Nox Dormienda

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Bilicho and I sat up talking that evening. I’d be tired tomorrow, starting out before dawn for Camulodunum. We looked at the papyrus fragment again; I finally dug out the piece of fibula I’d found in Maecenas’ room. And we looked at the money. The money worried me.

Bilicho asked: “Are you sure you want to leave? Seems to me we should pay a visit to Caelius.”

I could feel my mouth tighten up again, along with my stomach. “We need more information, Bilicho. When I see Caelius, I want it to be for the last time. And I owe it to Rhodri.”

“And you promised Claudia.”

I looked up at him. “Gwyna. But even if I hadn’t, I’d need to find him.”

An awkward silence fumbled in for a drink. I sipped my mulsum, and waited.

I’d led in Gwyna earlier, and made everything obvious. I told him we were going to get married. Bilicho’s smile had slipped off his face so fast I didn’t have time to catch it. He looked around the room as if I’d said I was knocking down the house.

The shock wasn’t the best for him. Hell, it wasn’t the best thing for me, either, but everything was moving too fast and if I didn’t reach out and grab something I’d get dizzy and fall down. And maybe not get up again.

He reddened, and sipped his own cup. I’d made some more burnet drink, mixed with some defructum from last season, clover honey and a dash of valerian. He’d be out roaming the streets tomorrow, pretending to be back to normal. We all would.

“He can probably tell us more about the two men and the cart. What Galla knew that killed her.” He paused, and scratched his ear, and the brown eyes that met mine were creased with worry and a strange hesitation. “Are you sure-really sure-that Stricta … that she’ll be safe?”

“As safe there as she would be here. But check on the temple. Draco will be watching Gwyna’s house, too, so he won’t be too far if you need him.”

Bilicho leaned back on the couch and stared at the ceiling. “I know what to do. And I’ll talk to the money men, throw some lines out about Christians, silver mines, Urien’s debts. Track that bastard Caelius. Talk to Mollius. Avoid Meditor like the plague he is. And I’ll try not to get knocked on the head again. I’ve got my reputation to consider.”

He grinned like it was yesterday. But his face loosened, grew somber again. Dark lines fell across his forehead, and he looked older than I remembered.

“I know how serious this is, Arcturus. Agricola doesn’t know whether to fight or run, whether to pound the natives in the ground or cut their chains off. You know I’m a simple man. I don’t have it in me to worry so much about the big things, the big people. Somehow, they come through it, if not in this life, then in the next. It’s you I’m worried about, you and-” He swallowed. “-Stricta and Coir and Brutius and Draco and this house and-”

“Bilicho. Nothing is going to change between us. You’re my best friend. You’ll always be my best friend, my right arm, and the thorn in my foot. I love Gwyna-she loves me. You’ll come to know her, to understand. And maybe-just maybe-you’ll fall in love one day. I pity the woman.”

His eyes were as warm and brown as a swig of ale on a hot summer’s day. The old Bilicho. He threw his head back and laughed until his head ached again, and for some unaccountable reason, he blushed.

* * * * *

Camulodunum was sixty-five miles away, by a good Roman road, but it would still take me a day and a half with a fast horse and no rest. The horse I borrowed from Agricola’s stables. The lack of rest I already owned.

She was a good grey mare, a little heavy in the flanks, about fifteen hands high. I loaded her lightly, with Brutius’ help, packing only a rug and a blanket, a water skin, a wine skin, and some hardboiled eggs and dates. She was a courier’s horse, used to traveling long distances, and knew how to pace herself.

The mare was the only good thing I’d brought out of the meeting with Agricola the night before. After watching Bilicho drift off to sleep, I walked to the palace in a hurry. I was by myself again, inhaling air that cut my lungs and knotted my insides like a first love’s first good-bye.

I didn’t want to be alone. I wanted to be with Gwyna, and forget why I was walking so late, forget my friends, forget my house, forget my patron, forget myself, and most of all forget Caelius. My leg itched where the blood was pumping. I could taste his blood, see myself twisting his head until I heard his neck crack. I didn’t like how much I liked the sound.

Meditor smirked when I passed him on the steps to the back entrance, past the guards who waved me in. His shallow, stupid, gloating helped cool my head: I grinned in his face. He reddened, his eyes screwing into sow-like slits that bore into my back like termites in a fallen oak. My shoulder blades twitched, but I kept walking.

I understood the reason for the smirk when I reached Agricola. He was in his study, pacing, Avitus at attention in front of the fire, as if the governor had forgotten to take him out of the kennel. Priscus hadn’t arrived yet, and Saturninus was probably in a tavern, imitating the drinking and whoring habits of another general named Antonius-praenomen Marcus.

Agricola was uncharacteristically nervous, his hands clutching his tunic, his face haggard and etched in worry. The governor looked like an old man. The general was nowhere to be seen.

He jumped when he saw me. “Yes-Arcturus. Any news? Have you found the native yet?”

I didn’t say anything, but looked over at Avitus. He wouldn’t meet my eyes. One of the logs snapped in the blaze, but there was no warmth in the room.

