A Whispering of Spies

SEVENTEEN

Dusk was approaching now, and the courtyard was full of shadows as we passed. Next time night fell across this normal scene, I was likely to be a fugitive. I gazed about, trying to take in every detail, as men who are sentenced to the beasts are said to do.

Soldiers were busy with their evening tasks, squatting in doorways to buff their armour up or rubbing goose-grease on their leather tunic skirts. Smells of cooking wafted in the air as each contingent made its evening meal — of beef and cabbage, porridge or whatever it might be — while torches and oil-lamps flared in every barrack block and the air was musty with the scent of tallow-smoke. How long would it be before I would have a home again, and enjoy the right to light and food and heat?

I went into the guard-room, which had seemed so threatening before. It felt almost like a cosy haven now, so full of body warmth that it was hard to feel the fire. It was crammed to bursting, with clerical officers preparing their reports and rota-lists, and night sentries getting ready to relieve the duty watch. Tomorrow night — if things went against me in the court — all these men would be my enemies, sworn to cut me down if I was found within the boundaries of the Empire, and ready to execute anyone who gave me food or fire.

My only hope was that the man awaiting me upstairs had some information which might prove my innocence. It was not probable. I toiled up the bleak stone steps to talk to him.

The farmer was standing on the far side of the room. He was not prepossessing, on first appearances: short and swarthy and not very clean. He gave off a strong smell of mud and pig manure, and he wore a pair of ‘country shoes’ — uncured hide which is bound around the feet until it takes on the rough shape of a boot. The resultant stink is always terrible, and in the fastidious commander’s office it was overpowering. The man looked up with sullen, fearful eyes as I came in, and rubbed a mud-stained arm across his grimy face — with no effect beyond creating further streaks on both.

The commander was sitting on the stool behind his desk, as far away from the pig smell as he could put himself. I was invited neither to take my cloak off nor sit down. He signalled the centurion to take up station at the door and waved a hand at me.

‘This is the citizen Libertus,’ he announced impatiently. ‘The pavement-maker that I told you of. He is here to help me with the questioning, though Jove knows we’re not getting very far. Libertus, this man is Biccus. He has a little farm and he thinks he saw the treasure-cart last night.’ He turned to the pig-man. ‘Tell the citizen what you have just told me.’

Biccus looked at me distrustfully. ‘What is there to say? I saw a cart all right. You could hardly miss it, with an escort of that size. Went past my farm a little before dusk. Otherwise, I don’t know what else I can say. Didn’t take much notice. It wasn’t my affair — I was busy digging up the ground for cabbages. I’ve said all this before. There’s nothing more to add. And now that I have told you, am I free to go?’

The commander raised his eyebrows helplessly at me, as if to say, What now?

Biccus was chewing on his lower lip. I recognized the signs. He was reluctant to cooperate, but at the same time scared, so was answering all questions as briefly as he could; not refusing information — which would be an offence — but not volunteering anything of his own accord. He would tell us nothing that he was not specifically asked.

However, I had one weapon which the commander lacked. I said in Celtic, ‘You’re freeborn, I think?’ The local tribal dialect was not quite the same as mine, but I knew from experience I would be understood. ‘You own the land you live on?’

He looked at me, surprised. ‘Yes, I do, though there’s not much left of it,’ he answered using Celtic, too. ‘My ancestors had acres and acres of good land. Until these accursed Romans came and annexed most of it.’ He jerked his head at the commander, with a scowl. ‘They didn’t call it that of course — just paid a pittance and called it ‘‘purchasing’’ — as if my great-grandparents had any choice at all.’

‘Good farming soil, you say?’

He made a snorting nose. ‘Not the miserable corner that has been handed down to me! The Romans naturally seized the best land for themselves. And even what was left has been divided up, of course, as it was handed down. I’m only left with three remaining fields and one of those is pretty well a swamp for half the year.’

‘Not very much,’ I sympathized. It was a common story — farmland subdivided among surviving sons each time, so that in the end the meagre parcels scarcely paid their way.

‘Hardly enough to feed my family on — and even then I have to use the forest for the pigs. Miles I have to walk. And then these accursed Roman soldiers come, when I’m busy planting out — won’t even give me time to wash and change my clothes, but drag me in here like a stinking fool. .’ He checked himself and frowned. ‘But I shouldn’t talk like this. You must be one of them, because they brought you here and I understand that you’re a citizen. How do you speak our tongue?’

