Nox Dormienda

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I was dreaming of Camulodunum-green and yellow with buttercups and narcissus and daisies in the springtime. Blood began to drip down the petals, and splashed against the elms. I asked the Syrian, who was trying to saw off the rest of his head, if he knew how to stop it. He nodded, and the head came off and rolled at my feet. I picked it up, and my hands were useless, soft and swollen with decay. Then it turned into Agricola’s head, and then my eyes opened.

I sat straight up. The dark room was suffocating. I shook my own head to clear it, gingerly checking my neck to make sure it was still attached.

When I walked out of the room, the house was still and cold. Before dawn, then. Good. I’d need to be at the procurator’s at dawn. My house shoes made a comforting skidding sound on the floor, as I walked through the hallway to Draco’s room. I’d sent him to bed when I got home last night, and hadn’t bothered to wake up Brutius for door duty. I opened the door, and the squeak of the hinges was enough to make him jump.

“Master?”

“Yes, Draco. Wake up Venutius and Brutius, and have Brutius heat up the caldarium for me.”

I could just barely make out his form springing from the bed. “How is Bilicho?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m going to check right now.” I left him fumbling in the dark for a robe. I was seeing qualities in Draco I didn’t know existed.

I walked back through the hallway, passed my room, and carefully swung Bilicho’s door a few inches. I could hear his breathing: it was regular, even, and untroubled. I’d wait until I lit a lamp before I looked him over. I opened Coir’s door, and made my way to the side of her bed. Before I could wake her, she sat up, shaking.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

I could hear the sounds of Brutius lighting the furnace, and Venutius clanging a pot. No roosters yet. Did I even go to sleep last night?

“What would you like, Master?”

She let out a deep breath, rubbed her eyes and yawned, her short hair sticking out all over. I smiled. “Some light. I need to see Bilicho.”

It only took a few minutes for the household to seem like it had never slept, like there was never a night at all. I smelled oat porridge from the kitchen, and started to feel some warmth beneath my feet. I could hear the dogs barking outside, waiting for Brutius to put down their food. Draco was whistling, while he lit the fire in the triclinium, and I was watched a grumbling Bilicho still propped up in bed.

He was better. No sign of fever, and his pupils were normal. Best of all-he was complaining.

“I’m fine. Let me up! I can’t do a damn thing lying here.”

“One more day’s rest, Bilicho. Two would be better. I’ll compromise that far-and only that far.”

He glared at me. “My doctor thinks he’s my mother.”

“You had a mother?”

We grinned at each other.

“All right. Can I at least go lie down on the couch in the dining room?”

I helped him up. I could tell he was still sore and dizzy. He’d need another draught to relieve the pain and help him sleep. By the time we got to the triclinium, Draco had built a steady fire, and Venutius was serving porridge with honey for breakfast. The oats wouldn’t hurt Bilicho, but even he had to admit he wasn’t very hungry. So while I ate, I told him about last night.

“So the upshot is that Meditor-who’s always hated your guts-will be making your life as miserable as only he can, and Avitus is also on your back. This is what happens when I’m out of commission.”

“You don’t get all the credit. Avitus is pissed off because I kept my mouth shut about Maecenas. And Meditor is-well, you know what Meditor is.”

Bilicho started to nod, and then winced. “Yeah. Luckily for him his ass isn’t as narrow as his brain, or he wouldn’t be able to shit. So what happens now?”

“After I make up a tonic for you and take a quick bath, I’m going to see the procurator. He might’ve known Maecenas, or maybe he heard something. And Agricola asked me to. I’ll leave for Camulodunum tomorrow.”

“Makes sense.” He shot a glance at me while I finished the apple preserves. “So you think Rhodri dug him up?”

“Uh-huh. Probably Rhodri and Madoc. Sometime before dawn yesterday. And when they couldn’t find the money, Madoc went to Lupo’s to find out what happened. Then he followed me, to figure out what I knew, and what I was doing, and maybe to give me some friendly-or even unfriendly, it’s hard to tell these days-advice. They had even more reason to knock you on the head, if Rhodri had unburied a corpse a few hours before and left it on top of the mithraeum. I’d want to get the hell out of town, too.”

