Nox Dormienda

CHAPTER SIX

Rosy-fingered Dawn never visited Britannia in the winter time. It made her neither rosy nor excited to get up in the morning. All I could see was grey. I’d been thinking about yesterday for nearly an hour and a half.

In front of me was the governor’s palace. Four of the governor’s bodyguard waited in front of the heavily fortified door. One glanced at me as I stood on the river bank, belching out clouds of smoke in the frigid air.

The palace sold Rome like a fishwife sold mackerel: there was nothing subtle about it. It was big, obnoxious, and covered in reasons why you should get down on your hands and knees and kiss the ground because Julius Caesar had decided to take a piss across the Oceanus Britannicus. Green and white marble in front, black columns, painted statues-you coughed up the money before you remembered you didn’t like the taste of fish.

It was unfinished, but it didn’t matter. Even the guards were decoration-the palace was the real threat. Agricola had softened it with the generosity of other buildings: the baths, temples, the arena, law courts-everywhere you looked, you saw the benevolent smile of your governor, Britannia’s paterfamilias. And now, all of a sudden, everyone wanted to be Roman-at least the upper classes. The lower classes preferred to stay invisible.

I shifted my weight. The governor was a brilliant man. For the last five years, the sunshine of Rome had shone down on little grey Britannia, and peace was just around the corner. The south was officially subdued except for a stubborn few, who clung to the past like men on a life raft. They’d kill a soldier here, burn down a building there. But the distrust and resentment they fed on was lurking right beneath the surface. Even in Londinium.

Agricola didn’t worry about it. Tribal memory was as stubborn as a rock, and he’d worn it down to a pebble or two. Time would do the rest. He wanted the north; he’d get it this summer. He’d build a line of forts, and keep the south safely Roman.

He was a man with much to lose.

I turned back. The palace looked the same as it always did. The guards were alert but bored, the threat and the promise of Rome still intact. I would see the governor-but not now. Better to wait for Avitus.

I was a man with much to lose, too.

* * * * *

Roosters were crowing all over the city by the time I got home. Venutius made some warm oat porridge for a change, and dug up a few dried plums and bread rolls to go with it. Unfortunately, the porridge wasn’t the simple mixture it pretended to be. I smelled it, and my stomach shriveled in horror. Goat milk and garum. There is such a thing as too much creativity in a cook.

I was gnawing on a stale wheat bun when Bilicho came in, still looking sleepy.

“Did you see Agricola?” he asked, and sat down, reaching for a plum.

“Beware of the porridge this morning. No-I decided against it. I expect Avitus will arrange a meeting with the governor, and I don’t want to crowd him.”

“So where do we start?”

“The inn-”

Venutius came in to clear away the untasted oats, gave the still-full bowls a stricken look, and dragged himself back to the kitchen. We tried not to watch.

“-the innkeeper, the whore-even Lupo. Anyone who came into contact with Maecenas. And I want a look at his room right away.”

Bilicho leaned back in his chair, munching a date, his forehead creased. “It looks like two crimes. One, the Syrian. And two, the temple.”

“Could be. We can’t rule anything out.” I rubbed my eyes. “Here’s what we’ve got. A fat, hairy, and very dead Syrian, freedman to Domitian, part-time spy and full-time sycophant. Carrying a message-probably imperial-to Agricola. It’s gone, taken by somebody. He was also carrying enough cash to buy a small army of his own, and build a homey villa on the side. But nobody took the money. He wasn’t killed in the mithraeum. Maybe he was killed at Lupo’s, and then delivered to the temple. Maybe he’s his own message. He must’ve really had something, if two sets of people are fighting for the credit of murdering him.”

“You sure he wasn’t killed in the temple?”

The bridge of my nose hurt from frowning. “They used sheep or pig blood on the altar. The bastard was already dead-the throat slice was for show. I wish I’d had more time with the body-I should’ve found another wound.”

“Could it’ve been suicide?”

“You mean he kills himself, someone finds the body, steals the document but not the money, and mounts him on the altar like a choice heifer?”