“What has Meditor told you?”

Agricola stopped pacing for a moment, and frowned at me. “More than you have. This Rhodri is a trouble-maker, he started a fight, was seen running upstairs, and that’s the last time anyone saw the Syrian. It seems obvious.”

“Maybe to Meditor. I’m not saying that Rhodri wasn’t involved in something. But it wasn’t murder.”

Agricola took a step toward me. His brown eyes, normally warm and frank, were filled with anger, panic and something I’d never seen before. Maybe I’d just never noticed it. Contempt.

“Listen, son. I know you like to help your people as much as you can. But we don’t have time for coddling. You haven’t given me one damn reason or explanation why we shouldn’t follow the only lead we have. Goddamn it, Arcturus, this is the Emperor we’re talking about! And possible war!”

I rose to my full height, something I rarely did around him. “If you follow Meditor’s advice and start undoing every decent thing you’ve done for these people, you’ll be making a war, not preventing one.”

He stared at me, breathing heavily, and after a few moments started to pace again. “Meditor thinks this is a crime by insurgents. Leftovers from Mona. We need to come down hard on them. Maybe we’ve been too soft.”

“Why would insurgents do you the favor of killing a man who was bringing you bad news? Not even your wife loves you that much.”

I watched the words strike his face like a closed fist, and wished them back too late. Agricola turned red, and the muscles around his mouth twitched while he stared at me. Where were my political instincts this evening? Buried with Galla?

Avitus shifted his weight, his mouth open in shock. The insult had at least braced the old man. His voice was guttural, a low growl.

“It’s late, so I’ll overlook the rudeness, Arcturus. I put you in charge of this-so far, you’ve told me nothing, given me nothing except complaints and laments for your mistreated natives. Meditor has brought me a name, one I could put before Domitian as an excuse for not responding to a message I can’t admit I know the contents of. You’ve brought me nothing but warnings.”

Anger closed my throat, but the words pushed through anyway. “You want a name, general? I’ll give you one. Marcus Caelius Prato. A Roman. He’s the owner of the whorehouse where the Syrian was killed. He told one of his whores to advertise that she was with the Syrian all night, until Maecenas supposedly skipped town and forgot his bill on the way to some other inconvenient little city. All lies. Meditor’s right about one thing. The murder took place at the whorehouse. And one of the whores, who knew just a little bit about it, was murdered last night or early this morning, by Caelius. She was beaten to death. He’s also consolidated the debts of the man you visited this morning, and wants to marry his daughter-the same woman Maecenas was going to marry. So who looks more guilty, general? The native or the Roman?”

Fear crawled back behind Agricola’s eyes. It was a hell of a lot easier to make it a native. The cracks in the general’s soul were showing. Funny, I’d never noticed them before. Not even at Mona.

“If the whore was a slave-”

“She was. But she was killed for what she knew. Rhodri was planning to rob the Syrian, not murder him. It’s Caelius that can lead us to the truth.”

He sighed and collapsed, suddenly, like an autumn leaf let down by the wind. “What do you suggest? That I arrest a Roman citizen?”

“No. I want to deal with Caelius in my own way. There were two men involved in the murder, according to what the whore knew. Caelius wasn’t either of the men, but he’ll know at least one, a soldier, a legionnaire. That could also explain the mithraeum connection. The bastard is as oily and slippery as a day old cod. He’ll squirm his way out of the country if we’re not careful.”

I scratched my chin, feeling the growth of beard. It would grow some more before I could shave again. “Rhodri didn’t kill Maecenas, and I don’t believe he knows anything about the message. But he’s in danger from the real murderer, and he needs to be approached with caution. I’m riding to Camulodunum tomorrow to find him. I’ll need a horse.”

He was now sitting down in a basket chair, and Avitus had moved away from the fire to stand by him. The general waved a grey hand. “Take one of the courier horses. What if he’s not in Camulodunum? What about Meditor?”

“All I ask, governor, is that if Meditor finds him before I do, he is to take him alive and unharmed. And don’t make a bad situation worse by stirring up a hornet’s nest with the natives. Your kindness has tamed them, not your sword. As your visit this morning should’ve reminded you.”

Agricola smiled, a small, tight, tired smile. “I forgive you lecturing me like a school boy because you’re a doctor and you’re used to it. I did enjoy the visit with Urien, and the fact that I went at all should tell you how much I value your advice, especially on native matters. But time is a luxury I can ill afford, Arcturus. I’ll do what is best for Rome.”

Mollius’ face flashed into my mind. Pietas. I was tired, too, tired beyond caring, tired beyond feeling. I wanted to go home, forget this frightened old politician warming himself with a cold fire, forget what I owed him, and what I felt for him.

Avitus finally spoke. “Anything else, Favonianus?”

I wrapped my cloak about me tighter, the room chilly, as if a gust had blown through the crevices. “I’ll be back in four days. When is the initiation?”

“Antonius will fetch you when you return. He’ll lead you through a rehearsal first.”