“They didn’t need to leave him on top the temple. That’s just pure spite.”

“Maybe. Maybe it’s also a warning.”

“What do you mean?”

I rubbed my neck. “I think the killer is after Rhodri and Rhodri knows it. If he exposes the body, word gets out, and that means the vigiles, the beneficarii, everyone will be after the killer.”

Bilicho wrinkled his forehead for a minute. “But what if everyone thinks Rhodri’s the killer?”

My mouth felt a little tight. “They will. As soon as Meditor finds out about that brawl. It was a desperate move-like the sacrifice squeeze in latrunculi. But apparently Rhodri and Madoc feel they stand a better chance of survival if the murder is brought into the open-because maybe it will bring the murderer into the open.”

“That is desperate.” He felt the back of his head, tenderly. “I won’t hold this against them.”

“Your bump on the head and the Syrian’s return visit last night are what convinced me that Rhodri’s innocent. But his only chance is if I find him or the murderer before either Meditor’s men or the murderer himself.”

“So how many crimes now?”

“I don’t know. I think the murderer is the same person who laid out Maecenas like a roast pig. But I don’t know whether he took the papers, or Rhodri did. Or even someone else. We can figure out why someone would want to dig up Maecenas, but I still don’t know why someone killed him. Unless it was to protect Agricola, which doesn’t make sense. Nothing much does.”

I stood up. I could tell what Bilicho was thinking, and what he was about to ask, and I didn’t want to talk about it. “I’ll make your drink. Burnet and valerian, I think.”

He lowered his lids and said nothing. I called Coir to help me, and my back felt relieved when it couldn’t feel Bilicho’s eyes on it.

* * * * *

By the time I finished bathing, he was asleep. The valerian would keep him out for hours.

I felt cleaner, but not as clean as I’d like. My mind flitted over the last two days, searching for a way out or a way in-I wasn’t sure which. What I needed was less thought and more action. I had too much to think about to think about it.

It was a little after dawn when I headed for the procurator’s house. For once, it looked like the rain might be pouring on someone else, and some sun trickled over the muddy streets. Still icy, still Londinium.

I’d left Draco behind. With Meditor and his boys on my tail, I needed to be inconspicuous, which was hard enough for one tall man. At least I could trust Mollius. I’d helped him get the assignment with the vigiles. Meditor wouldn’t give his men anything like the truth, and he’d probably try to make something up about me. But whatever scent he was on, Mollius would let me know. If I couldn’t stay one step ahead of Meditor, someone should slit my throat.

I passed the governor’s house, and saw the long line of hangers-on, dull and shuffling, waiting for the governor’s handouts. Some Roman, some native, all needing something that they probably wouldn’t get. Sure, maybe some money, some food, maybe a pardon in a court case, but everyone wanted a favor, and Agricola carried the patronage of every man, woman and child in Britannia on his back.

One or two were pitchmen, the kind that helped themselves, but needed a little encouragement in coin. “I’ve got a sure-fire investment scheme, sir-only take a minute of your time-” the story ran. Or “I’ve got silphium, slaves and the best Falernian loaded on my ship, and if you’d like to invest in bringing her to port-” There were other versions, all of them smelled. God, Arcturus, you’re depressing this morning. Don’t start that again. Only stupid people never get depressed. Stupidity acts like a shield, one not even a pilum can penetrate. Sometimes I could use a shield that thick.

The man following me slowed down when I did. He was a little more skilled than Meditor’s usual recruit. He was wearing what was supposed to be a nondescript brown mantle, but the stiff way he wore it and his uneven rate of walking-first fast, then stop, then fast again, then slow-told the story. Avitus wouldn’t bother to have me tailed-he had too many other things to do, and he knew in his gut that I was trying to help in my own irritating way. That made him one of Meditor’s.