Bilicho grinned. “All right. What about poison?”

I looked at him. I remembered the sickly sweet odor from the Syrian’s mangled neck. For some reason, I didn’t mention it. “Possibly,” I admitted. Then I changed the subject.

“And then there’s the damn message. Why didn’t he deliver it? Imperial messengers-if he was one-are supposed to go straight to the palace. Why was he at Lupo’s?” My elbow knocked over a cup of mulsum, which started to ooze across the table. Bilicho wiped it up with his sleeve before Venutius came in with a towel.

Bilicho was watching me. “You’re as jumpy as a flamen with a scrotum itch.”

“I’ve been jumpier. Let’s figure out the timing. He was killed about four or five hours before I saw him-sometime between the first and third hours of the night. You said he was with a whore.”

“Stricta.” The color rose in Bilicho’s cheeks. I pretended not to notice.

“So he was with Stricta after Gwyna left-”

“-Until Rhodri started the brawl and ran upstairs.”

We looked at each other. Rhodri led us back to the one subject I wanted to avoid. Bilicho leaned back even further in his chair. My eyes met his, a little defiantly. With a barely perceptible shrug, he turned his attention to the food.

He asked: “What do you want me to do?”

“Find out all you can about Rhodri. Where he lives, how he gets his money. He’s got a motive for the murder, and a motive for the mithraeum. He hates the Romans.”

Bilicho smacked his lips loudly on a plum pit, and looked at me with a pitying expression. “Probably not as much as he hated Maecenas-for personal reasons.”

It was my turn to change color.

“Spit it out, Bilicho. She wanted Maecenas dead, now he is, and her boyfriend was right there. That’s as obvious as a middle-aged redhead. Remember-she came to me. To warn Agricola. And she was telling the truth, I’d stake my life on it.”

His face told me I might have to. I ignored it.

“If Rhodri killed the Syrian, why take the document and not the money? And what about the mithraeum? Couldn’t he find an easier way to humiliate the Romans?”

A memory snuck over and hit me from behind.

I said: “Yesterday was the ninth day before the Kalends. That’s the New Year in the Old Faith.”

Bilicho whistled. “I should’ve remembered that. Sure makes it seem like the whole thing was planned. And by a native.”

“But no one knew the Syrian would arrive when he did. You know how ships are in this weather.” I rubbed my neck.

“None of this makes sense. And maybe you’re right, maybe we’re dealing with two crimes. But goddamn it, don’t treat me like a child.” I met his gaze. “I know a suspect when I see one.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve just never seen you like this. Over a woman, I mean.”

I smiled sardonically. “It happens, Bilicho. Even to you, it will happen.”

He snorted and ate another date.

* * * * *

I told Venutius I’d eat lunch in town, and asked for a simple dinner that night. He looked depressed, but better a depressed cook than a half-dead master. I was beginning to think he’d make a good poisoner.

It was a feast day due to the solstice, so no salutatio. I asked Bilicho to post a sign directing all cases to Serenus. I had a feeling we’d be busy for the next few days, and Avitus hadn’t notified the vigiles yet. Serenus wouldn’t kill anyone. He wasn’t that talented.

I didn’t own a litter, but a bodyguard was status symbol enough. Draco could come with me, and we’d both dress for the occasion. My mantle was thick and purple with a trim of green grape leaves, and I wore it over something even louder-my toga. The purple stripe flaunted my rank with all the subtlety of a campaign speech. I looked like a pompous ass.

Draco was as giddy as a virgin on her wedding night. His short tunic in grey wool was hemmed with a simple pattern of blue stripes. I let him wear his sword, and an inlaid bronze arm bracelet that showed off his biceps. He looked like the bodyguard of a pompous ass. We were finally ready for the whorehouse.

Some heads turned along the way. Purple stripes didn’t travel those streets-at least not in daylight. Most people were at home, and the city was quiet, except for soldiers, slaves, worshipers of various gods, and the common variety of bath-loiterer.

