The Governor's Man: A Quintus Valerius Mystery

by Jacquie Rogers

  Jupiter Optimus Maximus, please, I beg you, I’ll make any sacrifice to get out of here.

  No sign came, and Tiro couldn’t help himself. He moved forward jerkily, scrabbling like a beetle and slamming into something warm and solid.

  ’Stop! Tiro, stop! It’s me. Just calm down and follow. I found Aurelia’s owl brooch. I know the way now.’

  His boss’s voice was calm and commanding. The remnant of trained soldier left hiding under the blanket of Tiro’s claustrophobia surfaced and took control. Tiro reached out to touch the hob-nailed boot in front of his face.

  They wriggled on and on. The air became stale and warmer. Tiro had long ago given up hope of ever seeing light again, or pulling into his chest a breath of cool clean air. Suddenly the heels in front of him disappeared. Quintus said, ’ You can stand up now.’

  To his amazement, he could. Quintus lifted the lantern and revolved it. They were thigh deep in a hole in the floor of a small room. Part of the floor, a tiled segment on wood a couple of feet square, had been lifted up and dragged clear using a cunning arrangement of levers and wheels.

  From a collapsed table had fallen a scatter of scrolls, an inkpot and several pens. A locked strongbox and a candelabra lay on the floor. Bookshelves lined the walls. A chair had fallen onto a brazier lying tipped on its side. The coals had evidently fallen out and charred the chair legs, but not burnt much beyond. More books, wooden tablets and birchwood letters remained untouched on the shelves and heaped here and there on the floor.

  ‘Strange — there’s no fire in here,’ Quintus muttered. An oil lamp, still alight but dim, hung on a bracket from the wall. The light reached the corner of the room, and Quintus paused. ‘Thank your gods now, Tiro. Here she is.’ They scrambled up into the room.

  The young girl was sitting on the floor in a corner, dark hair curtaining her face. She neither moved nor spoke. The body of a man lay next to her, his blood-soaked head in her lap. Cerberus was frantically licking her hand, but she ignored him. The puppy began to whine when it saw Tiro, and wriggled across to him. He picked the dog up.

  Quintus laid his lantern on the desk, and sank down on his knees next to Aurelia. Still she did not move or look up at him. He gently raised the man’s head. Tiro gasped, letting the puppy drop to the floor.

  It was Marcus Aurelianus. His toga was splashed with massive gouts of blood. The side of his head was cracked open, the bone caved in and splintered in a huge ghastly wound. He was obviously dead.

  Quintus gently moved Marcus’s head aside. He stooped to pick Aurelia up in his arms, and carried her across the room away from that terrible sight. He was murmuring to her, his voice so low Tiro couldn’t catch what he said. The girl turned her head against Quintus’s chest, and began to sob. Tiro looked away, feeling awkward.

  They were obviously in the estate office, a strongroom where Marcus kept his accounts and records, and his library of books too. The floor was tessellated, plain and unadorned. Tiro looked curiously at the hole cut into the floor. He considered the dragged-away tiled cover, wondering which had come first — the secret hole under the floor, or the hypocaust. He remembered that the heating system was not yet complete. Chances were the hole was dug first. Putting the lantern on the floor, he reached his hand in to feel around inside the hole. Nothing … nothing — yes, there was something hidden here. Smooth uncharred leather bags, not large but heavy. Three of them, stacked at fingertip reach under the floor.

  Grunting, Tiro heaved out the bags. They were sealed with thongs round the neck. He tugged one open and reached inside, not sure in the poor light what his searching hand had closed round.

  Heavy stacked rolls, wrapped in cloth. Tiro closed his eyes for a moment, sucking in a long breath. He felt light-headed.

  ’Sir.’

  Quintus stirred, looked up.

  ‘The Vebriacum silver? We’ve found it. Some of it, anyway.’

  Quintus seemed to come back to himself. He rubbed his face.

  ‘We need to get out of here. The wind could switch at any moment and trap us. Aurelia, we have to leave your father here for a little while, but we will come back for him when it’s safe.’

  He nodded at the puppy, who was waffling around him, trying to climb up. ‘Shall I carry Cerberus, or will you?’

  Aurelia gathered up the puppy. Quintus moved to the door, but recoiled, startled, before he reached it.

  ‘By the Gods, that’s scorching! The fire is still too fierce out there. Marcus must have had a bronze security door made for this room.’ Quintus picked up his damp cloak, wrapped it carefully around his hand, and tried to turn the metal door-handle. In the gloom he accidentally brushed the door with his burnt arm. He yelped and cursed, stumbling back.

  ‘No good. We’ll have to go back the same way we came. Get a move on, Tiro.’ He nodded at the hole leading to the hypocaust. Tiro felt his heart beginning again to jiggle in his chest. His legs quivered. Quintus looked at him.

  ‘Take this other lantern, Tiro. Have a last look round in here while we sort out Cerberus. You know the sort of thing we’re looking for.’ Quintus handed the lantern on the bracket to Tiro, then wrapped his cloak carefully around his shivering daughter. They quickly bundled up the puppy before lowering themselves back down the hole in the floor, and disappearing.

  Tiro directed the lantern’s gleam carefully round the room one last time. He was looking for a weapon capable of causing the crushing head injury, which might provide clues to the identity of the killer.

  The ink pot? No, too small and made of breakable ceramic. The brazier … mmm, not enough coals spilled to cause a fire in here, but too hot to be lifted at the time it was burning. No other obvious weapons, anywhere. Maybe the murderer took the weapon with him when he got away. Wait a minute —

  Tiro dragged up the long heavy candelabra. It had a stand at the bottom and a tripod flower arrangement at the top for holding candles. One of the triple prongs was sticky with blood. There was also a discarded garment lying on the floor under the desk. He pulled out a cloak, a short one of exceptionally fine saffron-coloured wool, and slipped it behind his belt. A final look round, and a straightening of his shoulders. Then he picked up the lantern and lowered himself into the hole to follow the others.

