There was a kind of needle in his head now, as if someone had a sharp, small lance and was jabbing it into his left eye, repeatedly. A humming sound, too, high-pitched, like a dentist’s drill.
The others were busy talking as they went, Greg stopping and starting the van, the three of them eyeing angles along this side of the mountain, approaches to a shot, foreground, middle ground. Melanie was going on about the history of the place.
It sounded as if they’d decided none of these spots by the road was going to work. They were all too close to the mountain, no way to frame it. Ned was hardly listening now. He was just happy the three of them were busy and hadn’t noticed him leaning against his door, eyes closed behind the shades.
As if from a muffled distance he heard Melanie reading from her notes. History and geography. Maybe she’d write an essay for him. That was a thought. He could buy her some escargot.
He managed to open his eyes. There was a broad, green-gold plain ahead of them, stretching east and south, away from the mountain. Melanie was pointing that way. Ned couldn’t follow what she was saying. He closed his eyes again. He tried to focus on her voice, ride over the stabbing in his head.
“The whole landscape will change now,” Melanie was saying. “We’re directly south of the mountain. Everyone thinks of it as a triangle because that’s the side Cézanne mostly painted, but from here it’s a long, long ridge, no triangle, no peak. And ahead, where we turn north, is Pourrières, where the battle was. Just past that we’ll get to where he sent men for the ambush.”
“We take a look there?” Greg said.
“The ambush place? Yeah, sure. Pain de Munition, it’s called. Look for a sign. Maybe we’ll climb a bit. A photo from where they waited? Oliver Lee wrote a bit about the battle, I think.”
“Well, yeah, if there’s a photo,” Steve said. He didn’t sound happy. The three of them tried hard to please his father, Ned knew. They joked a lot, teased, but it was pretty obvious they were proud to be working for Edward Marriner.
He put a thumb to one temple and tried applying pressure. It didn’t help. He had no idea what Melanie was talking about. What ambush? What battle?
“Got a Tylenol?” he asked.
She turned quickly. “What’s wrong, Ned?”
“Kind of a headache.”
“Dork! The guy doesn’t say that on the date!”
“Be quiet, Gregory.” Melanie was fishing in the bottomless black tote. “Tylenol, Advil, Aspirin, which do you like? Advil’s better for a headache.”
Three choices. Figured. “Advil, please.”
They were in a village now, twisting through it, then they seemed to be out and going north. She gave him a couple of pills and some bottled water. Ned drank, managed a wan smile.
There was no photograph worth taking here, either; they were east of the mountain now, heading north to double back home along the other side, but trees blocked their view.
“Here’s your Painful Munitions place,” Greg said.
“That’s how I feel,” Ned muttered. “Artillery in my head.”
Greg followed a bumpy gravel road a short distance past a sign strictly forbidding entry, then braked to a halt. Ned was extremely happy when the car stopped.
“Okay, campers, out and scout,” Greg said. “Let’s get higher and see what’s what.”
“I don’t think I’ll climb up, if that’s okay,” Ned said. He was afraid he was going to be sick. The needle and drill had been joined by a hammer. “You guys do what you have to, I’ll wait here.”
He got out with them. Didn’t want to throw up in the van. He found a tree stump and sat down, his back to the sun.
“I’ll stay,” Melanie said. “You two go up. Phone if you need me.”
“You call if you need us,” Steve said, looking at Ned.
“I’m fine. Melanie, go and—”
“You aren’t fine. You’re halfway to green. I like green, but not in guys’ faces. Go on, you two.”
“We’ll be quick,” Greg said.
Ned felt acutely embarrassed, partly because he was actually glad Melanie was staying. He had never fainted in his life, but it crossed his mind that he might. He closed his eyes again behind the shades. It wasn’t that hot but he seemed to be sweating. His mouth was dry.
“Drink some more water,” Melanie said, bringing him the bottle. She took off her big straw hat and put it on his head to block the sun. “Do you get migraines?”
“Never in my life. You?”