Draco tried to steer me away from the largest piles of mud and shit, but my ankle boots would never be the same. A few stable flies that had survived the cold were starting to form a queue behind my feet when we finally reached Lupo’s Place, conveniently located at a main crossroads just northeast of the baths and near the center of town. I recognized the building. It was the same inn-cum-tavern-cum-brothel Avitus and I had passed on the way to the mithraeum.

I expected an audience when we walked through the crude door, and was surprised to find it empty. Taverns were always full. Unless they knew something that I didn’t.

A thin-chested man was watching me, his mouth open as he apathetically wiped the bar with a flannel cloth. A drunk hunkered down over a bowl of steaming wine in the corner. He was the only person visible, but I thought I could feel more than two pairs of eyes.

Draco scanned the room, and took a stance. I told him to wait by the door until I was finished, and to pretend to be mute. No one could leave without going through him, and most walls were softer than Draco.

I strode up to Pigeon-Chest. He glanced nervously at the drunk in the corner, and spoke in a thin, cringing voice.

“C-Can I help you to something, sir? Anything in my humble tavern that would satisfy your stomach?” He made a pitiful attempt to appear worldly. “Or perhaps it’s not your stomach that needs satisfying?”

I frowned and he bit off the laugh in his throat. The glint of gold on my finger blinded him for a second, and with my left hand I clinked the coins in my purse.

“You are the innkeeper?” I was as sour as Cato’s mother-in-law.

“Y-yes, sir. I manage the tavern and the inn, the whorehouse is Lupo’s.”

I gingerly sat down on a stool. I was going to hammer the Rome of Domitian down their throats. Bilicho had extracted all the information a native could. But somebody, somewhere, knew more, and it would take a rich, obnoxious Roman to find it.

“Who is he?” I pointed to the drunk.

“Him? That’s just old Madoc. He’s a tanner by trade, when he practices it. He’s drunk most of the time since-since-well, he’s drunk most of the time,” he concluded in a hurry.

“Since when?”

Pigeon-chest gnawed his lip. “Since a few years ago. He was in a battle, against-against-”

“Against the Romans?”

“Uh … yes. But pay no attention to him, sir, he’s not important, and he can do you no harm.”

I bristled at the suggestion, and the innkeeper nearly squealed. “I didn’t mean nothing, sir, I-I-how about some wine? I serve an excellent mead…” Time to relent a little. “Nothing, thank you. I’m here because you spoke to a servant of mine last night.” I emphasized the last two words, and looked at him like we both knew what I meant.

His weasel eyes darted around the room, and his tongue came out to lick his lips. “L-last night? Is it about the fight? Was he hurt? I’m sorry, I tried to stop them, but-”

“No, it had nothing to do with the fight. He spoke to you earlier. About one of your guests.”

I lowered my voice. At the mention of “guest”, Pigeon-Chest got canny. His eyes wore a flat, lizard-like black. He knew something.

“What guest?”

The stammer disappeared. I glanced over at Draco, who took a step closer into the room and looked over in our direction. Pigeon-Chest paled. I leaned in closer.

“I think you know the guest I mean. I’d hardly believe you had more than one at a time in this dungheap. Now, I have business with the gentleman. I suggest you show me to his room.”

“I-I could call him down-”

I grabbed his arm. It takes a strong grip to clamp open wounds. He winced. As we walked upstairs, I gestured to Draco to remain where he was.

The hallway was dirty and empty, with pornographic graffiti scratched everywhere. Some of it was anatomically impossible. Lupo’s offered women, boys, and apparently dwarves, when they could get them.

“Are you sure this is an inn?”

He noticed my disgust, and cackled with nerves. “Our customers like to take advantage of Lupo’s business, too.”

We arrived at the last door on the left. It faced the rear of the building, and was adjacent to a back stairway.

“Where does the stairway lead?”

“Outside, to the mews.” He avoided my eyes as he knocked on the door. He knew it would be empty.

“Did the-gentleman-request this particular room? All the others are empty.”

“Yes. Sir? Sir?” He was making a pretense of calling Maecenas. And lying.

I put my hand on the door. “Open it.”

