Nox Dormienda

CHAPTER EIGHT

The fresh air felt good. Lupo’s had been an ordeal, and not just for my nose. I leaned against the brick wall of a small grain horrea, and tried to put it all together. I was worried about Stricta and Galla. Caelius wouldn’t have gone through such an elaborate ritual of hiding something if there wasn’t something to hide. But if Maecenas was killed there, why not let Rhodri take the blame? Why pretend the Syrian left? Why hide the connection when the mithraeum did it for them?

I rubbed my forehead, and only succeeded in getting dirt in my eye. It was time to move on. I was already tired.

The streets were crowded now. A group of young natives-more boys than men-were lounging against the wall of a fuller’s shop, making rude gestures to the soldiers passing through or heading for the whorehouse.

Some cavalry men rode by hard, and one of the horses kicked up some of the muddy shit I’d tried to avoid. It was muddier and shittier than before, and it landed on the cloak of one of the young Brits.

The girl with him held her hand to her face and giggled, and he turned as red as his hair. He shouted a particularly vivid curse at the soldier. The eques checked his horse and turned in his saddle. His hand was already on his sword when I told Draco to grab the reins.

“What the-Who are you?”, he demanded. “Get the hell out of my way.”

“I wouldn’t address a superior officer that way.” I was not in the mood for bullies. He stared at me.

“You? An officer?”

“Maybe you didn’t notice the senator’s stripe. That ought to be enough.” I took a few steps closer to his horse. “My name is Julius Alpinus Classicianus Favonianus. I hold the rank of centurion.”

Some dim recognition dawned on his swarthy face. “The medicus. Agricola’s medicus, that’s who you are.”

“Don’t advertise it.“ Draco’s hand was still on the reins. I looked back at the boy. He’d done a good job of coating himself with filth in an inept attempt to wipe it off. His friends were still laughing at him, in between sneaking a few glances in our direction.

I faced the black beetle eyes of the cavalry man. “Throw him a coin. His cloak is ruined.”

The eques shot a wad of spit on the ground that narrowly missed my foot. “You overstep your authority-Medice. Those bastards lie in wait for us, hoping to start trouble.” He leaned forward in the saddle and bared his yellow teeth. “We don’t run away from it.”

I ignored the smell of week old garlic. Then I smiled. “Such a brave man. I’m impressed.” His eyes flicked back and forth from me to Draco. Draco said nothing, but his fist was turning purple. He’d evidently remembered he was supposed to be mute.

I made it conversational.“Courage is a Roman virtue. But you know-so is generosity.” My finger traced an old lash welt on the neck of his stallion.

“Myself, I’m a generous man. For example, I’ll forget you said I’m overstepping my authority. And I’ll forget you’re disobeying orders from the governor about fighting with the natives. I’ll even forget you’re ignoring a direct command from me.”

I felt his knuckles crack when I grasped his hand and threw it off the sword pommel.

“Throw him some money, Eques. And give me your name. Because next time, I won’t be so generous.”

The beetles crawled over my face. He pulled a pouch from a saddlebag, and plucked out a few ases. The natives were watching us, now, waiting. He was watching me, and abruptly flung the coins into the crowd. They scrambled in the mud to pick them up, jeering and whistling at the soldier.

He leaned over in the saddle and blew more garlic in my face. “My name-sir-is Gnaeus Quatio. I won’t forget, either. Pathice!”

He dug the spurs into his horse, and sped off, kicking plenty of mud on my mantle and Draco’s cloak. I held out an arm to stop Draco from sprinting after him and pulling him off. I’d been called worse, and by better people. I didn’t mind making enemies. It always helped me think, and here it was, still morning, and I’d already made two.

But Caelius and Quatio would have to wait. I’d been dreading the next visit since yesterday. If dread and desire can exist at the same time.

I looked at Draco. His solidity was comforting. The sun was at its zenith, and Londinium was as bright as it was going to get. I knew where to find her from Bilicho’s directions. But what I’d do when I did find her was anybody’s guess.

By the time Draco drew alongside me and nudged me in the ribs, we were nearly there. I was grateful for the interruption.

“Master-there’s someone following us. I think from Lupo’s. Do you want me to seize him?”

