Don't be heartless,' chided the third seal. 'I know they're rather awful people and made some really bad decisions. But they're still in a desperate situation.' There was more swimming around – and more listening. But Seal Demetrius was right: they were here to gather intelligence, not be judgemental about humans. Also, there were innocent bystanders, like the villa staff, who even now were running up and down the steps to the waterline with boxes, bundles, and amphorae.

'It's going to be a rough night,' commented one of the seals as they swam off.

It was later: about two hours before sunrise, in fact. On a deserted stretch of beach away from the action, two humanoid figures lounged on some rocks.

'Oh, look!' Radu pointed. 'Here comes Alex.' Demetrius looked – thankful for excellent night vision, as there was no moon – and saw the night heron approach. He chuckled. 'Funny-looking bird,' he commented.

'But one with the advantage of being ornithologically correct,' Radu pointed out. 'It doesn't do to be weird and scare the punters.'

'What did you see?' Demetrius asked Alex once he'd shaken off the feathers and settled down on the beach.

'Boat's coming in and should be landing shortly,' he replied. 'Full of Romans. Armed to the teeth. Look like they mean business.'

'What about the tide?' asked Demetrius mischievously. Alex shrugged.

'Must not be Greek sailors. Also, they have oars. I hate to say this, but we should probably go back and find out what they're doing.'

'Just when I was getting comfortable,' grumbled Radu, but got up with the others. An argument ensued in transit as to what indigenous life forms would be least conspicuous and most effective for data-gathering.

Scribonianus paced in what had up until now been his scriptorium. His chief scribe and assistants continued rolling up scrolls and putting them in capsae and sending them to the waiting ship. The slaves were in as much of a hurry to leave as their principals: they feared 'questioning' by the authorities. Where slaves were concerned, 'questioning' tended to be extremely uncomfortable.

A small, spotted gecko clinging to the wall saw and heard all. He noted that Vibidia stood erect, her arms crossed as she studied her husband with disapproval. In spite of the weird hour, the Roman matron was carefully, even elegantly dressed. If she were to meet her death this coming morning, the ferryman would know he had an important passenger.

'I am glad that Furius is in Rome, and well out of this,' she said calmly. 'If we survive this day, I will go to him. The gods may be gracious.'

'Yes, yes, do that,' answered Scribonianus absently. Even a gecko could tell that he was distracted. Logistics, plans, and contingencies were swirling through his head, no doubt.

A slave looked out a window and shouted, 'A ship!'

The other senior man in the room blenched. This was Paetus. Standing beside him, his wife Arria took his hand in support.

Down at the docks, a cat strolled with a rolling gait. It rubbed against the legs of a disembarking Roman officer, who stroked its head absently. 'Not now, kitty: we've got traitors to deal with. Get your breakfast elsewhere.'

With a meow of annoyance, the cat jumped up to perch on a bollard, where it sat at attention, its tail curled decorously around its feet.

'What are your orders, sir?' asked one.

The officer who had shooed the cat said, 'Secure the docks. Don't let anyone in or out without my approval. First contubernium, with me! And stay alert: there may be resistance.' The Romans stalked up the hill or arranged themselves around the docks, annoying early-morning fishermen. Giving a businesslike chirp, the cat jumped off the bollard and headed for the nearest fishing-boat to cadge some fish-heads.

As he passed down the tree-lined walk to the front door of the villa, the centurion brushed against the leaves of a cypress by the path. The cypress had stood there for five hundred years – much longer than the villa, though not as long as Rome, that interminable idea. The cypress would stand where it was for another half-millennium, at least: this day was not remarkable to the tree, barely a blip in its life story. It paid no attention to the creature in the armour, who proceeded to bang on the heavy door with the pommel of his sword.

Only the owl hidden in its branches was attentive to the words that passed between the porter and the centurion. And flew to a window to observe more closely.

At the docks, loading of Scribonianus's boat had ceased by order of the newly-arrived authorities from Rome. Soldiers had told the fishermen 'not to go anywhere', but not otherwise molested them. The fishermen pretended to be impressed by these instructions, and proceeded to do what they were planning to do anyway: clean their catches and fill up baskets for the merchants and taberna owners who were about to arrive. People needed to buy fish. They had fish.

