A Whispering of Spies

EIGHTEEN

I should not have been surprised. It was sufficient concession for him to have allowed me to stay here and speak to Biccus at all.

‘I apologize, commander, if I sound presumptuous,’ I said, forcing myself to sound properly contrite. ‘But you can see that this might solve the mystery of where the cart was overnight. If Voluus has just bought property of his own nearby, it would be an obvious place to stop: he could arrange to have the horses and the men provided for. And being on his own land, he’d assume that it was safe. Much safer than stopping at any public inn. .’ I trailed off. I was not convincing him.

He shook a disbelieving head at me. ‘But did Biccus not just tell us that the purchaser intended to build a villa on the site? Doesn’t that suggest that it wasn’t Voluus? Why would he require a second country house when he’s already bought a site from Porteus? And I’m assured he has. Forest-lands on the other side of town. I believe I mentioned it to you.’

I could only say feebly, ‘Perhaps he’s changed his mind.’

‘Then he has changed it since I spoke to Florens earlier today. He says the lictor has sent on detailed instructions for the plans, and asked Porteus to set his slaves to work to finish clearing off the land. He’s even listed the materials he wants — marble and all sorts of expensive building stone — and requested Porteus to buy them in for him, so that construction can begin as soon as he arrives. Obviously he’s anxious to oversee the actual building work himself. I simply can’t believe that he’s bought a different site instead. When would he have had a chance to do it, anyway?’ He shook his head again. ‘It must be someone else. Even another moneyed veteran perhaps. Plenty of people are anxious to settle hereabouts, and Biccus tells us that the land is good.’

I had to concede that the commandant was right. No one builds two brand-new villas outside of the same town, and certainly not both within an hour’s easy ride. That would be a pointless exercise, quite apart from the phenomenal expense it would entail. But I was reluctant to give up my idea that there was some connection between the farm and Voluus. I could not believe in pure coincidence.

‘Perhaps the story about wanting to build a country house there isn’t true. Or. .’ I was struck by an interesting new idea, ‘. . perhaps the new owner isn’t actually Voluus himself, but someone that he knows.’ I turned to the pig-man. ‘Biccus, do you know any more about this purchaser?’

The pig-man shrugged. ‘Only that he is a foreigner. That’s all I know for sure. Somebody said they’d heard he might have come from Gaul.’

‘Gaul!’ I pounced upon the word excitedly. ‘Then it could easily be a friend of Voluus.’

The commander raised an eyebrow and said wearily, ‘A friend who robbed him and murdered all his slaves? Or betrayed them to the rebels — which comes to the same thing?’

I stared at him. ‘Great Mercury! Then perhaps it’s not a friend at all, but an old enemy? You don’t suppose those threats that Voluus received. .?’ I turned to Biccus.

The pig-man seemed to positively blanch under the furrows of dirt upon his face. ‘Did you say threats?’ He looked beseechingly at me. ‘You can’t blame me for that. Look, citizen, I admit that I once stormed down to the farm and shouted to the owner that I would burn his ricks if he didn’t stop his dogs from harrying my pigs. But I’m just a humble freeman and I’ve already told you everything I know. I’ve never heard of this man Voluus — whoever he may be — and I’ve certainly never sent him any messages.’

‘No one is accusing you,’ I said. ‘Voluus is the owner of the treasure-cart and he is on his way from Gaul. I simply wondered if the man who’s newly bought the farm could be the person who wrote the threatening note, especially if he comes from over there.’

‘A note!’ Relief spread over Biccus like a water-stain, and seemed to give him sudden confidence. ‘Well, in that case, citizen, I can prove it wasn’t me. I don’t know how to read or write. Besides, if you’ll excuse me saying so, I think you’re flogging the wrong ox. Would this Voluus — whoever he may be — deliberately arrange to have his treasure go to the home of a man who sent him threats?’

He was right, of course. It would be like walking deliberately on to someone’s sword. I murmured something to that general effect.

‘I don’t think the new man’s there yet, in any case,’ the pig-man eagerly went on. ‘And I’ll tell you something else. This Voluus person couldn’t have made arrangements in advance for his cart to call there. The old owner was due to leave there just before the Ides. And, as I say, the new one hasn’t come. So when would a message have the chance to reach the person it was intended for?’

‘But Voluus is a lictor who has just retired from Gaul. Isn’t it. .’ I began, still unwilling to extinguish the only glimmer of a theory which I had.

The commander gave that cough again and shook his head at me. It was a warning not to say too much. Too late! I could already see Biccus pricking up his ears. The pig-man would have another story to tell his relatives and another grudge against the conquerors. Even though there were no lictors in this colonia, they were known by reputation everywhere and ranked even above taxmen as the most hated officials in the Empire. It was likely that the story of the lictor and the threats would be all round the countryside as soon as Biccus got back home.

The commander pushed back his stool and got slowly to his feet. ‘I think we’ve learned everything we’re likely to from this. It’s been a stressful day for all of us. However, I concede that this farmstead should be searched. The lictor’s cart may still have gone there to shelter from the rain, as Biccus originally said, and — even if this was purely by chance — there may yet be something to be learned.’

