Enemies of the Empire

Chapter Eight

The evening when they dragged me to the town jail in Venta is not one I wish to dwell upon and certainly not one I’m anxious to repeat. First I was hustled through the rainy streets, almost more quickly than my legs and heart would stand. One of the guards was holding the halter round my neck, and he kept jerking it and dragging me along so I was half choked to death and scrabbling like a stray dog on a leash. Nor was this a private spectacle. The clop of hobnailed sandals and the clank of armour must have alerted the sleeping townspeople, because doorways and window spaces which had been empty when I passed before were suddenly alive with curious onlookers. As we passed the closed-up bath-house, there were even jeers.

We halted at the prison, a dismal building in a courtyard. The stone walls were as thick as tree trunks and, judging from the steep steps leading downwards from the door, much of the accommodation was underground. A bleary warder with a torch came out to squint at us.

‘This one’s accused of murdering a hot-soup seller down the bath-house end of town, and stealing all his gold. Claims he isn’t guilty, but don’t they all? We found him with a knife. Stick him in a dungeon overnight, and tomorrow we’ll see what the inquisitors can do,’ my captor said, shoving me forward into the jail.

My mouth was still tightly bound so I could not protest, and they pushed me without ceremony down the flight of stairs to where a leering guard unlocked a heavy door.

There was very little light or air down there, but by the taper that the warder carried I could make out a sort of stinking cellar of a dungeon, where three wretched prisoners were already chained up. Not only were they tethered to the wall, but their hands and feet were linked by chains to a collar round the neck, so that the unfortunates could not sit or stand, and were compelled to grovel on their knees, like dogs, to lap for slops of food. It is a method often used by dealers when transporting slaves, so I know how uncomfortable it is.

The atmosphere was damp and foul, besides, and so cold that it struck instant chill into my bones. I shivered. I was already soaked through by the rain and a night in here would be the end of me, I thought — and even if I did survive, there would no doubt be torturers awaiting me at dawn, unless I could reach Marcus first. Something must be done.

I was almost at the limit of my strength after the progress through the town, but I gathered what effort I could still command and as one the guards undid the gag and pushed me down onto the filthy floor, I raised my head and managed to croak out the magic formula.

‘I am a Roman citizen. I appeal to the provincial governor.’

It was a desperate gamble, even then. Since the official governor, Pertinax, had left the country to take up his new African command there was a danger that, after this appeal, I would stay locked up until his successor was installed. However, since Marcus was opening the local court tomorrow, I hoped that they would call on him to deal with me — quickly, while he was still in town. It was likely that they would: since he was Pertinax’s representative and the senior magistrate for miles around, it would have been an insult to his dignity to do otherwise.

Of course, it was possible that he would decline to hear the case, I was aware of that. He could not know that I was in the dock. No one, so far, had even asked my name. It was clear that my captors would not risk his wrath by interfering with the feast to carry any messages from me, and since he was not returning to the mansio that night, he was quite unaware that I was not tucked up safely in my bed.

‘I appeal to the imperial courts,’ I said again.

One of my escorts gave a scornful laugh and aimed a kick at me, and for a moment I thought they would dismiss the whole idea, just as the soldier at the mansio had done. But the warden, in particular, was looking doubtful now.

‘Here, look out,’ he said. ‘Suppose he’s right? The penalties for mistreating a citizen are severe. And why would he claim to be one if he’s not? That’s a capital offence.’

The town guard who had dragged me by the neck looked contemptuous. ‘Him, a citizen? Then what was he doing down the bath-house end of town at night? You don’t have to be a sibyl to know that’s not very safe.’ One of the prisoners made a snorting sound at this, and the guard repaid him with a savage blow.

All the same, the warder seemed to feel that Roman authority had been called into question by the guard’s remark. ‘We are the representatives of Roman law round here, and we have things under control. It’s just that it isn’t sensible to go where you’re not welcome after dark. But if he is a stranger to the town — and I for one have not set eyes on him before — it is just possible he didn’t know.’

He gestured to the others to join him at the door. There was a hurried consultation in which I strained to catch the words ‘can’t be too careful. . what have we to lose?. . it will be the worse for him tomorrow, if it proves a lie’.

I was fortunate. The two members of the town watch still looked sceptical, but the warden’s wariness prevailed.

My escorts looked at each other and then, exchanging nods, came over to where I was still sprawling helpless on the floor. ‘We’ll give you the benefit of the doubt, my friend, but woe betide you if you’re telling lies,’ the younger man muttered as he yanked me to my feet. That was as much of an apology as I was going to get.