“Lots. Is it off-centre, behind one eye? You feel like there’s an aura in your head?”
“What’s an aura in my head feel like?”
She laughed a little. “Who’s good at describing that stuff ?”
He heard her walking around. “I don’t think there’s gonna be a photo up there, either,” she said. “The mountain’s just a treed slope from this side.”
Ned tried to function normally. “Maybe he could shoot at sunrise from up on top of it? Looking down and out? The opposite of Cézanne, sort of ? Or look, maybe Dad just does the mountain from Barrett’s spot and the book says this is what Cézanne painted a hundred years ago.”
“Your father be happy with that?”
“Maybe. Probably not.” Ned swallowed some more water. Pressed the bottle to his forehead under the hat. “What was this ambush about?”
“You don’t need a history lesson now, Ned.”
“I need something to distract me. Have you ever fainted?”
“That bad? Oh, Ned! I’ll call the others.”
“No. Just talk. I’ll tell you if it gets worse.”
It was worse; he was waiting for the Advil to do something useful.
She sighed. “Okay. This area, right where we turned north, was like the biggest battlefield. One of those change-the-course-of-history things? A Roman named Marius beat this massive army of barbarians who were marching to take Rome. If he hadn’t stopped them here they might have, people think.”
“What kind of barbarians?”
“Couple of tribes joined together, migrating from the northeast. Celts, basically. The Romans called them barbarians, but they called everyone that.”
“How massive?” He kept the bottle on his forehead.
“Really. The books say two hundred thousand of them died here, maybe more, and they had their women and children with them. The survivors became slaves. That’s a lot of people. The Romans took a bunch of the leaders and threw them down a pit called the garagai up on top of the mountain. Marius had a witch or wise woman who told him to do that because it was like a sacrifice place, and so their spirits couldn’t return and help the tribes. That town where we turned up was later named Pourrières, which means putrefaction. Ick. Think about two hundred thousand rotting bodies.”
“I’d really prefer not to just now, thanks. Is this revenge, Melanie?”
“No! No, no, really! Oh, Ned, I’m sorry!”
But knowledge, however you got it, changed things, Ned Marriner thought. You couldn’t go back to not knowing, even if you wanted to. And when you put what you’d just heard together with other things, specifically yesterday, the feeling he’d had in the cloister . . .
He felt it again, right now, that inward awareness. Unblocking, unlocking.
Abruptly, Ned pushed off the log and stood up. His heart was pounding.
“What?”
“Shh. Wait.”
Afraid now, not just in pain, Ned took off his sunglasses. He opened his eyes in the too-bright light. Pain danced and drilled in his brain. But what he saw, looking out towards the mountain, was worse.
In what should have been the clear, mild light of spring, the trees and grass between them and the ridge of the mountain were bathed—were saturated—in a sickening, dark-red hue.
It was terrifying. As though he were looking through some lurid camera filter. The world lay drowned in the colour of blood. And suddenly he could smell it, too. Appalled, horrified, he felt as if he were tasting blood. It wa
s in his mouth, his throat, sticky, thick, clogging and—
He turned away and was violently ill by the tree stump. Then again, and a third time, wrackingly, his guts turning inside out.
“Oh, my God, Ned! I should never have . . .”
“I don’t think I like this place a whole lot,” he said, breathing hard.
Melanie had her phone out.
“Don’t call them!” he said. It was difficult to speak. “I’m just . . . just a migraine, I guess.”
Too late. She was talking fast to Greg, calling them back. He couldn’t honestly say he was unhappy about that. He needed to get away from here, to somewhere where he could try to deal with the undeniable fact that he seemed to be seeing and feeling the presence of massive, violent death. A slaughter, the world soaked in blood.
Yesterday, a carving from eight hundred years ago. And now this.
“When did . . . ?” He took a steadying breath. “Melanie, when was this battle?”
“Oh, Ned. Forget the damn battle! Here, wipe your face.” She handed him one of those packaged wetwipes. One more thing in her tote. He did what she told him, put his sunglasses back on. Sipped some water.
