Nox Dormienda

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

When I reached the house, Draco was standing guard, looking grim. He’d watched over Bilicho carefully, and now the patient was sleeping the sleep of the innocent. I checked on him. His head felt cool, not warm, and his breath eased out in rough, tranquil snores. He’d be fine.

I put on a new mantle, and padded into the kitchen. When I’d washed off Maecenas, I told Draco to wait up for me, and to look after Bilicho. Everyone else was asleep. Someday I’d sleep again, too.

The walk to the palace was short and cold. I was a little early, and decided to take the long way, to the street-side, formal entrance rather than the riverfront. Most of the byways and alleys in Londinium were gravel or hard dirt, but the riverfront, along the quays, was paved for carts, and the streets around the major Roman arteries-the palace, the forum, the bath, the fort, a couple of temples-were hard cobblestone. It was the first firm ground I’d stood on in awhile. And there it was. The only sign of activity was a double-helping of guards at the gate-and they were unusually alert.

This entrance was about as restrained as Nero’s Golden House. Even compared with the river side, the formal entryway made you want to piss in your pants.

I gazed at the multicolored marble thoughtfully. The standing stone still bothered me. Agricola had brought up a monolith from a native shrine outside London, and used it to decorate the entrance courtyard. It was more tasteful than the Colossus in Rome, but so were the Egyptian pyramids. Placing the stone there would only remind people of what they’d lost, and no one needed any reminders. It wasn’t the first time or the last time I disagreed with the governor.

The palace, like most things official and Roman, was huge. It housed Agricola, his family, his staff, guests, friends, visitors, messengers, all the business of the Empire except for that of the procurator, who enjoyed his own, slightly more livable, slightly less ornamental palatial home directly to the east. It was really three palaces in one-formal meeting rooms on the first terrace, state rooms, business rooms, and garden rooms on the middle terrace, and all the mundaneness of real life on the third level, closest to the river.

The guards at the gate expected me. One nodded, and led me through rooms with gold, rooms with silver, rooms with garden paintings, until we reached the massive garden courtyard on the second level. Even in December, violets made a lush, perfumed carpet against the brushy yellow gorse. There were fish swimming in the big pool, despite the river next door. Romans always figured they could improve nature, given enough time and money. They’d piped in 50,000 amphorae of fresh water, just to prove it.

More guards were waiting, and a sandy-haired one detached himself from the rest. He led me into the smaller, more human section. We wound our way through the smoky, yellow-lit halls. I could feel the warmth of the floor through my shoes.

The singular finally came to a broad door I recognized as the entrance to the governor’s study. It was here he liked to compose his letters, play a few games of dice or latrunculi, and maybe even relax, preferably with a cup of good wine. I enjoyed a good game of latrunculi myself.

The soldier knocked, and a gruff voice answered. I stepped into the room. None of us were here to play tonight.

“Salve, Arcturus. Come in.” He was leaning back in a basket chair, looking like the proverbial farmer his father had named him for. Agricola did what he could to recall the Cincinnatus ideal of the plain, simple man of the earth who serves his country-and his Emperor. Cincinnatus never had to deal with one of those.

“Salvete yourselves, gentlemen.” I was early but apparently the last to arrive. Saturninus was perched on a folding chair, about as comfortable as an elephant on a footstool, Avitus was hovering near Agricola, and Meditor was trying to thaw out his brain in front of the fire. I wished him luck.

I understood why Agricola had insisted on forming a vigiles detachment. It was unusual-most provincial capitals lived happily enough without one, but he was campaigning far from home, and wanted the natives to get used to Roman bureaucracy. He encouraged them to turn to the vigiles instead of their own system of justice, and since he’d tried to eradicate that system along with Mona, he needed to replace it with something.

The tribal council was there, of course, but for the frequent tavern brawls and occasional homicides, the vigiles were handy in an emergency. Londinium was too wet to worry about fires, so they mostly just nosed around looking for trouble, and made some up if they were running short.

