Nox Dormienda

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The weather outside matched my mood. The sun had teased us on the way here, whispering promises of warm days, lovely sunsets, and happy endings. The sun was a liar. I leaned against the door and grimaced. Not hail, not snow, not even decent sleet. Some ungodly cross of rain and dirt and mud and filth was raining down in sheets, pounding the pocked and rutted streets into submission. My toga would never be the same.

With a groan, I pried myself off of Gwyna’s door, and sank into the mud. The cold, liquid dirt squirted between my toes, and the ankle boots gave up their last breath and died. Draco trudged ahead of me through the murk. It was still about two or three hours before sundown, but no one was counting.

The rain froze my toes. I couldn’t feel the mud anymore, or even the waterfalls cascading down my back. I couldn’t feel anything except what I didn’t want to feel, and that was a hell of a lot more uncomfortable than the weather.

She was obviously protecting Rhodri. She must still care for him. But what she said, what she did.… A donkey and a cart crawling by on all fours flung some of the road in my mouth. It tasted better than what I was thinking. Goddamn it. She wasn’t lying. Not completely. There was more to it than that.

The voice said: “Remember Dionysia.”

It was a resigned tone, one that said it knew this would happen all along. I hated the tone, and I didn’t care much for the voice, either.

“I was eighteen years old! And Dionysia was … well, you know what Dionysia was. That doesn’t make Gwyna a liar. I know all about using people. I know all about lying.”

It whispered this time. “To yourself, maybe. But where women are concerned …”

I swatted some mud at it, and a chunk clung to my lobe like an earring. Gwyna was no Dionysia. Or Julia, for that matter. Dionysia was a sophisticate; Julia a spoiled, oversexed child. Gwyna was a native-a Trinovantian!-and she had a family to think of. She was a fiercely loyal woman, loyal to her father, her people, her country-

“Her lover?”

I was getting tired of the argument. Why couldn’t I just shut up? Wasn’t the weather misery enough? I stepped in a puddle, and tried to drown myself.

I remembered how she felt. How she smelled, how she looked. She was hiding something, but it wasn’t about us. She could still be loyal to Agricola. And her father. She could still be in love with me-and want to help Rhodri. Maybe she was protecting him in the only way she knew how: by keeping her mouth shut. And maybe I wasn’t the only one looking for him.

Even if Rhodri were innocent, he knew something, saw something, and it was something dangerous. Maybe Rhodri had to run. Maybe Rhodri was being set up.

I needed to find him. There was a chance he was guilty, and Gwyna knew it. Maybe her loyalty went that far. But loyalty didn’t make her a liar about us. And at that moment, standing in the mud and rain, I didn’t give a damn about anything else.

A smile cracked through the mud on my face, and I swam ahead to catch up to Draco. The voice scurried to a dark corner. I had the uneasy feeling we’d be talking again soon.

* * * * *

Home was somewhere up ahead. The rain slacked off as the weather got colder. The drop in temperature made the mud harder. I felt like one of those trick Silenus statues you crack open to find another statue inside. If I peeled off enough layers, maybe I’d find a cleaner, brighter Arcturus.

I was thinking about not thinking about Gwyna. So I thought about Maecenas. I was wondering who killed him.

Rhodri had a personal motive. But he also had a damn good reason for not stealing the papers. All he had to do was wait, and Domitian’s orders would do what a few thousand natives couldn’t. Any enemy of the governor would’ve toasted Maecenas and those papers with the finest Aminnian.

Funny how Urien hadn’t asked about them. For a man who liked gossip so much, I figured he’d want to know whether he’d be getting a new governor. He was quick enough to point out that the governor’s friends and allies were the strongest suspects. But he never asked if the papers were found or delivered.

And what about the mithraeum? The murder took place on the New Year. And the Syrian was trussed with a native knot. And Rhodri and Madoc both knew a lot more than innocent men should. I’d like to find out how.