“When was it? Please?”
“Oh, hell.” He heard her rummaging for her notes. His eyes were closed again. “123 B.C., I’ve got. Why do you want to talk about that?”
“Because I don’t want to talk about throwing up, okay?”
Two thousand, one hundred years.
What happened when you fainted? Did your eyes roll up in their sockets? Could you die, like, if you banged your head on a rock or something?
He heard the guys coming down. He kept his shades on. He knew if he took them off he’d see that redness again, everywhere. A world defined by dark blood. The smell was still with him, like meat, a thick, rotting—
Helplessly, just as the other two arrived, Ned heaved again—dry, convulsive, nothing left in him.
“Jeez!” Greg said. “You’re really clocked out, aren’t you? Let’s roll. We’ll get you into Veracook’s hands, and bed.”
They got back in the van. Greg started it, geared up, and they continued north, then left at a junction back along the other side of the mountain.
Greg didn’t slow down to look for photo spots now, he was driving fast, on a road not meant for it. Ned, leaning against his door, was aware of Steve and Melanie casting glances at him every few seconds. He wanted to be brave—the heroic invalid—but it was hard when you kept smelling blood, and the swinging motion of the van was no help.
And then, halfway back along that winding stretch of road on the northern shoulder of Mont Sainte-Victoire, he was fine.
He was absolutely fine. It was gone.
A really bad taste in his mouth from throwing up, but nothing more than that. Nothing but the memory. And he knew it wasn’t the miraculous properties of Advil. Cautiously, he took off his sunglasses. No bloodred hue to the afternoon sky or the trees. Only memory. And fear. There was that, too.
“Almost home,” Melanie said, in a worried voice.
“I’m good,” Ned said. He looked at her. “Honestly. I am. It’s gone. No aura, nothing.”
“You serious?” Steve had turned and was staring at him.
“Really. I’m not lying. I have no idea what that was about.” That last part was a lie, but what was he going to say?
“Food poisoning, migraine, jet lag.” Melanie ticked them off. He could hear relief in her voice. It touched him, actually.
“Guilt? Over what you did to our phones?” Steve said from the front seat.
“Has to be that,” Ned agreed.
“I’m still taking you home,” Greg said. “You can postpone your date till tomorrow.”
“No way,” Ned said. “And it isn’t a date. It’s a Coke at five o’clock.”
“Hah!” said Greg. He, too, was obviously happier now.
“Well, we’ll stop at the villa anyhow,” said Melanie. “You’ve got time and it’s on the way. You might want to shower and brush your teeth. Think of the girl, please.”
“Right. And you can check my fingernails and ears and tie my shoelaces again. Double knot?”
She laughed. “Piss off, Ned. I am way too young and cool for that.” She grinned. “You should be so lucky as to have me kneel in front of you.”
Ned felt himself flush.
Greg snorted. “You? Cool? With a bottomless bag like Mary Poppins? No, you aren’t, Mel,” he said. “Sorry to break it to you.”
She leaned forward and hit him on the shoulder.
“Don’t fondle the driver,” Greg said. He started singing, “Spoonful of Sugar,” and Steve joined him.
Ned rolled down his window. The air was crisp and clear. Wildflowers, yellow and white and purple, dotted the sides of the road. They crossed over a small bridge. The view along the ravine below was gorgeous. He saw Melanie checking it out, too. She scribbled something in her notebook. That had actually been a really sexy line, what she’d said.
Up front the guys were still singing that song from Mary Poppins. Melanie leaned forward and gave them each another futile whack with her notebook, then she sat back and crossed her arms and tried to look aggrieved.
She saw him looking at her, and winked. Of course. He had to laugh. Melanie.
CHAPTER V
“Blood? Like, really blood colour?”
Kate had another espresso in front of her; Ned had ordered orange juice this time. She’d arrived at the café about five minutes after him, a bit breathless. Her school was halfway across town. The two outdoor spots had been taken again; all around their small table the interior was crowded with people talking loudly, smoking, reading papers, shopping bags at their feet. Ned still wasn’t used to the smoke; it was everywhere here.