For reasons known only to him, he chose as their praefectus the one man in town less imaginative than Serenus. Publius Junius Meditor had a few ideas in his head, none of them nice, and once they got in they enjoyed the room so much they decided to stay indefinitely. He was plodding, deliberate, and as suspicious as a rich woman with a cough. He hated me, and I was glad to return the favor. Sometimes I think Agricola kept him on just to annoy me.

Meditor was standing in front of the fire with his legs apart. He was about as impressive as a bald, bow-legged idiot could be. I ignored him and addressed the governor.

“How is your son?”

Agricola’s boy was always a worry-he’d been born two weeks too early.

“Well, thank you, Arcturus. Domitia is feeding him that tonic you prescribed, and he’s been stronger of late.”

I nodded, pleased. Domitia didn’t always appreciate my advice.

Saturninus shifted his bulky frame. “We’re all here, so let’s get on with it,” he growled. “I for one have a warm bed waiting for me.”

“Whose?” I asked, innocently.

Saturninus grinned, his wolfish teeth showing through his beard. “Wouldn’t you like to know, Arcturus.”

Agricola moved a little finger. There was an immediate silence.

“Gentlemen, you know why you’re here. Two of you-Meditor and Arcturus-are not members of the temple, and I ask you both not to divulge any information about our worship. We must assess this threat, for threat, I fear, it is.”

Unless he was drunk or angry or on campaign, he talked like someone out of Livius. Agricola hungered for a place in the history books-and preferably not as a victim of imperial enmity. Unfortunately for the general, the era of the self-made man was over. He sounded about a hundred years too late.

“Who found the body?”

Meditor stirred in irritation. Maybe something had bitten him. And then crawled off and died. “The governor is asking the questions, Favonianus.”

I grinned at him nastily. “The governor, Meditor, may not know the questions to ask.”

Avitus spoke up. “The senior officers of the temple. The governor, Saturninus, Marcus Tettius Felix, the speculator, and I.”

Felix-how could I forget an executioner named Felix?

“What time?”

“Dusk.”

“Have his clothes been found?”

“They were wadded up and thrown back in the grave where we buried him.” Avitus cleared his throat, and glanced nervously at Agricola. “The first time.”

“Who called in Meditor and Serenus?”

Agricola was getting impatient. “I did, Arcturus. Our men were waiting for us, we couldn’t continue with the ceremony, and trying to hush this up would only make it worse.” He turned slightly toward Avitus. “Avitus told us about the night before. Secrecy won’t do a damn bit of good. If someone’s playing games with me, I want him to know I know about it.”

“You don’t have to worry about advertisement with Meditor on the case.”

The praefectus grew red. “Look here, Favonianus-”

I continued like he wasn’t there. It wasn’t too difficult. “I’m trying to find out, gentlemen, who knows what and how much, and how much of what I tell you-and yes, I’ve got some information about the Syrian, and he is a threat, governor, even more so dead than alive-how much of what I say will be out in the streets before midday.”

The firelight gleamed on Saturninus’ teeth. He didn’t like Meditor, either. Agricola’s mouth twitched. I knew how to talk to him, how to snap him out of his governor-speech. I much preferred to deal with the general.

“This is a confidential and private conference. All of you are here because I think you need to be. Nothing-I mean, nothing-will be public knowledge.”

I shook my head. “No offense, governor, but who is in charge of this investigation? Avitus, Meditor or me?”

Agricola leaned back in his chair and studied me, frowning, his brow furrowed.

“What does that have to do with anything, Arcturus? I don’t give a good goddamn who is in charge of it, as long as it’s over, done and our temple is back to normal.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but it’s more complicated than your temple.” I felt their eyes on me, Meditor’s screwed up in suspicion.

“I’ve been working since last night on this. And keeping things quiet is about the only advantage I have. I can’t risk Meditor or his men sniffing around, tramping on witnesses and stirring up shit until Londinium stinks with it.”