Maybe the Christians did it, whoever they were, wherever they were. Maybe they wanted the Romans and natives to start killing each other again. But why take the papers? Isn’t the numen you know better than the numen you don’t know?

And then there was Caelius. I’d like it to be him. He’d told Maecenas about Gwyna, and had acted as Urien’s broker. But why would he kill the Syrian or steal the papers? And why wouldn’t he-or anyone else-have stolen the money?

I chewed my muddy lip. There was a personal motive to kill Maecenas, and political motives to steal the papers, but not by the same people. Maybe we were dealing, as Bilicho thought, with multiple crimes. A murdered man, a stolen document (but not stolen money?), and a desecrated temple?

Then I was home.

Nothing looked as good as my door. Maybe not quite nothing. I needed a warm fire and clean clothes, surrounded by a peaceful household of order and harmony. When Draco pushed on the door, it opened. Something was wrong.

I could see his jaw set, as if a sculptor were making final adjustments to a clay mold. He fumbled through the dripping wool to his old gladius, and removed it. He motioned for me to stay behind him, but as he entered the waiting room I pushed him aside. The sound of barking was coming from the triclinium.

I sloshed quickly through the hall, and paused in the doorway, the drip-drip-drip of the unbearably heavy toga dropping in rhythm with the labored breaths of Draco, behind me.

The dining room was in an uproar. Velox and Ludens were running around the couches, nearly tripping Brutius, Coir and Venutius, and barking at one of Fera’s kittens, which was contemplating a tapestry of Alexandria in the corner. In the center of it all was Bilicho, propped awkwardly on a couch, with a too large cloth around his head that had too much blood on it.

I plowed through the slaves.

“Venutius, bring some warm water. Brutius, get my surgical bag from the examination room. Coir, go with him to make sure he finds it.”

I turned to Draco, who stood in the middle of the floor, huge, wet, and confused. “Change your clothes.”

The puppies and the kittens looked at me, waiting for orders. “You-be quiet.”. Then I looked down at Bilicho, who was faintly smiling.

“Shut up while I look at your head.” He tried to nod, and grimaced in pain. “And don’t move, damn you!”

Coir ran up with the bag. “Did you bandage Bilicho?”

She nodded. “Brutius and Venutius argued with me.”

“You did a good job. But I need to cut this off, and it’s going to start bleeding again. Go out to the shed with Brutius-Brutius, take out the animals-and bring me some of those fat oak leaves-you know the kind, the ones the beetles lay eggs in.”

By now Venutius had arrived with a large pot of water. “Take that back to the kitchen and pour some of the water into a shallow dish, Venutius, something like a kylix. I can’t use a cauldron’s worth.”

I leaned over Bilicho and studied his eyes.

“You’ve got a concussion. A bad one. I don’t know whether your head is split open or not.”

“It’s not. I felt it.”

“I told you not to talk, Bilicho.” I opened the bag and removed one of my small knives and started cutting through the cloth wound inexpertly around his head. It was one of Draco’s old cloaks.

Coir and Brutius came in, looking only faintly damp. The rain must’ve stopped. Typical. She was holding the oak leaves.

“Get me a mortar and pestle from the examination room.”

Brutius looked at me eagerly. I told him to go help Draco change his clothes.

Bilicho grunted. “A lot of fuss.”

“Shut up.”

The makeshift bandage was now off, and I took a closer look at his head. His hair was still damp, with rain and clotted blood. A blow from behind, but not with something sharp-a large, tender bump, and purpled, puckered skin, but no cut. I felt around the area of the blow. Bilicho stayed still, but I knew he would, no matter how much it hurt.

“No fracture so far. But I’ve got to see what’s making you bleed.” Coir came back with the mortar at the same time that Venutius arrived with an old black kylix full of hot water. After setting both on the low table closest to Bilicho, they stood off to the side, anxiously looking on. Brutius and Draco, freshly dressed but still wet, joined them.

