Nox Dormienda

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Narbo wouldn’t talk. Among his clothes they found a green scarf and a gold pin of Apollo, with one of the points of his crown broken. Stricta recognized them immediately. Again, the back of my neck tingled. I put it down to not having bathed.

He was being held in a small room in the principia. Corvus didn’t want word to spread among the others, particularly if they connected him to the temple pollution. He wouldn’t last the night.

He assigned two tough-looking guards, senior men, to watch him. They confronted him with the slipper, and he just shook his head. Corvus asked him: “Why did you kill the Syrian? Why did you put him in the temple? Are you protecting someone? Answer me!”

Narbo just looked at him dully, his thin face held tight, his flesh sallow and his eyes burnt out. Whatever flame was inside him wasn’t lit by threats.

When Corvus came out of the room exasperated, I asked if I could question him. The short, dark chief-of-staff raised an eyebrow. “Why do you think he’ll talk to you?”

“I don’t know. He tried to kill me. That gives us a kind of bond, I guess.”

He frowned. But Corvus was no Meditor. “Well, go ahead and try. We’ll piece this thing together bit-by-bit if we have to, but if we can get any information out of him it’ll save us a lot of time and effort. I don’t want to have to use the quaesitor. The man is an officer.”

My tongue hurt when I bit it. “Thanks.”

I walked into the room and sat down on a folding chair. Narbo was standing up, still, not even pacing. Any fight had been used up in trying to escape.

I watched him. He stared straight ahead, his cheek and eyelids twitching a little, trying to fight the impulse to claw the wall. He was the kind of insane that was nearly undetectable-as long as no one got too close. That’s what made my skin want to crawl off in a corner and scratch itself.

“So why did you kill him? The message or the money?”

The shock of the question didn’t work. He stared at me and wriggled his little finger. I rubbed my chin and began again.

“I’m the man you tried to kill. My dog’s all right, too, though I should kick you in the teeth for that.”

Still nothing. He was blanker than a new wax tablet. I was getting nowhere, so I took a chance.

“Are you a Christian?”

The fire flickered on. The green in his eyes started to smolder, and he stood straighter, looking ahead, but not at me, not at the wall, at something I couldn’t see that wasn’t there.

“Iesus Christus is the one true god. All others will fail.”

“Is that why you did this? For your god?”

“Iesus Christus is the one true god. He is the Alpha and the Omega. All others will fail.”

“Did he tell you to do this?”

“Iesus Christus is the one true god. All others will fail.”

“Most gods don’t like murder.”

“Iesus Christus is the one-”

“Yeah, I know. So why did you kill the Syrian?”

“All others will fail. It is his plan, it is his will. Iesus Christus is the one-”

I got up to leave before I got sick. Someone, somewhere, had an invisible leash on the poor bastard, a leash called Iesus Christus. He wouldn’t talk. He didn’t know how to. Someone had put him up to this, someone had used him and squeezed him until there was nothing left but a dry husk of a man repeating some small words of comfort that served as reason and explanation and defense. Maybe he’d even helped plan some of it, once upon a time, but he was beyond planning, now. He wasn’t even here.

When I came out of the room, the bad taste in my mouth was made worse by seeing Meditor. I turned to Corvus. “You heard Narbo.”

He scratched an eyebrow. “I did. What was it you asked him? Something about a message and money?”

“Ask Agricola. I can’t talk about it here.” He looked at me thoughtfully, his coal-black eyes searching my face. Meditor felt the need to interrupt.

“Are you going to allow me to question-”

Corvus snapped around. He didn’t like Meditor, either. Practically no one did. And yet he lived, or at least pretended to. “No, I am not. This is an internal affair of the cohors praetoria. We have our own methods of handling things.”

“The Druid probably put him up to it. Both of them anti-Rome, both hating the Emperor and Agricola. If you’d only let me take him to the jail-”

“I said no, Meditor. Now kindly quit wasting my time, and go back to beating up drunks for racing tips.”

Meditor glowed a very attractive shade of red, and turned so fast his heel left a mark on the floor. Avitus, Bilicho, Stricta and Corvus and I watched him retreat into the distance with varying degrees of pleasure.

“I’ll stay in touch as I learn more, Corvus.”

We grasped arms, and left, Avitus staying behind to make plans on what to do with Narbo. There weren’t many choices.

The hospital was on the road home, so I stopped by to check on Arian. He was asleep, but his head was cool, and his cheeks were a healthy pink. He’d be all right. Cleones watched me, and then asked as I left: “You’re Arcturus? Agricola’s medicus, and the one who operated on this boy last night?”