Demetrius, who had opted for shoreline duty, got a good breakfast – along with all the other cats on Issa. Like the life of the cypress tree, the customs and privileges of cats in Mediterranean ports were of sufficient antiquity as to relegate mere political events to the column marked 'trivial'.

Being at a distance from the villa on the hill, Demetrius the cat could not tell what was going on, nor did he see anything beyond the line of a dozen or so heavily-armed soldiers marching up the walk. For a while, nothing happened that would excite or alarm humans.

The sun rose. There were a few pink clouds on the horizon – not enough to portend rain.

Some seagulls discovered the leavings of the cats' fish breakfast. They squabbled noisily.

The fishermen discussed their catches, and seemed incurious about the goings-on in the villa. Soldiers gossiped with locals, finding out where the good taverns were, the ones with the friendly girls.

It looked like being a pleasant morning.

There was a piercing cry from the villa. It sounded human, but only because it couldn't possibly have come from another living creature.

The people on the docks looked up. So did the cats.

The seagulls continued to attack their food, oblivious to all around them.

That evening, the tabernae were buzzing with storytelling: soldiers offering their differing accounts, often embellished to show themselves in the best light.

'And then Metellus told Scribonianus that Claudius was inviting him – giving him the chance, really – to off himself right then and there, and save everybody a lot of trouble.'

'And what did he say?'

'Told him to stick that notion where the sun don't shine, he did. "I'll take my chances before the Senate," sez he, with his missus standing right there, hissing at him to do the right thing by her and the kids, not drag the whole gens down with him, you know how patricians are. And when he said nothin' to her – nothin'! – she turns to me and sez, "Give me your sword, and I'll kill him!" Cold, that woman is, cold as ice in winter.'

'Who was it screamed, then? We all heard it. It was never her, was it?'

Headshake. 'Nah. That was Paetus's wife. When Metellus said "All right, if that's your answer, but I've got my orders," and ran Scribonianus through, the Lady Arria screamed like the end of the world. But the Lady Vibidia stood there watching and never made a sound. Course, as he lay there bleedin' out, she did her duty by him – held his head in her hands, wiped his brow, gave him messages for the ancestors, all quite proper. Then she stood up and gave orders. Take the body here, bring me water and towels and clean clothes for him and me. I've seen a lot of things, but I won't forget her easy.'

In a corner of the taberna, three well-dressed travellers (Alex knew a tailor in town who thought Alex was a rich eccentric and didn't ask too many questions) sat enjoying their meal and catching up.

'Surprisingly, the soldier's account is substantially true, from what I could hear,' said Alex.

Radu agreed. 'I hate to think what the story will have become by the time it reaches Rome. But what happened at the docks?'

Demetrius sighed. 'Arria's the one I feel sorry for. She followed them all down to the ship – the soldiers had arrested her husband, but they wouldn't let her travel with them. They said it was against orders: she wasn't under arrest.'

'That's in Claudius's favour,' commented Alex.

Demetrius nodded. 'The problem was, Arria was determined to go with her husband. She's really an old-school Roman matron. So when the ship took off without her, she turned to the fishermen. "Who will take me?" she said. "I have money." They went into a huddle – they could see what a state she was in – and decided which one could spare the time, and the rest agreed to take over for him until he could get to Aternum and back. I like those fishermen.'

'They fed you, you lazy thing, and still you eat.' Radu lunged for the last mushroom. 'All I had was bugs.'

'I notice,' said Alex drily, 'That you asked the landlord for a seat cushion. Did anything happen that you'd like to share with the group?'

Demetrius's eyes twinkled. 'I'll bet he. . . '

'. . . dropped his tail!' he and Alex finished.

Radu blushed and scowled. 'I didn't know mating season wasn't quite over yet. Another gecko took umbrage. There were. . . ructions.'

The loud laughter at the corner table puzzled the rest of the guests – after all, it had been a rather sober day.

The sun set over Issa. Birds roosted in the ancient cypress. The tide went out, just a little way, and came in again.

DG

12.08.24 Front Page

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