“Coir, get me some flax. This will hurt, Bilicho.”

The blood was thick and clotted on his left side, right above his temple. That was good, since a blow to the temple itself sometimes meant unconsciousness and death, unless it was opened up, which was tricky business. I took out a thin pair of forceps and a short probe, and carefully, tediously, tugged at the bandage where it was glued with Bilicho’s blood.

Coir appeared at my side, and handed me some squares of flax. I dunked one in the hot water, and, showing it to Bilicho so he could prepare himself, laid it on the cut. He made no sound, but his body stiffened all over.

I straightened up. My sodden toga was in the way. “Help me out of this.”

Brutius and Coir lifted and heaved, and between all three of us, we got it off. My undertunic was wet, but not so bulky. The hot cloth on Bilicho’s head had drawn some fresh blood. I took up the forceps again.

“I’m taking off the bandage now.” I tugged a little harder from first one corner, then another. With one quick, decisive pull, I removed it completely. He shuddered.

“Heat up some wine, Venutius. Coir, I should have a little willow bark left in the drying shed. Give a handful to Venutius to add to the wine. And bring a needle and thread from my bag.”

The wound was visible, now that the blood was flowing again. The lips were jagged, and heavily swollen, and a large bump-the equal of the one on the back of his head-rose underneath it. With the forceps, I delicately pried it open. I didn’t see any brain or other tissue, but I had to make sure.

“Hold on to something, Bilicho.”

His hand crept out of the coverlet Coir or one of the others had thrown over him, and gripped the edge of the couch. I inserted the probe into the wound, and felt the bump with my fingertips. Bilicho was trying not to bite his tongue too hard. The probe was coming up against skull. He needed stitches, but at least his head wasn’t fractured. I took another flax bandage, dipped it in the hot water, and reapplied it.

“I have to stop the bleeding, clean it out, and sew you up. You don’t have a fracture.”

Bilicho’s pupils were dilated and far away, but he still grinned.

I turned toward the oak leaves. Bruising them drew out a squirt or two of a thin, blackish liquid. I picked up the flax bandage I’d first placed on Bilicho’s head and cleaned my hands with it. Then I bruised the leaves some more, until I had a thick black and green paste. I took another piece of flax and soaked it, and gently pressed down on the cloth on Bilicho’s head before taking it off. Thanks to the rain, there wasn’t much to clean.

Venutius came in on tiptoe with a warm cup of wine and willow. The flax was soaked through. I scooped up the rest of the paste with it and tamped it around the wound, before covering everything with my last piece of dry cloth. I turned to Coir, who was standing beside me.

“Leave the needle and thread here. I’ll stitch it later. Venutius, Bilicho will need some broth-chicken, goose, whatever’s on hand. Put some cabbage in it.”

I stood up and stretched, and saw the worry still lining their faces.

I said: “He’ll be fine.”

Brutius smiled, and stepped outside to bring in a log for the fire. Coir hesitantly approached me with a dry tunic. I let the soaking one I was in fall to the ground, and gave the grinning patient a severe look. “Don’t even think about talking.”

When I was done, I looked around. The living room was how I’d pictured it from the outside, when I stood in the rain, dripping and drowning.

* * * * *

I let Bilicho talk a few hours later, after I’d stitched him up and he’d had enough wine. Draco was standing guard by the door. Finding it open had bothered him, and finding Bilicho hurt had bothered him even more. Venutius tied his seasoning hand behind his back when he made the broth. And the patient was trying to pretend that nothing had happened.

“Why can’t I eat real food?”

“You know why. There’s a risk of fever-a big risk.”

He grunted. “I’ll be fine in the morning.”

“You will not be fine in the morning. You’re staying in bed for at least two days.”

He glared at me.

I grinned. “The evil eye won’t do you a damn bit of good. Now tell me what happened-and make it quick.”

He adjusted his position on the couch. “I was knocked on the head.”