He looked a little wistful at the prospect of a fight. I’d been hoping someone would track us out of Lupo’s-whether with something to sell or something to hit us with.

I shook my head. “Let’s wait here.”

We slowed to a crawl, and I looked around like I was lost. A heavily swathed figure-dressed in layers of old, nearly decayed tunics, bound with leather straps-emerged from the shadow of a nearby wall and drew close. It was a moving, shapeless bundle of once multicolored cloth, now a uniform spotty grey, but torn and repaired until the patches were stronger than the linen. A head wrap hid the face and hair. I recognized Madoc.

A hand brushed my shoulder. He gestured with his head to follow. We turned the corner of a garden wall, and leaned into a recess.

He unwrapped the shaggy brown-red beard and mane I’d seen this morning. But his eyes weren’t drunk, or stupid, or even old. His back unbent, and. he stood with a soldier’s bearing, his body looking much stronger than it had at Lupo’s, when he was pretending to be a sloppy drunk, and I was pretending to be a pretentious bastard. His voice, when he spoke, was deep and melodious.

“I saw what you did. With that eques. Why?”

I stared back. “If you know who I am, you know why.”

His eyes drifted down and lingered on my mother’s medallion. I’d forgotten to take it off that morning.

“I know who you are. But some say you turned against your own people long ago.”

He knew who I was, all right.

“Which people? I’m a Roman-and a Briton.” I wasn’t in the mood for this. I couldn’t afford to lose my temper again.

“I’m a man. Madoc. My mother married a Roman. I was adopted by another Roman, who was born in Gaul. That makes me-what exactly?”

He looked surprised when I addressed him by name.

“It makes me a man. One among thousands, in Britannia and Gaul, in Phoenicia and Nubia and Bithynia. I’m a native and a Roman. A Brit and a Roman. And I’ve never turned against any of my so-called, goddamned people.”

He waited for my color to die down. I hoped I hadn’t lost all chance of getting some information.

“Romans and Britons.” He shook his head. “I do not think you can be both. But I know you tried to help. At Mona.”

Mona. My nightmares came back at Mona, the ones where they were swinging the ax at my mother and all I could do was scream. It’s funny how memories turn into dreams.

I looked at him. Madoc had fought there. I’d been caught in between. I turned my back on the carnage, and on Agricola. I’d tried to reason with the governor-make him see that the wound would never heal, that destroying Mona would never destroy the Druids.

Rome’s greatest strength was in embracing other faiths and making them her own. The only thing left for Rome at Mona were the puddles of blood and the desecrated, chopped down oak groves. I’d never forget the smell of burning wood and corpses, the smoke filling the sky while the waves lapped against the shore. Mona was a bad dream. It was a worse memory.

I said: “It wasn’t enough.”

“So now what do you do? Now whom do you help?”

Something in his voice… I stared at him. Was he referring to the Syrian’s murder?

“I help-peace. I don’t want war between my people.”

He gazed at me thoughtfully. “But who are your people, Meddygon?”

This time I stayed in control. He was testing me. Now I remembered why I hadn’t gone to a rite in so many years.

My eyes met his with a stubborn frown and I answered in the native tongue. “All who desire justice. All who value life. And all who seek the truth.”

The reply seemed to satisfy him. After a minute, he began again.

“The Syrian you seek. He is dead.”

“He was murdered. I have to find out why.”

He shook his head. “Accept what is. You do not always need answers.”

I felt my lips pinching. I’d forgotten how irritating the priests of the Old Faith could be. Or was he just trying to warn me?

“The dead man was important, Madoc. To the Emperor. If I don’t discover who murdered him, it could be blamed on the natives. And it will hurt Agricola. I know he’s made mistakes, none worse than Mona. But he’s done much good for Britannia. He’s my friend. And another governor might be worse.”

Madoc’s face stayed stony, but I caught a look of alarm in his eyes. Maybe some self-preservation had penetrated his thick British skull. Or maybe he was frightened, too.

“You have been a friend to us. I respect you. I tell you this: there are other believers, different believers, who hate both Roman and native. They hide in the darkness. They hold only one god holy. They wish to destroy all others. Look for them when you seek the truth.” With one last piercing look, he wrapped his head, and vanished down the narrow lane.