I started to whistle an obnoxious tavern tune, and slowed to a stroll, to get a better look at the pack waiting on Agricola’s doorstep. The salutatio was a time-honored tradition, and the Romans never met a tradition they didn’t like.

Some were there as the general’s clients-members of conquered tribes seeking protection, or help, or a post on the tribal council. Some were citizens, clambering for a position nearer the top of the ladder, or some other kind of recognition from the closest person to the Emperor they’d ever meet. Some were tourists, or merchants from Rome or Gaul, whose rank demanded time with the governor. And the others-the others were just prowling around, trying to pick up a bite, slinking in between the likely takers, hoping someone would be stupid enough to buy what they were selling. Somehow, it all made me feel better. So I sped up, and so did the footsteps behind me.

The procurator’s house was to the east of the palace, terraced on two levels, not three, and, just as without the governor the procurator would be the top, without the palace, the house would be much more than it was. Unfortunately, its own ostentation would always suffer in comparison to the governor’s little shack, but that was the procurator’s life for you. For an equestrian, it was the Palatine Hill. For a senator-well, it was best not to be the sensitive type under Domitian.

The men waiting to see Lucullus were appropriately more hungry than those waiting for the governor. Tax problems, most likely. And some people thought it quite the bright idea to bypass Agricola and go to the man who reported directly to the Emperor. Ambition and appetite ran approximately neck and neck, until they’d get tangled in each other’s feet and take a nasty fall. From the looks of the procurator’s morning callers, most weren’t getting back up.

Big Feet took up a post by a nearby temple-as luck would have it, the Temple of Fortuna. He’d need all the fortuna he could get if he wanted to follow me around. I walked through the crowd, collecting some dirty looks, and up to the guard, who was burly and bored, and busy cleaning his fingernails with a knife.

“Julius Alpinus Classicianus Favonianus.” One thing about my name-you can’t say it with a stammer. I lowered my voice. “Agricola sent me. It’s urgent.”

He stopped slicing fingernail long enough to look up at me with a tired expression. “Wait here.”

So I waited, and I could feel the crowd getting more hostile. I turned toward them, a confident grin plastered on my face. It’s harder to spit on someone who’s looking at you. Big Feet, in the distance, was watching but trying to pretend that he wasn’t. Fortunately, the bored tramp of little legionnaire’s feet came to my rescue, and without a word or glance to the throng at the steps he ushered me in the house.

House didn’t really describe the place, though it’s where Lucullus ate, slept and dreamt of new things to tax. It felt more like a law office, a large, basilica-type building, two floors, two levels, and very formal. A large bust of Domitian was the first thing that greeted me.

There’s one thing I really admire about Roman sculpture-it doesn’t lie. It stretches the truth, all right-that hideous statue of my Aunt Pervinca made when she was fifty-five gave her the nude body of a Greek nymph-but even that statue, a tribute to a blind old woman’s vanity, put a fifty-five year old, wigged and whiskered head on top the body. I always suspected the slaves covered the face with a sack when she wasn’t looking.

So there was Domitian, bald and chinless, spiteful and suspicious, as real as he ever was. I nodded at the Emperor and kept walking. The guard never looked behind, but plodded his way to a large reception room on the ground floor of the first terrace.

I could feel the buzz of scribal business before I walked in. Sitting at a desk was Numerius Sallustius Lucullus, with about three or four-I lost count from the blur-scribes and secretaries hovering and diving, like flies around a choice pile of house slops.

“By the balls of Mars-”

I jumped. Lucullus looked up, smiled, and apologized. “Sorry, Arcturus. Some records have been misplaced, and I need them for an assessment this morning. What can I do for you?”

My eyes were still trying to follow the scribes. “Thank you, sir. It’s a private matter-”

A shadow of recognition crossed his face. “Of course. Leave us.”

The buzzing stopped, and the group fled the room, wax tablets, papyri and abaci and all. He motioned for me to sit down at a chair in front of his desk. Lucullus was an amiable little man-nothing much to look at, so ordinary that he was hard to describe. He was grey and brown in about equal measure, and pleasant company-if you didn’t mind the stench of failure that draped him like a too-big toga. He didn’t seem to be aware of it. We all have our blind spots.