I made a face at him.

“All right, all right.”

He settled in again, until he was as comfortable as he could be. Then he took a minute to get it in order. “I was at the marketplace, asking questions about Rhodri. Remember him? Well, I found out a few things. He’s the subject of gossip, these days, and you know Londinium-tongues wag faster than a two sestertii whore’s. Luckily.” He winced. “Or maybe not so luckily.”

“Anyway, he owns a cattle farm near Camulodunum-your home town-and comes into the city to buy and sell, stir up trouble against the Romans, and take a poke at Gwyna. Not that he’s ever succeeded in that,” he added hastily. “But everyone knows he’s been lusting after her like a dog in heat.”

“Go on.”

“So cattle is where and how he gets his money. While he’s in Londinium, he stays in a small house on the outskirts, across the river near the bridge. Naturally, after learning all this, I felt compelled to find it, and hopefully Rhodri, too.”

“So you went across the bridge? That’s a rough area.”

“Yeah. In more ways than one. I found his district, all right, thanks to a honey merchant. You might want to try his honey for the wound dressings-it tasted good, anyway.”

“What happened then?”

“I made it across, but only because I took off my freedman’s ring. The whole place is very unhappy with us. You should see some of the graffiti.”

I frowned. “I’ve never had a patient from there-they wouldn’t trust a Roman, even if he’s half native. But it’s a poor neighborhood, and their numbers keep shrinking.”

“Not fast enough to save my head. I found a tavern near Rhodri’s house-which is next to an oak grove, by the way, very handy if he happens to be worshipping the Old Ways.”

“And?”

“Well, I walked in, and ordered some mead-no sissy Roman wine, remember-and people were friendly enough. But cautious.”

“Did you see anyone from last night?”

“Not that I could be sure of. There were two that looked familiar-rough types, leather aprons, maybe tanners or something. It was dark, like all those places, and darker than most, even Lupo’s.” He grinned. “At least the food was good.”

“Then don’t complain about the broth.”

He grimaced at the empty bowl, and continued. “Anyway, once I started asking about Rhodri-and not even about Rhodri, kind of around Rhodri-they clammed up tight. Couldn’t get a thing out of anyone. So I left, and decided to prowl around his house myself.”

“You should’ve gone home to get Brutius. Or waited for me.”

“Yeah, I know. But I was on his trail, Arcturus, and I just had one of those feelings that he was there, that he hadn’t left town.”

“So then what?”

“What you see on my head. I left the tavern, strolled over toward Rhodri’s house-it’s very countrified out there-and walked around it.”

“What does it look like?”

“Not much. Wooden farmhouse. Probably about fifteen years old.”

“Any sign of life?”

“I found some horse tracks, fresh, on the road in. I think he was there.”

“If he wasn’t, I don’t see the point of knocking you out. How did it happen?”

“I rounded a corner. I thought I was being quiet. I heard voices from the oak grove. Then a crashing pain on the back of my head, and I must’ve fallen and hit myself on a flagstone-I was close to the house by that time. Next thing I knew I woke up on the bit of road leading back to the bridge and Londinium proper. And it was raining. Hard.”

“They could’ve killed you.”

“I know. I don’t think Rhodri’s guilty of murder, if Rhodri or one of his friends gave me this.”

“Maybe.” We were silent for a while. Then I told him what happened to me.

“So we’ve got three crimes now?”

“Unless we can think of something to tie them all together. It just doesn’t make sense. Why was Maecenas clutching a document he hadn’t delivered? Why wasn’t the money stolen? How did Madoc and Rhodri and everyone at the whorehouse know he was killed?” I shook my head.

“I’ve got more questions than a Greek philosopher, and they’re just as useless. Maybe someone from Agricola’s inner circle did murder the Syrian. Maybe I did. Who the hell knows?”

“What do we do next?”