Meditor exploded. “Just who the hell do you think-”

“Easy, Junius,” Agricola interrupted him. “I want the vigiles to take root in Londinium, but your men aren’t exactly known for their subtlety.”

The governor turned toward me. “All right, Arcturus,” he said slowly. “As of this moment you’re in charge of solving this … whatever it is. But I want results. And I want them quickly. And the time for you to tell us what you know is now.”

I didn’t argue. “The naked man was a Syrian by the name of Vibius Maecenas. He was a freedman of Caesar’s, and was sent out here with an imperial document for you.”

The beneficarius was straining forward, two bright spots in his cheeks. He knew I’d kept something back, and he wasn’t happy about it. “How do you know?” he asked.

“I found a signet ring with his initials, and a fragment of a document in his palm. I didn’t tell you about it last night, Avitus, because I wanted time to confirm the facts.”

His eyes were little slits of anger. “Initials aren’t the same as a full name.”

“Let me finish. There was no seal box on the document, but what was left of it looked like an official dispatch. No cord, either, someone had opened it and read it-at the very least Maecenas, since it was torn out of his hand. I recognized the initials because someone came to me yesterday afternoon to warn me that Maecenas was arriving. To set you up, governor.”

Agricola grasped the arms of his chair. “What? I don’t believe it!” Saturninus started muttering under his breath, and Meditor backed against the hearth.

I held up a hand. “I wasn’t sure whether I believed it or not, either. But I talked to a few people, people who knew Maecenas, and even people in the inn where he was staying, and there was a rumor-apparently fed by Maecenas himself-that the papers were orders for you to step down.”

Agricola’s ruddy face turned white. His greatest fear. “Orders? To leave?”

“The little bastard! Of course he wants to get rid of the governor-no stomach for a real soldier-just an ass for every long prick in the Empire!” Saturninus roared like a rampaging bear, and his hands were grasping air, searching for something to break.

Meditor was quiet. It wouldn’t take him long to find out who had called on me and in what inn Maecenas had stayed. And Agricola putting me in charge would give me about a five minute headstart before the vigiles started to make my life miserable and make the mystery of Maecenas impossible to solve. Careful couldn’t begin to describe what I had to be.

“The Syrian’s behavior wasn’t exactly routine. He arrived the night before last, from Dubris. He never showed at the palace?”

Agricola shook his head. “My secretaries would’ve informed me immediately if a messenger from the Emperor were here. And my spies should’ve told me days ago.” He shot a glance at Avitus, his normally generous lips thin and tight.

“Maecenas was killed either in his rooms or on his way to the temple. He was stabbed in the back, probably with a pugio or something similar, by someone who knew where to stab and had the strength to do it right. I don’t know yet whether the murderer is the same person who took the papers, or the same person who stuck him on top of your altar. Or dug him up before dawn.”

I looked into Agricola’s eyes and held them up. “If word gets out about why he was here and how he died, all kinds of rumors will start to fly, and it will only be a matter of time before they get to the Emperor’s ears. His informers are always hungry, aren’t they?”

Agricola nodded slowly. The knots and blisters on his hardened, soldier’s hands stood out, red and raw, and he clenched the basket chair again.

“We have about seven days. I’ll need to get an answer out for the Emperor by the New Year, on the fastest ship we’ve got. Avitus, find out about the Syrian and why no one saw this coming. The last message I received from the Emperor was a pleasant one, right before Saturnalia. He wanted to know how my plans for spring were progressing. Last I heard-” he again looked at Avitus “-he was still quite happy over his triumph, and was thinking of renaming one of the months ‘Germanicus.’”

Saturninus snorted. “Exiled Domitia because she won’t moan when she’s-”

“Be still.” Agricola slowly unclenched his fingers from the chair and rubbed the back of his neck. “I have no reason to think Domitian thinks ill of me. I’ve heard no rumors, received no reports. He craves salutations and glory, and I’ve promised to give them to him.”