He was about forty or fifty, with grizzled grey hair that smelled of scented oil. His Latin was a little sing-song, with a light accent. “Yes. Please keep using honey on the wound.”

He nodded. “I’d like to talk to you some time. You’re quite gifted.”

I smiled. “Thanks. I’m just lucky.”

He shook his head and said evenly: “There is no luck, and if there is, we make our own. Be seeing you.”

“Vale.”

Greeks were like that. Always curious, always with a philosophy to peddle. Bilicho and Stricta were waiting for me. He was holding her up. She was weak and wrung out, and we needed to get her home before dark.

They talked softly together on the way home and I decided not to throw a wet bucket of urgency at them. I was getting desperate to hear what Bilicho had found while I was gone-other than Stricta-but I figured I could spare them an hour or two of peace.

We were only a few blocks from my house when I saw a familiar bundle of rags leaning against a corner wall.

I turned to Bilicho and said: “Madoc’s over there, and I want to talk to him. Go on home with Stricta. Tell Gwyna I’m going to see the governor before I come home for the evening.” He nodded, peering through the thick mist at the Druid. Rain had stopped falling, but was still hanging around like an unwanted guest. He held on to Stricta’s elbow as if she were a cross between a new-born kitten and a cult statue. He’d be lucky if he remembered where we lived. Stricta smiled at me, tired, her face drawn, the fine lines around her mouth deep. She’d see him home.

I crossed the street to where Madoc was waiting. He inclined his head to me, and I did the same. Then I said: “How did you know he was a Christian?”

He fished around in one of the many folds in the rags, and pulled out a bronze disk. It looked like a coin, but was perforated in the top so that it could be hung on a string. The design struck on it was Greek-the letters chi and rho, with an alpha and an omega at the sides.

“This was in the dirt by the doorway. He must have lost it when he carried the Syrian down the stairs. I found it when we followed them.”

“What does it mean?”

He shook his head. “I’m not sure. But it is the symbol of their faith, and I know these letters-” He pointed to the alpha and the omega “-mean the beginning and the end of all things, which is how they think of their god.”

“He babbled something about an alpha and an omega when I questioned him. He’s no good, Madoc. His mind’s gone.”

He nodded. “I feared as much. He bore all the signs.”

I wasn’t surprised. I wasn’t surprised that a Druid knew more about another religion that I did, either. They made it their business to know things, and acquiring knowledge and passing it on was their life’s work. That’s what made them so dangerous. That, and a long, native memory, and the fact that they could fight like hell.

“You know anything else about Iesus Christus?”

“Only a little. The faith sprang up in Rome and Judea. They have many wandering priests in the deserts, not unlike our own. He was one such, but his followers proclaim him as the one true God, a son of the First Creator. Some of them refuse to worship any others, though some just add him to the list of those to whom they pray. They are supposed to be gentle enough. They don’t care for us because we believe the truth is revealed through death. They believe the truth is revealed after death. A small difference.”

“So they hate the Old Believers because you roast criminals in baskets-”

Madoc’s eyebrows raised slightly at the description.

“-and they hate the Romans because of Nero.”

“And also because they must pray to the Emperor. And for the same reasons others hate the Romans. Nero killed many of them, just as Agricola and Paulinus killed our folk at Mona. But not all of them hate as much as the soldier. This I’ve discovered since talking to you last.”

I shook my head. “And let’s not forget Narbo is a Roman and a Christian, and maybe that’s enough to make the poor son-of-a-bitch lose his mind. Meanwhile, Rhodri’s still in the dark, pissing on himself. You heard I saw him this morning?”

“Yes. I hope you will be able to free him. That is why I wanted to talk to you.”

“Could you recognize the third man who was with Caelius and the Christian that night?”

“No. He kept his face well-wrapped. But he was a wealthy man, and he seemed to hold a power over the others.”

“I thought so. Someone’s pulling the strings like a puppet show in front of the amphitheater. Narbo will never talk.”

“No. His kind welcome death. It may be the most merciful thing for him.”

“I just don’t know why the hell this was done. Why those three men killed Maecenas. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Such a killing never does. But you will find the truth.”

“I’m glad you trust me. Now.” I grinned. “How did Bilicho do that night? I’m sure you saw him; he must’ve been behind you, trying to follow the tracks.”

Madoc turned down the corners of his mouth and shrugged. “He wasn’t a bad tracker-for a Roman.”