“Avitus-do you know any Christians among the men at the fort?”

The beneficarius arched an eyebrow. “Christians? No. Not that I’ve heard. I’m not sure I’d know what one was even if I saw one. Why?”

I shook my head. “I’m not sure.”

Agricola rose, his paternal benevolence reassumed. “Be careful, son. Chasing shadows can be dangerous.”

I turned to face him as I went through the door. “Not as dangerous as chasing glory.” I bowed and left him there.

* * * * *

It was dark when I left for Camulodunum, but the kind I could see through. More bad dreams that night. Screams and cries, the whistle of a blade before it strikes flesh, Gwyna bearing a child that turned into Galla’s battered face. I never told anyone but Bilicho about my dreams. Some people swore by them, claimed they knew how to interpret them to tell the future. I knew better. Mine could tell the past.

The grey mare was alert, her ears pricked forward, her shod hooves sure and steady on the cobbled streets. The echo rang against the muddy buildings, the businesses that followed the Romans like egrets after cattle. The egrets were better at keeping the flies away.

I called her Nimbus, because she looked like a rain cloud, and we’d have to be lucky not to run into any on the trip. I breathed in, trying to catch a whiff of country air. Maybe it would clear my head.

Londinium was thinning out. I passed the amphitheater, and wondered how the betting had gone yesterday. Some people loved the games, and I never understood why. Maybe power: power over life and death. That’s a power I sometimes thought I had, and never wanted. It wasn’t real.

The hoof rings grew infrequent, and fell into the choppy, comforting sound of churned-up mud. The road was starting to decay a little. Scratch the Roman surface with a fingernail and you uncover British dirt. That described just about everything in Britannia.

I abruptly reined Nimbus toward the north; she questioned me, her nose flaring. The road to Camulodunum was to the northeast. But we were outside the cemetery, and there was someone I wanted to see.

I passed the larger monuments, the ones offering dire curses on anyone who might disturb the peace of the dead, the shades and the shadows competing for attention just as much as they did in the upper world. “Look, stranger!” one called. “This is the grave of a good baker.” “Hearken, you who walk by”, another one shrieked. “I was a Senator’s daughter.” All the wives were good women who worked wool; all the husbands were faithful and kind. Funny how death makes everyone perfect.

I needed to talk. I didn’t recognize myself. Too much had happened. I’d found Gwyna, lost Agricola, and misplaced my reason. Stricta was safe, at least for now, but Galla was dead. Caelius was free. My teeth were grinding again, so I held my jaw with my left hand and rubbed the muscles. Mollius was the cynic, not me. I was a healer. A problem-solver. A Roman. A native. A man with too many names and not enough time.

We threaded our way along the path until I found it. My father’s gravestone, erected seventeen years ago by his wife, Julia Pacata, who had the wisdom to never call herself my mother. I was sixteen; he’d been made a senator the previous year by Nero, who’d at least had enough decency to appreciate him.

The usual description, detailing his accomplishments, inscribed the monument. It was one of the largest in the cemetery. Julia mourned for three years, and then followed him below. I dismounted, Nimbus watching me with curiosity, her soft nose reaching out to smell my side. I placed a hand on the stone, and followed the carved letters with my finger.

My father understood. He’d taught me to be wise, to be pragmatic, but to never forget compassion. He taught me to survive and succeed in an environment I was never really a part of. He helped me see how people fought, how they feared, how they scrambled and clawed and gave birth and died and started all over again.

I hated so much then, and didn’t know where to start. The natives that killed my mother? But she was a native. The Romans that caused the war? But my father was a Roman, and my adopted father was one by choice. He tried to teach me to take the best from each, but to understand that Rome was the present, past and future. Rome was the sun, and God knows Britannia could use it.

He told me, once, on the day I received my toga praetexta, that I needed to learn to see people as they are, not as I wanted or feared them to be. I’d forgotten that. I’d almost forgotten how.

I could hear Nimbus eating some of the tall grass around the grave. The rough stone felt good. It was wearing thin in a few places: I’d have to hire a stonecutter to renew the inscription.

I climbed back on the mare, who snatched a final mouthful of grass before lifting her head. I turned her to the east, and struck the road to Camulodunum, passing the hills, fertile with rain, the forests, the creeks, the rivers and the vales until we couldn’t ride any more.

We stopped to rest, briefly, while she ate and drank in the afternoon-the sky told me it was after midday. My senses cleared; my thoughts got sharper. I could see the silver flash of trout in the stream, hear the scream of the eagle, the rustle of the hare.

I passed travelers who paid little attention to the man on the grey horse, soldiers who marched a steady beat along the well-paved, well-drained gift from Rome. Couriers passed me at a gallop, and farmers with carts passed me at a crawl. But as the night fell and tumbled in the darkness, we’d covered forty-two miles before we came to an inn, where we lodged, comfortable and warm, Nimbus in a hay-filled stall, I in a snug room, my belly full of ale and cheese and ham, and warm, sweet wine cakes. I didn’t dream at all that night.