‘If you are a citizen, why didn’t you tell us earlier?’ The other guard, who had pushed me over, was suddenly concerned to dust my tunic down, where it was stained by contact with the soiled muck on the floor. He sounded mildly aggrieved. ‘How were we supposed to know that you were anyone?’

I attempted to point out that I’d not had the chance to tell them anything, since they’d forced that wretched rag between my teeth. One of the pathetic creatures chained against the wall let out a feeble murmur of encouragement at this, and was promptly beaten for his pains.

The warder was anxious to cut short my complaint. ‘A most unfortunate mistake, but it is over now. And I had no part in it. I hope you will remember that, if you turn out to be telling the truth and there’s any official complaint. Now, we’ll take you somewhere a little more appropriate. If you will come with us. .?’

He hurried forward with his torch and keys to push back the heavy door, and I found myself being propelled upstairs again almost as quickly as I’d been hustled down. Bound and still haltered as I was, I slipped and stumbled, but the two guards took my arms and half supported me, until we came to a small room halfway up the stairs.

It was still a prison cell, there was no doubt of that, but it was a good deal better than the wretched hole downstairs. Here there was a pile of cleanish straw, a proper cup and drinking jug (though both were chained to the wall), and — best of all — a little window-opening high up overhead, through which night air was blowing, wet and cold and carrying the tang of horse dung from the street, but blessedly fresh and pure compared to the atmosphere I’d breathed below.

One of my erstwhile escorts slipped the rope noose from my neck, while the other slashed the knot that bound my hands. With my arms free it was possible to rub the spot where my makeshift halter had been chafing me, and by the glow of the torch — with which the warder was now lighting a small taper on the wall (another concession to the status I claimed) — I could see the raw lines on my wrists where the tight bonds had been. Roman-trained guards know how to tie a knot.

The warder was still all concern for me. He seemed to be a decent sort, according to his lights. ‘I could bring you a bit of ointment, if you can pay for it,’ he said. ‘And a woollen cloth of sorts. Might make a kind of blanket for you overnight. And in the morning, you can see the governor of the jail, and tell him who you are. You let him know that I looked after you. There’s water in the jug, and I think there might be a bit of bread upstairs. Anything else, you can send out for when it’s light — supposing that you possess a purse? Otherwise there might be a moneylender who could see you through, if you can sign the right assurances.’

I shook my head. ‘I know what kind of interest those feneratores demand, especially if they know you’re desperate.’ I didn’t add the obvious, that few men are more desperate than a prisoner in a cell. They force you to pledge everything you own for the most basic of commodities, and the contract is binding under law, so that even if the wretched prisoner is found guilty of his crime and executed, the debt is still enforceable and his surviving family has to pay. I would not subject my beloved wife to that.

The warder looked at me. ‘I can’t bring you anything unless you pay.’

‘The moneylenders won’t be necessary. Fortunately, I have some money of my own.’ I touched the drawstring pouch which was still hanging at my belt. ‘Although it appears that I have lost my knife somewhere. It is quite a valuable thing — I might have traded it for goods.’

If I hoped that the remark would disconcert the guards into returning my knife to me, I hoped in vain. The larger one laughed.

‘Oh no you don’t, my friend. That knife is evidence. Even if you prove that you’re a citizen, you had an illegal weapon in your hand. And we are witnesses. You can’t get out of that.’

I realised with a shiver that my knife had not simply been appropriated, as the belongings of accused men sometimes are. It would be produced against me at my trial, as proof that I was carrying a blade. That in itself was a capital offence, whether I was a citizen or not. Especially in this rebellious capital, no doubt, despite the stalls of armour in the streets and the dagger which Laxus had been wielding earlier.

As if in answer to my thoughts, the warder said, ‘That is a bit unfortunate. The town authorities here are even more than usually concerned about arresting people who walk about with arms. There are still folk here who think it’s in their tribal interest to slip a knife between a pair of Roman ribs.’

Thank all the gods that Marcus himself had given me the knife, for dining purposes, though I began to wish I hadn’t had it sharpened quite so well.

Well, there was nothing I could do about it now. I turned my attention back to present needs. I would have to pay in coin for anything I had, and even simple things were going to cost me dear. I made a bargain with the warder for a blanket now and a fresh oatcake in the morning — though I had no great confidence that I would ever see the goods. Certainly I’d never get the honey cakes I’d paid for earlier. However, I passed over most of the coinage I had and the three men withdrew. As the door closed behind them I heard the key grate in the lock, so I settled on my pile of straw as best I could, given that I ached in every limb, and tried to convince myself that my dismal situation might have advantages.