‘A thousand thanks, Mightiness!’ I cried. I was ready to fling myself at his feet in gratitude. ‘I promise you’ll not regret your confidence in me. I think it is possible that’s where they were attacked, and I swear that if there’s any clue at all I will find it. .’ I had spoken eagerly, but the commander waved a hand to silence me.

‘Libertus, I said nothing about permitting you to go. What I will do, for your benefit, is send a man out there at first light tomorrow to have a look around, in case there are any of these signs that you are hoping for. There is no question of your going out there yourself. Now, let me hear no more about it. Is that understood?’

I nodded ruefully.

‘Can I go home now, in that case?’ Biccus enquired, in a plaintive tone, adding without conviction, ‘I was promised a reward.’

The commander shook his head. ‘It is far too late for you to journey home tonight. I’ll make arrangements to have you put up at the hiring-inn, where they can accommodate your donkey, too. That is your reward for coming here and what you’ve said so far. If your information proves to be of use, we’ll consider if there should be something more. Tomorrow you can accompany my scout and show him exactly where the lane and farmstead is.’ He turned to me. ‘As for you, it’s getting late. Time I delivered you to Marcus’s, before his servants start to wonder where you are. Besides, my slave will have started to make my evening meal and I still have other duties to perform.’ He sat down at the desk again and unrolled a document, calling as he did so, ‘Centurion, are you there?’

Emelius, who had been standing outside all this while, bustled in and snapped smartly to attention. ‘Present and awaiting orders, sir.’ He smacked his centurion’s baton on his leg, as if for emphasis.

‘Accompany Libertus to his patron’s flat and when you have delivered him, report back here to me. Take Biccus downstairs with you and find a man to take him to the mansio and have him fed, then send to the hiring-inn and request a bed for him. Say I sent you and the garrison will pay.’ He glanced at me. ‘I hope your patron is as generous as he claims to be and will meet all these expenses made on your account.’

It was obviously the best that I could hope for now and I bowed my thanks before allowing Emelius to escort me down the stairs, with Biccus trailing reluctantly behind.

The pig-man was given into the hands of an optio downstairs, who looked him up and down with ill-concealed disgust. ‘We’d better get you cleaned up first of all, I think. I can’t deliver you to the mansio to eat smelling like a pig-enclosure. And I’ll have to burn those clothes before I take you to the public hostelry — even there you’re likely to disturb the other guests. Doubtless there’s a cleaner tunic somewhere you could use, though there’s not much we can do about the shoes.’ A deep, reproachful sigh. ‘You’d better come with me!’ And Biccus was seized roughly by the arm and hustled off in the direction of the military baths. The last I saw of him, he was protesting all the way.

There was scarcely time to take in this little scene before I was hustled off myself, out of the fortress and back into the town.

I turned to the centurion. ‘Would it be possible for us to stop briefly at the jail? I would like very much to have a word with Calvinus.’ It was worth a final try.

Emelius did not even condescend to answer this. He simply drew his dagger from its sheath again and held it closely to my ribs, jerking his head towards the route he wished to take. ‘This way, citizen. I’m walking at your heels.’

I thought for a mad moment of attempting an escape and making my own way to the jail, but an instant’s reflection showed me what a stupid thought it was. Emelius was plump and sometimes lumbering but he was not only much younger than I was, he was a serving soldier — and anyone who can do a route-march in full kit was going to be a good deal fitter than an ageing shopkeeper. Besides, there were too many people in the streets, any of whom could be legally required to chase after me, if I did anything so foolish as to try to run away.

The town is always very busy around dusk, and it was so tonight: creaking wagons making those delayed deliveries; bakers cleaning ovens and resetting fires; people who could afford no other flour queuing up to purchase the grit-filled sweepings from the miller’s stones. Traders darted to and fro, bringing in their stock for safe-keeping overnight, some of them shouting curses to their slaves, who brushed down the pavements outside the premises with little whisking bundles of tied broom, but they all made way for the man in uniform. The very dray-horses seemed to sidestep as we passed, snuffling gently in their clanking chains.

We turned down a dusky side-street to avoid the crush, though it was not much better here. The taverna on the corner was packed with customers who were already beginning to spill out on to the street, and the soup-kitchen next door was also doing a boisterous trade: its open door and window-space aglow with smoky light, while a noisy crowd gathered round the entrance, trying to push their way into the steam and smell. But even they reduced their clamouring and stood aside to let the soldier and his prisoner through.

At length we came out on to the major street which skirted the forum and led towards the baths. Marcus’s town apartment was at the other end — one of the most prestigious such properties in town, though (as with the lictor’s residence nearby) there were poorer folk crammed into the attic floors above — one of the reasons why my patron rarely used the place.