He lowered his voice. “I received word from Agricola this morning that you are investigating a murder. Is it true what I heard? That the dead man is Vibius Maecenas?”

I leaned back a little in the chair and crossed my legs. I wasn’t sure how much Agricola told Lucullus, and I wasn’t about to add interest to the total.

“Apparently. Do you know him?”

“A little. I’ve seen him at the palace-mostly in Rome, not in Alba.” His fingers nervously drummed a beat on his desk, and he picked up a stylus to have something to fidget with.

“The message didn’t say much-just that someone robbed and murdered him and polluted the mithraeum. Is that what happened?”

I nodded. The little man looked happier with a stylus in his hand. Numbers must comfort him. “The governor wants the crime cleared up as soon as possible, and naturally he’s concerned about the temple.”

A sad smile crossed his face. “Yes. I’m not a member myself, you understand. The temple is really for men in the legions.” His face brightened again. “Have you seen my new kind of pilum? I’ve invented a tip that allows for longer throws and yet won’t come out once it strikes.”

I’d heard about the procurator’s hobby. He attended every triumph, every procession, read Julius Caesar incessantly, studied Alexander’s letters, and collected maps of historic campaigns. But still he wasn’t a general. He’d served as quaestor in Maecedonia, not exactly a hotbed of action these days, and never had a chance to conquer anybody. So he invented weapons, and tinkered with armor, and got a pat on the head from Agricola now and then and was appointed the tax-collector and paymaster of Britannia by Domitian. At least it kept him in pila.

I tried to look enthusiastic. “That’s wonderful, sir. More efficient weaponry means saved lives.” Not just Roman lives, but I didn’t add that much.

He nodded energetically. “That’s what I’ve always felt.” He paused, and started tapping on the desk with the stylus. “So how can I help you?”, he asked, a little more formal than before.

“Well, to begin with, what kind of man was Maecenas? What did he do for the Emperor?”

He thought for a minute. “Now, I didn’t know him well, you understand. But I think he was one of Caesar’s freedmen, a sometime secretary and sometime messenger. As I said, I saw him in Rome. And of course, he’s been in Britannia a few times-somehow, I seem to recall he had an interest in a silver mine here. Moderately well-off, I should think. Syrian by birth.”

“Do you know why he was in Londinium?”

“No, I really can’t say. Business, probably. He struck me as a somewhat greedy fellow.”

“You haven’t heard anything about a marriage?”

He smiled, laid down the stylus, and rubbed his eyes. “My dear Arcturus. If I paid attention to every vulgar rumor that crosses my path, I should be unable to do my job. Bad things, rumors. I try to avoid them.”

I smiled in return. “For the sake of my inquiry, sir, I’d appreciate it if you’d try to remember any you’ve heard recently.”

His mouth twitched, a little petulantly. “Oh, very well. Rumor is the lowest form of information, you know-completely untrustworthy. Let’s see-I seem to recall someone telling me something about Vibius marrying a native girl. I wasn’t sure when or where or whom, because, as I’ve said, I wasn’t paying attention. That’s all, I’m afraid.”

“Nothing else? Nothing about a message, for instance?”

On the last word, he stared at me, and sucked his teeth a little. “Garbage. Nothing but garbage,” he snapped. “You should know better than to listen to them. There was talk at the triumph for the Emperor, and I refused to hear it then, and I refuse to hear it now. Garbage.”

“Garbage that maybe killed Maecenas,” I said softly.

Lucullus pinched his face up tight and suddenly didn’t look as nice. “I don’t like this, it does no credit to the governor or the Emperor. Or to you, I might add.”

“I’m willing to get dirty. That’s why I’m here.”

He clenched his jaw, and stared at me. I held his eyes, and he finally caved in. “All right. It goes against my principles, but if it helps the governor …”

“It will,” I assured him.