‘I am a Celt myself. I too had lands once, but I lost everything. I earn a living making pavements now.’ I saw a new expression dawning in his eyes and I went on earnestly, ‘I think that you can help me. There has been a dreadful crime. .’

He broke me off with a derisive laugh. ‘I thought as much. And now they’ve brought me here to pin the blame on me.’

I shook my head. ‘Quite the opposite. They’re trying to blame me! The army brought you here because, if you’ve seen this cart, you may have information which will prove my innocence.’

I saw him hesitate.

‘Two rich and powerful Roman councillors are taking me to court, and I have no witness in my own defence,’ I went on urgently. ‘Won’t you help a fellow Celt by telling what you know? I am just a humble tradesman, very much like you. They are members of the Glevum curia.’

Perhaps the commandant had recognized the last two words. ‘Glevum curia’ is similar in either tongue. In any case, he interrupted me. ‘Libertus, I cannot allow you to go on with an interrogation which I do not understand. If you cannot use Latin, I must ask you to desist.’

So my most useful strategy was denied to me! I turned to him. ‘Just one more question, commandant — then I promise that I’ll stop. Of course, I’ll tell you what’s been said so far.’ I gave a brief account of the nature of the farm — omitting the sentiments about the army’s part in this. ‘It’s just that I think Biccus finds the Celtic easier.’

That was not strictly true, but the commander bowed his head. ‘Very well. I can see that you have managed to gain his confidence. At least you are getting something out of him. But just the one more question, then you will use Latin, please. Otherwise, you could be coaching him to lie on your behalf.’

I turned to Biccus urgently. ‘You heard what he said! This is our only chance. I know this commander. He is an honest man. This matter was urgent — not for him, for me. My trial will be tomorrow, probably, that’s why they insisted that you come at once. I assure you, no one thinks that you’re a fool. So it is up to you. Will you help me fight injustice by telling what you know?’ I switched to Latin. ‘You saw a cart accompanied by an escort, is that right? When exactly, would you say that was?’

A doubtful shrug. ‘Yesterday, about an hour before dusk, I suppose. Perhaps a bit before.’

I saw the commander scribble a calculation on a slate. ‘Around the eleventh hour, shall we say?’ he interposed.

The pig-man shrugged again. Obviously the Roman system did not mean much to him. (It can be difficult to calculate — even with marked candles or a proper water-clock. Total light and dark, respectively, are each divided into twelve to make an hour. Thus as daylight gets shorter at this time of year, so does a Roman hour — and night hours grow correspondingly longer, of course, to compensate.) Obviously Biccus did not bother with all that; he simply used the general estimation which our ancestors had used. ‘I can’t tell you that. The clouds were gathering. No shadows to judge by, even, since it was going to rain.’

This was getting nowhere. ‘Can you describe the cart?’ I asked.

‘It was a fairly big one. Heavy, too — you could tell from how low it was sitting on its wheels. Good thing it was on the military road or it would have been down to its axles in the mud. Left to me I would have pulled it with an ox or two, but they were using horses — for greater speed, I suppose. Splendid ones as well. Good ones on the cart — and four beauties for the escort, too.’

I shot a glance at the commander. He was nodding, looking grave. ‘That sounds like the cart that we’re enquiring about,’ he said approvingly. ‘Did you glimpse the cargo, or any part of it?’

Biccus shook his head. ‘Something weighty, that’s all I know. No telling what it was. It was all done up in bags and boxes and even then it was mostly covered with a cloth. Not surprisingly. Like I said, it was coming on to rain.’

I tried again. ‘So the cart wasn’t travelling towards Glevum very fast? Fast enough to get there before nightfall, would you say?’

I saw a hesitation cross the pig-man’s face. ‘Very likely not, supposing it was coming to the colonia at all. Though that was the direction it was going in when it passed me, certainly!’

I looked at him keenly. ‘Why do you say that? You think that it was headed somewhere else?’

He shook his head. ‘I aren’t saying that.’ His Latin wasn’t good and his grammar left a lot to be desired. ‘I wondered, that is all. I can’t be positive. It’s just that when I had finished with the cabbages and I stood up again, I couldn’t see it further down the road.’