This area was a good deal quieter, but we were still delayed. We ran into a funeral heading for the gates: no doubt some worthy freeman paid for by his guild, since there were professional mourners and musicians accompanying the bier and a long procession trailing after it. (In Glevum such things still happen after dark — just as all funerals used to, years ago, in Rome. The practice has survived here, I have often thought, not only because of a natural preference for old-fashioned ways, but because it means the other members of the guild can continue to work throughout the day.)

Mourners have a natural precedence — no one is anxious to offend a corpse and have the angry spirit haunting them — but it was amazing how the sight of the centurion was enough to make them pause. Most simply stared in silence as I was marched along, though I was conscious of some sympathetic whispering. The undertaker’s women carried baskets of sweet herbs — no doubt intended to be added to the pyre — and I caught the sweet smell of lovage as I passed.

Emelius had obviously smelt the herbs as well, for though he did not for a moment drop the dagger at my back, I realized that he’d paused to spit on his free hand then pull his ear with it. Hipposelinum — lovage — once it has been picked, is said to bring ill-fortune if you cross it on the street, but I did not bother to do the self-protective ritual myself. I felt that my own luck could not get much worse, as we found ourselves outside the block where Marcus had his flat.

The wine-shop was still open and a gang of youths was clustered at the door, blocking the pavement and getting in our way. They were dressed in togas and had obviously been sampling the wares — but being quite clearly the sons of wealthy men, they were not afraid of mere centurions. They ignored us totally. One of them was swinging from the painted wooden sign — which showed the nature of the establishment for those that could not read — while his comrades urged him on and the wine-shop owner protested feebly from within.

Emelius muttered something to the nearest youth, who paid no more attention than if he had been a dog. I felt the centurion stiffening with rage, but he obviously did not want to cause an incident, and — putting up his dagger — he gripped my elbow and steered me off the pavement, intending to walk on the roadway round the group of youths.

However, as we did so the fellow dangling from the sign abruptly lost his grip and tumbled to the paving right in front of us. He was too drunk to care and lay there giggling. The sight of the centurion had no effect on him, though his friends seemed suddenly sobered by the accident. They stole sideways looks at Emelius’s stony face and one by one slipped silently away, leaving their comrade lying in the road. He was tittering inanely, but seemed mercifully unhurt.

Emelius stood over him and ordered him to rise, but the boy just looked up at us with a foolish grin. ‘Will do in a minute, need to sleep, tha’s all.’

The shopkeeper came out. ‘Thank Mercury you’ve come! You see what state he’s in. He could have killed himself. I want him arrested and taken home at once. I’ll tell you where to take him — his father is a customer of mine. I’ll write out a bill for you to take as well. Someone’s got to pay. Emptied two amphorae before I got to them, and didn’t have a quadrans between the lot of them.’

The lad on the pavement gave a little grunt, rolled into the gutter and promptly fell asleep.

The centurion turned him over with his foot, though he never slacked his grip upon my arm. ‘I’ll deal with him later. He won’t stir from there. In the meantime, I’ve got work to do. I’m delivering this. . citizen. . to His Excellence’s flat.’

‘Up those stairs and first door at the end,’ the shopkeeper supplied, obviously wishing to be helpful to the authorities. ‘But I don’t think Marcus Septimus is there. I saw him leaving an hour or more ago.’

‘All the same. .’ My escort pressed me on, making no further effort to explain.

The wine-shopkeeper looked doubtfully at me. ‘Well, please yourself, of course. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Either way, I will be waiting when you come down again. In the meantime, I’ll keep watch on him.’ He gestured to the snoring figure lying in the road, whose mud-stained toga had half-unwrapped itself and whose hair was now full of fragments from the mire.

Emelius nodded and marched me to the entrance to the upper floors. The stairwell was poorly lit and I almost stumbled as we hurried up the steps. Unusually, there were no other inhabitants about to stare, a fact which I put down to the late hour of day. Secretly I was rather grateful, though, as it spared me the embarrassment of further scrutiny.

But as we reached the landing the explanation for this lack of bystanders became clear. Marcus’s town doorkeeper was awaiting us. This was a man that I hadn’t seen before, and he was enormous — huge, hairy and malevolent, with pointed yellow teeth, like one of the performing bears that you sometimes see paraded through the streets. His hands were enormous and so covered with matt fur that they might almost have been designed as paws. He held one up to challenge us as we approached. It was holding what appeared to be a twig — though it would have been a baton to any other man.

‘This is the citizen my master told me of?’ His eyes were small and close together, giving him a squint. I thought that I had never seen an uglier man, but his credentials as doorkeeper were in no kind of doubt. The gold-edged scarlet uniform in which my patron dressed his slaves only served to emphasize the giant’s strength and power: the flimsy tunic strained across the muscles in his chest and failed to hide the bulges in his arms and legs.

‘This is Libertus,’ Emelius agreed, ever the proper Roman officer. ‘I was instructed to escort him here.’

‘Then you can leave him with me. I’ll take good care of him.’ The bearish doorman directed a leering smile at me. ‘Welcome, citizen. If you’d just like to step inside?’