His brow knit in memory. “There was a rumor going about at the triumph-I don’t remember who tried to tell me-and I immediately dismissed it as the sort of bilge sparked by jealousy, and afterward I didn’t hear any more about it, thank goodness. The rumor was that a messenger would be coming to Britannia with imperial orders for Agricola to step down. I don’t think Maecenas was mentioned personally, but I seem to remember he was present when I heard this, and in an uncommonly good mood. Until I told them all what I thought.”

He frowned, and his mouth dug ditches down to his chin. “But that can’t be true. Domitian thinks very highly of Agricola, he’s told me so on numerous occasions. He knows the governor is about to conquer the rest of the province, and believe me, he wants it. And Maecenas was robbed, wasn’t he? Was he supposed to have a lot of money on him?”

Never discuss money with a procurator. I laughed. It sounded a little hollow to my ears. “What’s a lot of money in Britannia? They’ll slit your throat for a night on the town these days.”

He looked at me closely, like I didn’t add up. But it seemed to pacify him. “All too true.” He put down the stylus with finality. “Well, Arcturus-”

I rose. “Thank you, sir. I really appreciate you telling me what you’ve heard. Good luck with your records.”

Thank you. And do come back for the pilum demonstration.”

“I will.” At the door I turned back to face him. “I almost forgot-just one more thing, sir-”

He’d already started to unfold a tablet full of calculations. “Yes, what is it?” he demanded impatiently, not looking up from the book.

“Do you know a Marcus Caelius Prato?” A pause lingered in the air between us like a bad odor. I waited for it to clear. The procurator was still hunched over his tablet, and hadn’t said anything.

“Caelius-”

“I heard you the first time. I’m trying to remember. Seems to me I’ve heard that name in conjunction with a business here in Londinium.” He finally looked up, and scratched his chin. “Something unsavory, as I recall. Wait-I do remember. Prato, you said? There was a Prato mentioned in that last rumor I told you about, the one about the message. Don’t know whether it was Caelius Prato or not. Is that all?”

“Yes sir, and thank you again.”

The siren call of mathematics lured him back, and he barely grunted in reply. I opened the door, to find the pack of scribes and assistants waiting anxiously. “He’s all yours,” I said with a bow, and turned to walk down the long hallway.

As I passed Domitian, the bored guard was leading in a soldier. The man-a legionary-stared at me. His eyes were an unusual brown-green, and glowed with something I couldn’t see. Someone I operated on? I couldn’t remember. Probably a temple member, who recognized me from last night. He was wearing a green scarf with a thick red sagum held in place with a fancy gold pin-looked like the shape of Apollo. Maybe he was one of Avitus’ men. If he was part of the mithraeum, I’d soon meet him. Saturninus would have to prepare me for the initiation when I got back from Camulodunum. But meanwhile, I had real work to do.

Big Feet was waiting for me. He sprang up from the steps of the temple when he saw me-they must’ve been cold, and he wasn’t wearing trousers. I smiled a little, and threaded my way through the rest of the pack, their numbers dwindling with their hopes.

I walked out in the street, and meandered north-east. I thought I’d pass the Forum on my way-where? I was improvising, and I didn’t like the tune. I needed to find Rhodri. That was the one refrain that kept playing over and over, and I was getting tired of hearing it.

Too late to start for Camulodunum now. I could swing by Lupo’s, and just observe the place-maybe take a look in on the whores. Then go home and check Bilicho, and send a message to Saturninus and find out when this initiation is supposed to take place. And I could look up Mollius, see what the vigiles know. Head for the palace and tell Agricola I’m leaving tomorrow. Maybe Avitus discovered something. Maybe Meditor had an epiphany and killed himself.

It all sounded good, particularly the part about not seeing Gwyna. I was resolutely pushing her out of my head. If Meditor somehow discovered my interest in her, he’d be first in line at the crucifixion. I’d left out any private motives for the murder last night-better for Rhodri’s chances, and better for me. Even if Vibius was killed for personal reasons, he was here as the Emperor’s agent. That made everything political.