He looked up at me, his eyes round and shiny and full of fear. He was terrified, and not just of me. He fished in his filthy tunic-it looked as though he’d slept in it for several days-and pulled out a ring of keys. Fumbling a bit, he fit one in the lock and opened the door.

I walked in, while he cringed on the threshold.

The room was bare. I checked the chest and found no sack, no bundle of belongings. The cot was rumpled, but neat. No sign of struggle, no mess. I looked at the floor. Pigeon-Chest memorized my movements as if he wanted to get the details right. No blood on any of the floorboards. Someone had done a thorough job of erasing Maecenas’ presence like so many words on a wax tablet.

I walked to the small, dirty window that overlooked the alley below. The glass was cheap, and I’d seen clearer panes made from cow horn. What light struggled through caught a tiny gold thing in one of the cracks of the floor. It was a triangle or point of some kind, maybe part of a fibula. I hadn’t recalled seeing one on Maecenas last night. I looked at it closely. The gold was high-quality, the original pin a trinket of a well-to-do man or woman. Or maybe a prize of someone not so lucky. I put the piece in my pouch.

“Where is he?”

I-I don’t-”

I advanced on Pigeon-Chest with a scowl. “The bastard owes me money. I sent my servant here to collect it last night. Where the hell is he?”

The innkeeper shrank against the wall. He was trying to figure out what he could tell me and still stay safe.

“He-he’s disappeared. No one’s seen him since yesterday.”

“No one?”

He shook his head in confirmation.

“Did anyone see him leave?”

“No. He must’ve gone in the middle of the night.”

I unbent a little. “Did he owe you money, too?”

His flat, shiny eyes got brighter, and he found he could talk again-business man to business man.

“No, he paid for several days in advance. Is-is it true that he was a freedman of-of-the Emperor’s? That he was marrying a native girl? That he’s here on some sort of s-secret business?”

I poked my head out the door and looked down the hall. No one in sight. The action made the impression I wanted.

“That’s what he said. Whether or not it was true-”

I left the thought dangling in mid-air. He took the bait.

“Oh! I see. So you loaned him money, thinking …”

“I loaned him money. That’s all you need to know.”

He retreated, hastily. “Of course, of course.” Puzzlement creased his bulbous brow. “But the girl, she came here last night.”

“Who?”

“The one he was supposed to marry.”

I forced myself to shrug. “So? It’s not like it takes much to impress a local. He probably paid a few sestertii and got himself a good breeder.”

The innkeeper nodded. I swallowed my disgust, and it was hard to keep it down. Then I pounced.

“How did you get taken in?”

He stuttered some more, and the lizard-lids came back over his eyes. “I-I forget who told me. He may’ve told me himself. Yes, he said so, when he paid for the room. Said ‘This money came all the way from the Palace’ and I said, ‘The Governor’s Palace’, and he laughed kind of nasty and said, ‘No, idiot, the Emperor’s Palace on the Palatine Hill in Rome’, or something like that. And he talked about the woman he was marrying.”

I didn’t want to hear what he’d said about Gwyna. Pigeon-Chest was hiding something, maybe something small, but it wasn’t coming up this morning. I turned abruptly and strode to the doorway.

“I need to talk to anyone who saw him last night. He may have mentioned something. I’m not about to let fifteen aurei slip out of my grasp.”

His eyes bulged. “Fifteen aurei? That’s more money than I’ve ever heard anybody here having-probably more than even Agricola owns!”

I pursed my lips and started walking back through the hall. “He saw a whore last night, didn’t he? I want to talk to her.”

He shrank, suddenly, frightened beyond what I could do. He was in front as we started down the stairs, and I could see the reason. At the foot of the stairs was Draco, with his arms folded, and towering over even him was what looked like a Cyclops.

Huge, craggy features jutted out like spines on a hedgehog. A thicket of black, wiry hair sprouted from the top of a gargantuan but pointy head, and a mass of scar tissue was all that remained of a left eye. An entire ox-hide clothed his huge, misshapen body. He carried no weapon. He was a weapon. A monster, created by the gods to make the strongest man piss on himself at the sight.