He nodded. “Blood red. And I could taste blood when I swallowed. It made me sick. But only near that battlefield. It was over when we drove away.”
She was staring at him, brown eyes, lightly freckled face. She had her hair pulled back today, was wearing torn jeans and a blue-and-white striped tank top with a man’s white shirt over it, unbuttoned, sleeves rolled halfway up. She looked pretty good, Ned thought.
He said, “If you don’t believe me, no one else is going to. I can’t even tell anyone else.”
Kate shook her head. “Oh, believe me, I believe you.” She met his eyes and then looked away. “After yesterday, I’d believe it if you said you saw the aliens’ mother ship.”
“That’s next week,” he said. She made a face.
“You know anything about this Marius?” he asked after a moment. “The battle there?”
She bit her lip; he was used to that already. Then she looked down at the tabletop.
Ned laughed aloud. “Aha! Of course you know.”
“I knew you’d laugh,” she said. “Why is it dumb to be interested in things?”
Ned looked at her. “It isn’t,” he said. “Tell me. I’m not teasing.”
“Well . . . I actually wrote an essay about this.”
“Oh, God, Kate, you kill me! I have to tease you.” He stopped. Thought quickly. “Wait—maybe I, ah, won’t. Um, do you have it? Here? The essay?”
She raised her eyebrows, took her time answering. “Ned Marriner, I am shocked . . . Do you want to plagiarize my paper?”
“Damn right I want to plagiarize your paper! I have three essays to write in six weeks, or ruin my summer back home.”
“Well,” she said, leaning back and grinning now, “I’ll have to think hard about that. I’ve been needled a whole lot here, and we just met, you know. You can’t go around handing out ‘A’ papers to just anyone.”
“I’ll buy your coffees. I’ll buy you a better shirt.”
“This,” said Kate Wenger, “is my brother’s shirt, and I happen to like it a lot.”
“It is great. Truly great. You look hot in it. A babe. Tell me about Marius.”
“Do I really look hot?”
“Hotter than Marie-Chanta
l could ever dream of being.”
“That,” she sniffed, “is no achievement.”
“Marius? Please?”
She sipped her coffee. She looked happy, though. Ned felt kind of pleased with himself. He was being funny, making a girl laugh. Around them the place was vibrant with the clatter of dishes and cups and the buzz of talk. One woman had a small dog under her chair; that wouldn’t have been allowed back home. He liked it.
“Marius was Julius Caesar’s uncle,” Kate said. “Married Caesar’s aunt. A general in North Africa at the time. Apparently a little guy, tough, smart, young when this happened—like maybe twenty-five or something? Well, what it was is these eastern tribes started moving this way. A lot of them, with their women and children, migrating, looking for a place to settle. They scared everyone, huge men, you know?”
“Blond dudes? Pumped iron, used steroids? Broke the home run record?”
“Pretty much. The Romans were small, did you know that?”
“I didn’t know that. Why would I know that?”
“Well, they were. But really organized. Anyhow, these tribes, the Teutones and Cimbrii, hung around here awhile and beat up a Roman army, then half of them went west to Spain. But they came back again and decided what they really wanted was land around Rome, and they decided they were going to go kick ass there.”
“Could they have?”
“Everyone seems to think so. That’s the point of the story. Rome was terrified. This is before their empire, remember? Before Caesar. They hadn’t even conquered here yet, just some Greek and Roman trading colonies on the coast . . . and Sextius had founded this city, Aix. Their first one.”
“And so?”
“And so if the tribes got down into Italy it was probably game over.”
“Melanie said more than two hundred thousand.”
“Who’s Melanie again?”
“My father’s assistant. I told you yesterday. She has notes on everything.”
“What a geek.” Kate grinned. “Way, way more than two hundred thousand. Some people say half a million, with the women and children. Some say more.”