The streets were beginning to get crowded, and I could see a throng at the market in the Forum. Big Feet almost lost me in the crowd a few times, but I waited for him. I wriggled my way past the turnips and cabbages and homemade beer and pots and pans to the rostra, the site of official speeches and official boredom.

The rostra hadn’t really meant anything since Cicero had his hands and tongue nailed to the one in Rome a long, long time ago. But the Romans held on to the illusion that public speaking was free and put a rostra in every forum in every city in the Empire.

It was a good place to advertise. There was a gladiator show today, featuring some half-naked women from Carthage. They were probably fat, forty, drunk and from Gaul. Also on the bill was a live Thracian-always more exciting than a dead one-and a few dwarfs. Slave children the promoter bought, probably. As long as the crowd got some blood, they wouldn’t care even if they knew the difference.

I planned a little. I’d avoid the north-east-people would be heading out for good seats. Maybe that’s why it was so crowded. Games ate into tavern and brothel business, but afterward they doubled it. Lupo’s should be quiet right now.

Someone was trying to sell some family jewels-no doubt stolen-and someone else had scratched a rough drawing of certain sexual positions in very flattering proportions. Beneath it was a curse, apparently on the artist. Then an exhortation to bet on Maximus in the races, with odds given below. Above it all was an official announcement. “Wanted: Information pertaining to the robbery and murder of Vibius Maecenas, a Syrian merchant. See Publius Junius Meditor at the Basilica Claudia in the Forum.” Listing “robbery” first was Agricola’s idea-too subtle for Meditor. So that’s how they were going to play it-robbery and murder of a foreign merchant.

I yawned, and glanced back. Big Feet was trying to ignore a man selling decorated banqueting pots and dinnerware. From what I could see, the pictures on them looked the same as the drawing on the rostra. Maybe he was the Zeuxis of the three foot prick.

I squared my shoulders and plunged into the crowd, headed straight for Big Feet. He was waving the potter away in a panic, his eyes getting bigger by the moment. I didn’t look over, but threaded my way through so that I would brush up against him. I could feel him hold his breath. He let it out as soon as I passed, but nearly fell into a large krater when I pinned his arm behind his back. I pretended to look over his shoulder and admire the handiwork.

I whispered in his ear: “Run home and tell Meditor to stop wasting your time. There’s a murderer on the loose.”

He didn’t say anything, but I could hear a squeal rising up in his chest. What had Meditor told him about me?

“And I’m not it. I’m a medicus, a simple medicus. And I’d drink some peppermint and anise, if I were you-that’s quite a wheeze you’ve got.”

My fingers tightened on his wrist. “Don’t follow me anymore. Next time you try to be inconspicuous, leave your gold fibula at home. They don’t give those out with the grain dole.” I relaxed my grip, and I thought he’d fall. Without a backward glance, he fumbled his way through the shoppers and headed for the basilica behind the forum, where Meditor had his office.

The potter was looking at me with curiosity and irritation. His teeth were yellow from chewing caraway seeds, and he belched a few times as an added incentive to stick around. I hurriedly bought a water jug with Jupiter and Danae-at least I think it was supposed to be Danae, you never could tell with potters, they always seemed to mix the stories up-and left. I tried to melt into the crowd but it wasn’t hot enough, so I skirted around the edges and headed west for Lupo’s.

The crowds thinned considerably. Most of the city would pour into the amphitheater, leaving it nice and empty for me. Some shops along the way-increasingly shabby, as I headed westward-posted closed signs because of the show. I could see the rear of Lupo’s in front of me, the side with the door exiting into the mews, when I noticed a wagon pulled up next to it. I doubled my pace. Lupo was coming out of the back door, talking to a wiry, thin man, as lean and mean as a miser’s purse. The big man looked surprisingly small. As I got closer, I saw why. The pot slipped out of my fingers and broke on the hard, muddy ground, but I didn’t hear it shatter. The wagon was an undertaker’s cart, and in the cart-I reached it, out of breath, not able to breathe-was the dead and broken body of Galla. She’d been beaten to death.