He looked at me. “If this Syrian is who you say he is, I have to explain to the Emperor why he was killed, no matter what news he was bringing me.” His gaze covered everyone in turn. “If we don’t handle this properly, I’m facing exile or death.”

Agricola’s words-low, quiet, emotionless-froze any warmth in the room. “Saturninus, call up Priscus from wherever he is. I want him here-he should know what’s going on.”

Iavolenus Priscus was Agricola’s legatus iuridicus-appointed by Domitian, but a loyal and honest friend, and damn good lawyer. He was on a trial circuit listening to important legal cases around the province, something the governor usually did, but had opted out of the last two years to be with his wife and supervise all the construction in the town he’d made the provincial capital. Priscus’ sense of humor was something I missed.

Meditor spoke, his voice as dry as dead leaves. “Arcturus hasn’t told us who warned him about the man, or why.”

All eyes turned to me. “How astute of you, Meditor. And here I thought your father named you as a joke. I’m getting tired of standing. Governor, do you mind?”

Agricola shook his head, and I pushed myself up on his desk. “A native told me about Maecenas, but the Syrian was apparently best known to a citizen in Londinium, the man who owns the inn at which he was staying.”

“And?” Meditor prodded.

“And nothing. You know my methods, and I know yours. Avitus came to get me last night because I can keep my mouth shut and I’m discreet. Do you know what discreet means, Meditor? It means minding your own goddamn business.”

Meditor got red again, and Avitus was almost as angry at me. “You know how to keep your mouth shut, all right. And your freedman was on the spot, too-am I supposed to believe that was a coincidence, that little act you put on?”

I looked him in the face. “Believe what you want, Avitus. But don’t forget we’re fighting for the same thing. The governor. I know these people, I know how to talk to them. They talk to me, because I’m a medicus, because I’m half-native, because I’m neither one thing nor the other, and sometimes that pays off.”

“Like it paid off with that eques this afternoon?” Meditor asked it like he’d won a prize. I knew he was holding something in reserve.

I stood up again, and crossed over to him. “I’m glad the praefectus of the vigiles has so little work to do that he follows the governor’s doctor around. Next time, show your face.”

His bald head turned bright pink. “I wasn’t there-one of my men mentioned he saw you. He thought there was going to be a fight. Don’t wear your toga if you want to be inconspicuous.”

I took one step closer. “You’re about as inconspicuous as a eunuch in a frigidarium. Keep away from me, Meditor.”

He turned toward Agricola, who was still lost in thought. “Governor-”

The general looked up sharply. “Stop whining, Junius. Arcturus, you know the deadline. It’s imperative we find out why this Maecenas was here and who killed him, so that we can determine how to respond to the Emperor.” His brown eyes searched mine. “My life is in your hands. Not for the first time, but I’d damn sure rather take a spear in the stomach than this. I hope you have some leads.”

“I do. I may be out of town for a few days, but I’ll have some answers for you before the New Year.” Both Avitus’ and Meditor’s ears pricked up.

“Sooner, if possible. And I think you should speak to the procurator. If this Syrian was an imperial messenger, one of Domitian’s freedmen, he may know of him. He sees the Emperor more than I do.”

Agricola didn’t have to tell me to be careful with Sallustius. The procurator had a direct link to Caesar, and we both knew the kind of power they could wield-our fathers had been promoted that way.

Numerius Sallustius Lucullus was a dapper little man, and an unlikely inventor of weaponry. He’d always been nice to me. In fact, I’d never met anyone who disliked him, a rare trait for the Emperor’s provincial money-man and tax collector. But then again, he wasn’t the kind of man anyone really noticed. His rank was his most unusual feature. Most of the time the procurator’s office was occupied by equestrians-like my adopted father, or Agricola’s father-but Lucullus was a senator. Domitian enjoyed trite humiliations. Lucullus, for his part, seemed oblivious.

“Right away sir,” I said.