I laughed. I wasn’t sure which part would irritate Bilicho more.

“You have with you one of our tokens.”

“The anguinum. That’s what convinced Rhodri to speak to me.”

“Take care of it, Ardur. You may need it again sometime.”

I rubbed my sore cheek. “So long as I don’t have to fight Lugh.”

Madoc allowed himself a rare smile. “He is a good man.” Then he turned, and with a small gesture of farewell, seemed to vanish into the street itself. I’d have to learn that trick sometime.

I decided to go straight to the palace. I’d talk to Agricola, try to convince him not to torture Rhodri They owned Narbo or what was left of him, and not even Meditor could connect the two. Of course, there was only Stricta’s identification, and politicians and whores, though familiar bed-fellows, generally didn’t appear together in court.

The palace was busy. It was about an hour before sunset, and tomorrow was the last day of the year. The procurator’s staff would be working all night, and tomorrow, too-interest rates were due on the first. The Empire glutted on credit and loans, and grew more bloated every year. War was always good for business.

I sent word in to Agricola through a secretary. I waited, watching the accountants and the translators and the bookkeepers and the lawyers bustle in and out of the offices, the record room, leading people in, leading people out. There was an eternal feeling about it, like the flooding of the Nile. A thousand years later, the same scene would be taking place. I hoped I’d have this solved by then.

The secretary came back and ushered me through a hallway into one of the workrooms. Inside, Agricola was hunched over a desk with tablets and styli and papyrus sheets and ink all over it, and Iavolenus Priscus, his red-hair gleaming in the lamp light, was hunched over it with him, writing furiously.

Each of them looked up briefly when I entered, but kept going.

“What are you doing?”

Priscus answered. “Writing to the Emperor, Arcturus. We’re concocting a story to explain why the governor here can’t answer the message he’s not supposed to know anything about.” He stood up and pointed a stylus at me. “What do you think? They murdered him and threw the body in the river and no one has been able to find it? All that was left was one shoe and the top portion of a dispatch box…”

“Very creative, Priscus. Sounds like a Greek novel. I take it you’re blaming this on Rhodri and the Christian.”

“Well, they are in custody. It’s convenient that way.”

“One of them is innocent.”

Agricola was cross. He put down his stylus with a thump. “Arcturus, I’m tired of hearing how innocent this native is. He may be innocent of the murder-or he may not. But he’s not innocent of plotting revolts against Rome.”

“Neither are many Romans. At the moment, sir, neither are you.”

He stood up, his brown eyes flashing, his hands clenched into fists on the table.

“If you’re suggesting-”

“I’m suggesting, governor, that you’re doing what you have to do, and I understand and support you. I don’t care what you tell Domitian. You can tell him I did it, if it helps. But we don’t know the extent of your danger until we find out why this man was killed. We now know we are dealing with three people: Narbo, the Christian, Marcus Caelius Prato, the owner of Lupo’s, and someone else, someone with money.

“Narbo will never talk. Ask Corvus, if you don’t believe me. Torture won’t help. He’s insane. Someone put him up to this. I don’t think it was Caelius, though he’s been to Judea, and maybe Narbo has, too. Caelius isn’t wealthy-but a year ago he got the funds to open Lupo’s. No one knows from where, and now he’s suddenly flush enough to pay off Urien’s debts? Where’d he get the money? And why?”

“That’s your business.”

“I know. And I’ll find out. But you’re still in danger until I do. If someone connects you-or one of your staff-with Narbo, it will look like you arranged for him to kill Maecenas, because you have the best motive. So far, we’ve been able to hush that up. But for how much longer? What if the papers resurface? You were going to be removed as governor. The dispatch was stolen, but a lot of money was left. And if any of this gets out to your enemies-either openly or on the sly-it will be all too easy for the Emperor to accuse you of treason.”

The governor sat back down, slowly. Priscus pulled at his moustache, and looked at me like I was an unfriendly witness. He answered softly: “Has it occurred to you, Arcturus, that if we don’t get a response to the Emperor soon, it won’t matter what actually happened? That whoever is behind this may already have sent word to the Emperor that Maecenas was killed?”

“I know that. But the more you know, the safer you’ll be. You’ll know how to frame an answer. The Emperor will believe what he wants to believe. He always does. If he’s out to get rid of Agricola, there’s not much we can do to prevent it. But if he has an ounce of reason or sense left, he’ll stall, because he knows how popular the governor is with the men. And he’s busy with the Rhenus. He won’t risk war unless he can really prove your guilt. And that will give us time to find the truth.”

