Roman Holiday Read Online Free PDF Page B

satisfy anyone, together with a suddenly wide-awake set of chairmen. I suspected rumours were already flying around Rome.
    Both Caesar and his wife attended our departure, she standing a little behind him, her face expressionless. I could not help a little shiver. Whether he was aware of something or not, Caesar turned around. For one long moment, he stared at his wife. The man was no fool. I wasn’t the only one who had suspicions that Caesar’s wife might not be as above reproach as she should be. But was she above being caught?
    What would he do?
    I said, ‘We need to go. Now,’ and moaned a little more, which gave Peterson a good reason for ordering them to get a move on. And move they did. I swear we broke into a canter at one point. The old chair creaked and swayed under the strain and Van Owen, who has a delicate stomach, turned the same colour as her dress.
    I said to Van Owen, ‘Tell them to get a move on.’
    She stuck her head out of the curtains and a second later, we moved up a gear.
    We crossed the Tiber, muddy and swollen with winter rainfall, and finally, two streets away from the pod, we pulled over. We piled out and Peterson dismissed the chairmen. From the speed with which they disappeared, I suspected he’d massively over-tipped them, but should they subsequently be questioned, they could honestly say they dropped us in the middle of nowhere.
    ‘This way,’ said Guthrie, getting his bearings and nudging us down a very unevenly paved street. We concentrated on not turning an ankle and Markham brought up the rear.
    Nearly there.
    We were just one hundred yards from the pod. Just one hundred yards, when we heard a shout behind us. Mindful of Major Guthrie’s oft-repeated instructions, we kept going.
    ‘Never mind what’s happening behind you. You’ll find out soon enough if you turn to look.’
    Just about the first thing I learned at St Mary’s.
    We kept our heads. Van Owen and I scooped up our skirts and did the hundred-yard dash, sandals slapping on the uneven cobbles. Peterson ran with us. Markham and Guthrie covered our rear. Really, we’d done this sort of thing so many times we barely even stopped to think about it.
    It would appear we had considerably underestimated Gaius Julius Caesar, conqueror of Gaul, Dictator Perpetuo, etc. etc. He knew very well what his wife had done. He also knew he could not publicly accuse her. He needed scapegoats. His soldiers had followed us at a discreet distance and when it became apparent we weren’t heading for the Street of Six Vines, they’d decided to move in.
    Fat lot of good it would do them. We scrambled inside and heaved a sigh of relief. We were safe inside the pod. They were outside the pod. We could just wait for them to give up and leave and then we could jump back to St Mary’s when it got dark.
    They didn’t give up and they didn’t leave. Of course they didn’t. Roman soldiers were the best in the world, Caesar’s men would be the best of the best, and these would be the handpicked best of the best of the best.
    They pounded on the door, which didn’t do them the slightest bit of good. Nothing short of a thermo-nuclear blast would get through that door if we didn’t want them to. They threw their weight against it and there were some big boys there, but they were wasting their time. After a while, someone turned up with the battering ram.
    An interested crowd began to gather.
    Soon afterwards, reinforcements turned up. You could see they didn’t take it very seriously. The wandered around the pod, kicking the walls and laughing. It was just five fugitives in a small hut, for crying out loud. Come on, centurion, get that door down and we can all go back to the mess.
    The attentive crowd shouted instructions and helpful advice.
    We made some tea and Peterson handed the mugs around. ‘I have to ask,’ he said to Markham. ‘How did you spot what was going on?’
    Markham, unexpectedly, said nothing.
    Guthrie put down his mug.