Agricola stood up slowly. He looked older than he did an hour ago. “Well, gentlemen-I needn’t tell you to keep your mouths shut. Put aside any differences and help each other. Publicly, this was a robbery and an attempt to harm the temple, not me. In the next few days, I’ll start to plan for another temple site, but meanwhile, we carry on.

“Someone in our brotherhood is involved in this-even if it is unwittingly, by talking to a tent mate or a friend in a tavern. Avitus, I leave that for you to investigate. Assign some of your men to the task, and learn all you can about Maecenas.

“Saturninus, send word to Priscus to join us. We need to discuss strategy. And we may have to get word to one or two of the legion commanders to stay on alert.”

So Agricola was considering the possibility of a civil war. Nothing like a little pressure, Arcturus.

“Junius, provide any and all help to Arcturus. Stay out of his way. Share your information, and above all, do nothing unless you hear from me personally. No arrests, nothing.”

Meditor wasn’t happy, but he nodded. He at least recognized the magnitude of what we were dealing with. I knew he’d still shadow me, but I also knew his men weren’t very good at it.

“Arcturus, you know the urgency. Make haste. Stay in close contact with me. And I think it would be a good idea if you became a member of the temple. That all right with you?”

I nodded. It would give me a chance to get close.

“Good. We’ll conduct the ceremony in a few days. Saturninus will prepare you for it. Don’t let me down, son. More lives than mine are riding on what you find out.”

Civil war, even. Romans and Britons. Legions and other legions. One fat, nasty Syrian could make a big difference to a lot of people.

We all got up to leave. I lingered behind, Avitus and Meditor both giving me looks on the way out. They wanted to grab the governor’s ear, but I wasn’t letting go of it.

“General-Agricola-have you heard anything about Christians? Here, or in Rome? Any campaigns by Domitian to root them out?”

He scratched his chin, then shook his grizzled head. “Nothing out of the ordinary. I’ve heard a few stories about arena kills, but nothing in particular that Domitian is doing. He’s more interested in taxes than god. Why?”

“I know the arena stories myself. Seems I’ve heard Domitian compared to Nero, but now I don’t know where I heard it.”

I watched his jaw muscles move in and out. “Rumors. How I hate the rumors that fly around this place, that fly around the Emperor’s palaces, that fly around Rome. Damned nonsense, most of them.”

I nodded my head and started to leave, but turned back. “One more thing, sir.”

His face told me to hurry.

“There’s an old man-an ally of Rome. A Trinovantian warlord, name of Urien. He was decorated by Claudius. He’s dying, now, and feels abandoned, alone. It would mean a lot if you went to see him.”

Agricola’s eyes raked over me. “Does this have something to do with the Syrian?”

I hesitated. “Yes, it does. What, I’m not sure. But Urien knew about Maecenas. I think you might be able to find out more about how yourself.”

“So you’d have me do your job in addition to mine?”

“No, Governor. I’d have you pay your respects to a man who deserves them.”

His mouth twitched a little. “All right, Arcturus. I’ll find the time somehow. Is that all?”

I looked around the room and moved a little closer. “No. I found some money on the Syrian, the new money Domitian just issued. Gold aurei. Too much money for Britannia.”

He looked startled. “But if you found it-”

“Yes. It wasn’t stolen-originally. I think he was dug up again because someone’s looking for that money. Either to spend it-”

“-or to hide it. I take your meaning.” Agricola was nobody’s fool. He knew how difficult it would be to use the cash. Gold left a trail even a blind man could follow, given enough time. I hoped this blind man could do it in a week. “Very well. No one need know.”

My stomach dropped a little. I couldn’t tell the general that I’d already told Urien’s daughter. “One of the leads I’ll be following up. And some of the money was owed to Urien, so when-”

“-If I’m still governor, I’ll see the man gets paid. Go home and get some rest, Arcturus. I need you at your best.” His eyelids drooped beneath the shaggy brows.

“Good night, sir. You’ll hear from me soon. Vale.”

He grunted, and closed the door behind me. No guard waited for me; luckily, I already knew the way out.