I was safer in a cell than I might have been outside, that was one benefit. It appeared that in Venta I was actually at risk — though whether that was just me, or whether it would apply to any traveller, I could not quite be sure. I suspected that it was personal. I had twice been followed through the town.

And then there was that misleading message to my slave. The more I thought about that the more alarming it became. Someone in this town had sent it, in my name and quite deliberately. There was only one purpose served by doing so, as far I could see. It prevented the soldiers at the mansio from questioning my absence and sending out a search. That was sinister. It was clearly not intended that I should return. And, it occurred to me, the message had the additional effect of ensuring that my attendant was not outside the pastry shop when I went back for him, so I would be walking through the streets alone, deprived of the protection of a slave.

I wondered again where Promptillius was now. He had obeyed the ‘message’ on the writing tablet, presumably, supposing that it came from me, and had left the mansio with my clothes. The fact that my patron was being entertained at a feast was clearly common knowledge in the town — even Big-ears and his friends had known it — but how could anyone have guessed that I came from the military inn, and that Promptillius was attending me? By watching us, perhaps — that was distinctly possible, judging from my own experience.

I shifted on my pile of straw and groaned. I ached all over. As soon as I got out of here, I vowed, I’d send for Junio and some of Gwellia’s balm. The comforts of my home seemed far away.

That brought me almost upright with a jerk. My home was far away. Who, in this town, could possibly have known my name to forge that note? Had I told anyone? I tried to think, but I was almost sure I hadn’t. So who had sent the message? The red-headed expert with cup and ball who had delivered the message to my slave outside the pastry shop was Lyra’s spy, Rufinus, I was sure of it. But how could she possibly have known my name, or that Promptillius was mine? I hadn’t told her anything about myself, and besides, he was dressed in Marcus’s household uniform.

So who had been behind all this? There was only one candidate that I could think of: Plautus. The man who was not dead. Who else could have associated me with Marcus and the military inn? Only Plautus, who knew from Glevum who my patron was. Most of Venta would know about the feast, and that Marcus had been present at the games — I had the evidence of the three young men for that — but no local resident could know my trade: yet the mansio guard had said that I was referred to as a ‘pavement-maker’ in the written note.

The written note. That was another thing. Whoever sent that message had access to wax tablets and a stylus, and sufficient education to produce written Latin good enough to look like Marcus’s or mine. That didn’t sound like Lyra or the butcher’s boys. Plautus, on the other hand, had been a member of the Glevum ordo once, where reading and writing were necessary skills for any councillor.

Respectable, dull Plautus. It seemed incredible that he should want to kill me, but it was the only explanation I could see. I’d made it obvious that I recognised his face, and he did not wish it to be recognised. He had not wanted to waylay me and explain — he’d had the opportunity to do that, and had run away. So why would he follow me about, unless it was because I knew he was alive and he hoped to silence me? Boring old Plautus as would-be assassin? Was it possible?

I gulped. It would not have been very difficult, if that was his idea. An unprotected stranger on the streets at night, in a town where rival gangs are active — it would not be wholly surprising if I disappeared, or turned up in a gutter somewhere with my purse missing and my throat cut. If it had not been for the chance of that donkey blocking up the street, whoever had been on my heels would have caught up with me — it was possible that even my decision to accost Big-ears and his inebriated friends had helped to save my life.

Then another thought occurred to me: one which sent shivers down my already chilly spine. Was Lupus’s murder quite as unconnected with my presence as I thought? I had talked to Lupus, and a moment later — so his wife had said — someone had come out of the dark and slit his throat. Was that because I might have said too much to him? And was the follower also aiming to kill me?

I was still contemplating the full implications of this terrible idea when my thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the door. It was the warder who, true to his word, had brought a ‘kind of blanket’ — a length of coarse woollen cloth smelling overpoweringly of horse — and a hunk of bread. It was no more fresh than the blanket was, but I thanked the man sincerely and fell on my frugal feast.

He watched me for a moment. ‘I’ll get those oatcakes fetched in early,’ he observed at last. ‘I expect the prison governor will want to see you first thing. Now, if you’ve got any sense, you’ll try to rest. I’ll wake you at dawn.’ So saying, he snuffed the taper, went out, and shut the door, leaving me in total darkness, except for the faint glow that filtered from the street.

I found that I was shaking with relief and weariness. There was nothing for it but to act on his advice. I took off my sodden clothes, wrapped myself in the makeshift covering, lay down on the straw-pile and — in spite of the terrors of the day and my attempts to think things through again — fell almost instantly into a fitful sleep.