“Maybe he’s right, Priscus.” Agricola held his head in his hands and they were shaking. “Maybe we should wait.”

The red-haired man shook his head stubbornly. “Let’s work on a response. We may not need it-if Arcturus produces this mysterious third man for us-but it will help keep us focused.”

The governor looked at me, his brown eyes bleary. He wasn’t looking well. I’d seen him without food, without clean water, cut, shot, sore and exhausted. But not like this. “What do you want from me, Arcturus?”

“Just your trust, which I hope I have already. And your word that you won’t torture Rhodri. The jail is miserable, but he’s safer in there. He’s one of two people, other than Caelius, who’s seen this third man. When I get a lead, I’ll need your help. I might have to send a message to you, and if it sounds strange, please just do what I ask.”

He rubbed his forehead. “I was hoping it was all over. Maybe I wanted it to be.”

I added gently: “I wish it were. Meanwhile, it would help the city’s morale if you tell Meditor to end the curfew. They have one Briton and one Roman in official custody. That should be enough to prove it wasn’t a British conspiracy, and yet not lose any face.”

“All right.”

I walked to the desk, and picked up his arm. It was heavy and lifeless. “You need rest. That’s your doctor speaking. And here’s the prognosis: Agricola is the greatest man of his time. He will complete the exploration and conquest of Britannia, and he will be remembered that way. He’s going to live happily for many, many years, raise a handsome son, and enjoy the peace and prosperity he’s fought for. That’s your future, general. Don’t argue with your doctor.”

“I generally don’t. I find I lose too easily.”

The words helped him a little. I left them puzzling over a document I hoped they’d never have to send. Lying to Domitian-or if he thought you were lying-was treason. If someone had done what Priscus suggested, and sent word to the Emperor about Maecenas, Domitian would automatically blame Agricola-he had the best of all reasons to kill the message and the messenger. But if Agricola then told him a different story, he’d use it as proof of a premeditated conspiracy to revolt, and have the governor arrested and killed. Wait or lie? We were foundering between Scylla and Charybdis, and the goddamn ship was leaking.

It was dark when I got home. It was always dark when I got home. I tapped on the outside door, and Brutius answered it. “Dominus-you’re here!”

“I’m surprised myself. How’s Pyxis?”

“Much better. The compresses have helped, and she’s eating well. I don’t think she will need the pain draught tonight.” There was still straw from the kennel floor clinging to his brown curls.

I grinned. “Good.” Agitated voices drifted in from the examination room.

“Is someone waiting?” Before he could answer, I pushed open the curtain.

Draco and Coir were arguing. When he saw me, he let go of her shoulders, turned pink, saluted, and strode from the room. Coir watched him go, the corners of her mouth pinched, her tousled hair more tousled than usual.

“Wait, Coir. I want to talk to you.”

She stood looking down at the floor, but her body was defiant. Brutius retreated into the triclinium. We were alone. I walked over to her.

“Yes, Master?”

She made it sound like a name you wouldn’t want to use around your mother. I cleared my throat. “I’m glad you and Draco are … together.”

She met my eyes, then. “He’s a good man.”

“Yes, he is. I just wanted to let you know that I’m-I’ve-you’re an excellent servant, and I want you to be happy, and if I can do something-”

“You can set me free.”

“What?” I’d been expecting to buy her a new coat. I ran my fingers through my hair and took a deep breath.

“That’s what Draco and I were arguing about. He doesn’t think we’re ready for freedom, neither one of us, but I told him I think we are. He says he couldn’t support me, and he couldn’t even support himself because he eats too much, to keep up his strength, and what would he do if he weren’t your bodyguard, and what would you do, and I said we’d find a way. We’d go back to my village. But he’s set against it.”

I chewed my lip a little. “Well, he’s got a point, Coir. You’ve learned a great deal, but the more you learn, the better your chances.”

Her jaw line was as stubborn as the curl sticking up in the wrong direction. “That may be, Master, but you asked. So I told you.”

I held her chin in my face, and she lifted it as far away as she could.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know how to say it without hurting you-I’ve already hurt you. I’ll always care about you, Coir. But not the way you hoped.” This was harder than I expected, and I tried not to shuffle. “Draco is a better man for you. I don’t want you to leave, but if it will make you happy we’ll talk about it. You, Draco and I.”

She lowered her chin, and I removed my hand and rubbed my neck. “I was hoping you’d want to stay on, together with Draco.”

“In the same house? With-her?”