Fortunately, I’d seen worse. And, to the shock of Pigeon-Chest, the sound coming from the hole in Lupo’s face was laughter. He seemed to be joking with Draco. I shoved the innkeeper out of the way.

“Lupo, I presume? How do you do.” I grasped his hand, a courtesy I hadn’t extended to Pigeon-Chest.

His voice was surprisingly gentle. “You want something?”

“Yes. The bastard who was staying here last night left owing me a great deal of money. I’d like to talk to whichever girl serviced him.”

Draco stepped backward. He’d evidently forgotten what I told him about pretending to be mute. Now he placed himself between Pigeon-Chest and me.

Lupo thought for a minute. He wasn’t as slow as he pretended, but then neither were we. “Galla. He saw Galla last night.”

I laughed bitterly, took out three denarii, and placed them on the bar. “I should have known better. My slave told me the Syrian had ‘Stricta’. This should be enough to buy your whole operation. Now, let me see her.”

Lupo wasn’t used to tough talk. Draco stepped out from behind me now, his hand on his belt, his muscles tensed. He was smaller than Lupo-what wasn’t?-and much more agile. Lupo was grotesque, but no fool.

“Stricta. All right. You see Stricta.”

He lurched off in the direction behind the bar, and I wondered what sort of joke he could’ve told to make Draco laugh.

We left Pigeon-Chest behind. He scooped up the coins, but I didn’t think he’d try to dupe Lupo. Another figure came out from the kitchen, a gap-toothed man of middle-age-probably the wine-server. He huddled behind the bar with Pigeon-Chest. I glanced in the corner. Madoc was gone.

The rear cubicles were too small, dark and cramped for anything other than a three minute poke, but it looked as if the women were actually living in them. The graffiti was worse down here, and so was the stink. Bodies, bodily fluids and sour wine mixed in a heady aroma that made me almost dizzy with nausea. I guess the women got used to it. I guess they had to.

The front cubicles looked the smallest-more like pantries than rooms. I could hear some noises from one or two-mostly male gasps and groans, and an occasional dramatic pounding on the wall. A cheap and tawdry whorehouse, one of several in Londinium, and one of countless thousands across the Empire. Some better, some worse. Though I couldn’t imagine any much worse than Lupo’s. Even the life of a whore should be worth more than a flea-bitten straw mattress on a stone ledge, with only watered-down vinegar to dull the pain and two-inch roaches for a sympathetic ear.

Stricta was a little better off. She’d been given an actual room at the end of the hall. The murmur of women’s voices, even women’s laughter, was coming from her cubicle. Lupo’s thundering footsteps could be felt in the floorboards before he entered, and the laughing stopped. He pushed the cheap flannel curtain aside and walked in. I was close behind him. Draco stayed a discreet distance in the rear.

Lupo pointed at one of two women, a garishly made-up, henna-haired whore of an age impossible to determine. She was still plump around the cheeks, so she could’ve been younger than she looked. A stale perfume of spices, pennyroyal and dried violets swam around the tired room, unable to escape.

“You-Stricta. This man wants to talk to you about the Syrian.”

The woman looked surprised, and then stared at me. I stared back. The other woman, a small, intense brunette, a little less garish, fled.

What passed for a grin creased Lupo’s face. “Stay here. Talk. You paid for her.” With that, he lumbered off.

I poked my head from behind the red flannel drape and told Draco to stay, and then turned back to the woman in front of me. She was attractive, in a desperate, mean way. Her hair looked like it once was really red. The eyes were blue, dull, but with a spark of cunning. She seemed oddly familiar.

“How much did you pay for me?” she asked, stretching out on a cot with a provocative leer.

“Three denarii.”

Her eyes widened. “You really are a rich boy, then, aren’t you?” For some reason, she found this funny, and tilted her head back to laugh.

It was more like a laugh-scream, a strange, almost angry voice. I remembered, then, where I’d seen, where I’d heard, this woman. She wasn’t Stricta. She was Galla, the girl of the drunken ditty.