“You stay in bed. People are going to a lot of trouble to keep me from finding Rhodri, so that’s where we start. I don’t think he’s guilty, at least of murder. But he knows too much-and it’s something ugly.”

Caelius’ face flashed into my mind. I felt the stubble on my chin and frowned. “I’ll have to see Agricola first. We don’t have much time. Maecenas was a lackey, but a lackey for the Emperor. And what he was carrying-wars have been started over less. Then Rhodri next. I’m sure he’s left town by now, maybe returned to Camulodunum. I still have friends there-you remember my father’s freedmen, the ones who paid for his tombstone?”

“Favonianus, you mean? Your father the centurion?”

“Yeah. Verecundus and Narcissus. I gave them one of Pyxis’ puppies a couple of months ago, when Verecundus was in town on business. I can talk to them, they might know the local gossip.”

“What about Caelius?”

I wanted the next time I saw Caelius to be the last time I saw Caelius. He was too poisonous to handle too often. And I needed information first.

“As soon as I talk to the governor, I’ll leave for Camulodunum and look for Rhodri. I should be back in four days. That’ll give you one or two days to find out what you can. Chase any leads. Find any connections between Caelius, Maecenas, Urien. And keep an eye on the whores.”

I didn’t want to meet his eyes. “One other thing. I want to know who Urien owes, and I want to pay off his debts.”

Bilicho raised his eyebrows at me, then scowled in pain.

“Arcturus-”

“I know what you’re thinking. Yes, I know she’s lying or at least keeping something from me. And I don’t care.”

He let out a groan. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

I hoped so, too, but I wasn’t going to tell him that. A loud bang made us jump, and Bilicho grimaced. He started to get up, but lay back down after I shot him a nasty look and stood up myself. Draco came running into the room, agitated.

“It’s the man from last night. He’s-”

“-Right behind you. Hello, Favonianus.”

“Hello, Avitus. Can I expect a visit from you every night from now on?”

He didn’t respond. “What happened to him?”

I rolled my eyes. “Got drunk again. Fell down and hit his head. I’m thinking of sending him back to work in a mine.”

“You freed him.”

“Yes. But he just can’t seem to adjust.” I stood in between Avitus and Bilicho, so that the beneficarius couldn’t look at him too closely. “So what brings you here tonight?”

The lines on his face were deep, and there was a weariness in Avitus that I’d never seen before. His cloak and boots were even muddier than last night. “Agricola wants you. Now.”

I reached for my bag, which was still next to Bilicho. “Should I bring-”

“No. It’s not the kind of healing we need.”

I straightened up and looked at him. “What’s going on, Avitus?”

The beneficarius sighed. The weight of his exhaustion-and more than exhaustion, despair-was crushing him to the floor like a midget with a millstone.

“Just come with me, Arcturus. Leave your bag. Leave your slaves. Leave your drunken, sore-headed freedman. Just come with me.”

Avitus called me Arcturus. It was unlike him to unbend so far. But it was also unlike him to look so much like a tired old man. I whispered to Bilicho to get some sleep. He gave me a look that said to be careful.

Draco brought me my warmest cloak and thickest boots. I told him to stay awake-Bilicho’s life might depend upon it. He nodded, wide-eyed.

When we left the house, instead of turning left toward the palace, Avitus turned right.

“Isn’t Agricola-?”

“Just follow me.”

The beneficarius was unusually taciturn, even for him. The icy mud crackled as we walked, and it all started to feel like a bad dream that wakes you up every night. We were taking the same road as the night before.

We passed Lupo’s, but no drunk was singing and no Galla appeared in the window. The lights were on, but it was quiet. By taking the same path, Avitus was trying to tell me something, prepare me for something, I was sure of it.

I saw the answer when we reached the meadow with the mithraeum. There, standing in a circle, was Agricola and some of his highest ranking officers. And there, on the torn, muddy ground that last night opened up to reveal the mystery within, was the naked body of Vibius Maecenas.