“Gwyna. She’s your Domina.” She looked into my eyes and knew better than to say anything else about “her.”

“Well-” She unbent a little. “He is a good man. And he says he loves me.” She smiled a small smile of power. “He says he always has.”

“We can find a bigger room for you, rearrange things.”

She giggled, a strange sound coming from Coir. “He says he likes it small.” She suddenly flashed her eyes up at me and got business-like again. “I’ll stay. I want to keep learning.”

I nodded, and wondered when she had become so cold.

“Will Bilicho live here? With Stricta?”

“I don’t know. Have you seen them?”

She giggled again. “They’re in his room.”

I turned red. “All right. I’m glad you changed your mind.”

She nodded. “Thank you, Master. I hope-she-feels the same way.”

Coir walked out of the room, her head erect. I was hoping like hell for the same thing.

“She” was in the triclinium waiting for me, and for a second I felt like Lugh had stomach-punched me. She was wearing the aqua tunic I’d first seen her in. I couldn’t keep my thoughts off her. Someone had started the furnace, and even my feet were getting hot.

Hefin was sitting beside her, innocent of the looks we exchanged over his head. I don’t remember what I ate. All I could smell was lavender, and the sweetness of her skin, and I chewed and swallowed but didn’t taste much other than anticipation. She complimented Venutius, which was what he’d been waiting for, and, like the man of the world that he was, he retreated to his domain and left us alone.

Hefin chattered about the dogs, the cats, playing with Brutius. All I could hear was the rustle of silk between her thighs, against her breasts. Her eyes crinkled at me. She was enjoying herself. Finally, she sent Hefin to her room, and we were alone.

She led me to the caldarium. There were towels and some oil and a strigil waiting. And then she started to undress me.

“Wait-your stola-you’ll get it wet-”

“I didn’t know you worried about my wardrobe, Ardur.” She was pressed against me, uncinching my belt. “You do smell a little like a goat.”

“Keep leaning on me and I’ll look like one, too.”

She laughed, and kept going, and soon was standing in front of me, eyeing me critically. “Turn around.”

On her tiptoes, she carefully lifted off the leather cord that held my mother’s medallion. Then she turned me around again.

“You have a large bruise on your back. Get in the water.”

I climbed in, while she wetted a cloth. Then she told me to stand up, and applied it to my side. I didn’t know I hurt so much. She dripped the water down my back, squeezing the cloth against me gently with a squishing sound. It was about all I could take.

“Gwyna-”

“Now your hair.”

She poured a pitcher over my head, while I sputtered. Twigs and grass fell out on my shoulders and chest. “You look like a wildman from the mountains.”

I growled at her.“Maybe I am.”

She scrubbed my neck with a rough sponge, and rubbed some salt all over me. Then she told me to rinse, and I did, and she beckoned me out. “You need oil.”

“Wild men don’t need oil. Come here.”

She smiled and ignored me and said nothing. Her dress was getting wet, and I was getting out of control. I tried to take some deep breaths while she used her hands to spread oil on my back and chest. Then she went lower.

“Gwyna-!”

“You can control yourself, Ardur. You’re a doctor, remember?”

I gritted my teeth. Finally, she finished, and started gently scraping with a strigil. The sound of it against my skin seemed loud, but my breathing was even louder. I couldn’t look at her anymore.

“Get in and rinse.”

I did as she directed, saying nothing. I swam to the other side and back. I needed the exercise. She was waiting with an open towel when I stepped out, and patted me dry. I was red all over, and not from the hot water.

“One more thing.” She guided me to a folding chair. “Sit down. I’m going to shave you.”

“What-”

“I’m quite good at it.” She coated my days-old beard with oil, and deftly picked up a razor from a tray. “Lean your head back.”

She was very good at it. Little by little, she scraped the dirty beard away from my chin and neck and upper lip. Then she rinsed me off with water-squeezing a towel and letting it run down my cheeks this time-and with her hands rubbed some oil into my entire face.

When she was done, she took me by the hand and led me through the back entrance directly into the bedroom. She stood before me, her silk gown clinging to her body, her hair damp and slightly curly from the moisture.

My hands were trembling. I started to undress her, but I couldn’t stop them from shaking. She helped, and stepped out of her stola. I stood and looked at her.

I said: “Turn around.” She did. But before she could complete a circle, I’d picked her up, and placed her on the bed, and her body was as I’d dreamed it would be. The moon blushed, and I didn’t care where we were going, so long as I was with her, and I forgot everything but the taste of her skin and the smell of her hair and how very, very good it was to be alive.