‘And you expected to?’ It was obvious that he’d stood up especially to gape.

He was not at all abashed. ‘The area’s slightly hilly, but the road is pretty straight and my top field is right up on the rise, so — except where odd stands of trees get in the way — generally you can see anything, either way, for miles.’

I nodded. Roman roads are always built as straight as possible, unless there is actually a river or mountain in the way. ‘So you are telling us the cart had somehow disappeared?’ My mind was racing — had the ambush already taken place and the empty wagon been hidden in the trees?

‘I don’t believe in Roman magic. But it was puzzling.’ Biccus was still attempting to justify himself without admitting that he’d meant to spy. ‘They might have speeded up a little, I suppose — as you say, in an attempt to get to Glevum before dark. Though they’d have had to move a lot more quickly than they were. Or perhaps they just found somewhere to stop before it rained. That’s probably what happened.’ He nodded, satisfied.

‘Is there an inn nearby they might have used?’ I asked. The scouts had reported denials from them all, but frightened people have been known to lie.

Biccus shook his head. ‘There is only one place I can think of that they could possibly have gone. There’s another farmstead at the bottom of the hill, with a lane that leads to it — runs along the wooded valley by the stream. Part of what was once our tribal home. I suppose it’s possible the travellers might have turned in there — for shelter anyway — though I would not have thought they’d choose to force themselves on to a private farm.’

‘Private farm? I thought you said those lands were part of our terratorium?’ the commander challenged him, and then explained — since Biccus was obviously mystified, ‘Didn’t you say the land was annexed by the garrison, in order to grow provisions for the soldiery? The travellers might have gone there looking for some troops.’ He glanced at me. ‘Protection, possibly?’

Biccus shook his head. ‘The army stopped farming out there years ago, when the full legion left. Most of the fields are back in private hands.’ He glanced at me and added in muttered Celtic, ‘Didn’t come back to our family of course — the confounded Romans bought it for a fraction of its worth, but when they sold it they asked the market rate — and naturally we couldn’t raise the price.’

‘Do you know the present owners?’

He gave a bitter laugh. ‘Never met them, and would not wish to if I could. Roman sympathizers, all the lot of them. Anyway, the owner’s moving on. He’s already sold his stock and produce — not that there was very much of it to sell. Some ex-soldier who used to have the place but never made it pay.’

‘A legionary veteran?’ That would be logical. Legionaries were often given land (in addition to a handsome sum) when they had served their term. ‘Part of his retirement settlement, I suppose?’

Biccus shook his head. ‘Not this one. I hear he bought it for himself. Of course, I never personally asked him, so I can’t swear to it — but you know how people talk.’

I knew by this time how Biccus talked, when he felt encouraged to! I could imagine the pig-man’s family exchanging views and news about the incomers who’d usurped their lands. I nodded silently.

His next words confirmed my thoughts. ‘My cousin met him once and found him disagreeable. Not the first idea of how to run a farm. No, though no doubt he got it at a bargain price — if he really was a soldier once, he would have known the appropriate officers to bribe.’

The commander gave a warning cough. Of course, we’d slipped into our native tongue again. I glanced at him, suspecting that he’d taken offence, but the insult to the army had been lost on him. I gave him a more tactful version of what had just been said and he turned back to Biccus. ‘Very well. Go on with your story. And this time stick to Latin, if you please.’

Biccus ran his grubby arm across his face and again attempted to comply, although he sometimes struggled to find the proper words. However, it was intelligible enough. ‘Why the fellow wanted it is anybody’s guess — he’s done almost nothing with it and the lands have gone to ruin — but now he’s found a wealthy buyer to take it off his hands. Offering a small fortune for it, as I understand, and doesn’t even want the equipment or the stock, because he wants to build a brand-new villa on the site.’

I turned to the commander. ‘There you are!’ I cried triumphantly. ‘That’s the solution! It must be Voluus! In which case that’s obviously where the wagon-party spent the night! I must get out there! Commandant, I beg you to arrange some transport for me at first light: I must go and see the place before the trial.’

In my enthusiasm I had said too much. He looked at me coldly. ‘There is no “must” about it, citizen. You know quite well that I can sanction nothing of the kind. I might be swayed sufficiently to send a scout, perhaps — if your patron will defray the cost, and if you can persuade me that the trip will be of use.’