  Chapter Twenty

  Julia pulled the lamp closer to examine the injured woman. She’d not really pushed aside her terror for Aurelia. While she worked some remote part of her mind worried at a nugget of reassurance, like a terrier pulling at a rat in a wall. Quintus would find her daughter — their daughter — and bring Aurelia back safely. He must find her.

  She concentrated again on the injured woman, Totia, who had broken an arm. She’d tried to go back into the servants’ wing to rescue some little belongings, and a beam from the ground floor portico had fallen on her, knocking her to the floor. Julia set the broken bone and bound the arm into position across the woman’s body.

  Totia sucked her teeth in pain as Julia tied the final knot.

  ‘I’m sorry to hurt you, Totia. The arm is straightened and set now, and I’ll put on a herbal salve for the pain. Don’t touch the salve, though, it’s not good to eat. Go and get a cup of mead from Britta to help you sleep. I’ll see you again tomorrow.’

  Julia lamented all the herbal remedies sitting useless in the dispensary at Aquae Sulis. Fortunately she knew where comfrey grew in clumps near the house. Britta had collected some of the early leaves at her direction, and now at least Julia had a supply of healing poultices for breaks, sprains and torn muscles, as well as honey from the beehives for infection, and mead to dim trauma and pain.

  Again her mind flitted away to dwell on images of Quintus and Aurelia. Somehow she was sure he would find her. Just as he had saved Julia from the man Labienus last night. That had been the most confusing event she had ever experienced, leaving her now cycling between resentment, amazement and reassurance. In the midst of washing a cut or smoothing honey over a burn, her mind kept drifting back to the warmth of Qu
intus’s shoulder against her face, the smell of his skin.

  She stood up to stretch out her cramped legs before making her way across to her sister-in-law, sitting with Bulbo. He stood, rubbing his hands nervously down his toga as Julia approached and leaving sooty marks. His florid face was alive with anxiety and fear.

  ‘Ah, Lady Julia. Have you seen Lucius? My sister says he was here earlier this evening. I’m concerned he may have come back for some reason, and got trapped in the fire.’

  Julia looked at them both, puzzled. Why would Bulbo suppose his son to have returned to the villa? She studied Claudia’s face. The panic she had shown when Julia arrived seemed to have been set aside. Now Bulbo looked much the more troubled of the two. It was clear Claudia knew something Bulbo did not.

  Julia was suddenly overwhelmed with anger. It wasn’t just the turmoil of that very long day, or even her own agony of worry about her brother and her daughter. She threw caution to the winds.

  ‘Lucius? Yes, I have seen Lucius. I saw Lucius tonight, consorting with thieves, traitors and murderers in my own home town. I saw him next to a duplicitous woman I suspect of poisoning a dear friend. I saw him talking confidentially to a vicious man who killed a boy of my tribe. A man I think you know well, Bulbo. A man you’re in fear of, who tried to kidnap me — Antoninus Labienus.’

  Bulbo looked astonished. So you don’t know yet, do you Bulbo? Not about the missing money, nor about the death of your fellow conspirator Labienus.

  ‘And you, Claudia? What have you told your brother about Lucius? Don’t bother lying. I heard you. Out of your own mouth, colluding with your nephew to hide theft and Imperial fraud on a grand scale. I’d say your lives, the lives of all the Claudii, are worth nothing now. Did you know a frumentarius from Rome has tracked you down, right here to Bo Gwelt? Yes, dear sister-in-law, your plans have failed. Aurelia’s legacy will never be yours.’

  She had the satisfaction of seeing Claudia turn white, gripping the arms of her chair with her bony jewelled hands. Julia had never liked or trusted Claudia. But Bulbo? He was dishonest, weak, easy to manipulate. He’d allowed himself to be dragged deeper and deeper into the plot. Nevertheless, Julia felt a tiny amount of compassion for this fat social-climber, who so wanted his son to be accepted into the upper-classes.

  Julia’s eye was caught by a slight movement, and her heart lifted. She looked beyond Claudia into the smoke-veiled courtyard, hoping her voice would reach.

  ‘Bulbo, did you know the dangerous game your son was playing, hiding stolen Vebriacum silver at Bo Gwelt? What do you suppose his reward would have been? Trial, conviction and a short lifetime of slavery in the salt mines for conspiracy to steal from the Emperor, along with you? Or simply a knife between the ribs from your friend Labienus, when he discovered who was purloining his money?’

  Another quick glance. They were closer now; she need no longer shout. ‘Ask your sister where Lucius is now, Bulbo. He came back late tonight, didn’t he, Claudia? To retrieve the hoard the two of you had hidden? Money even your brother knew nothing about?’

  ‘Even so, it’s a shame,’ said the frumentarius from behind Bulbo, ‘that we didn’t manage to rescue Lucius Claudius. He would have made a fine spectacle in Rome, in chains. I’m sorry, Claudius Bulbo, your son must have been caught in the fire. We couldn’t get to him in time. But we did find this.’

  Quintus, clothes ripped and filthy, left arm red-raw, face soot-marked and exhausted, held out a saffron cloak in his right hand. Bulbo cried out in recognition and distress.

  ‘Claudius Bulbo, you are under arrest. I am Frumentarius Quintus Valerius, Imperial Investigator, sent by the Castra Peregrina in Rome to investigate silver missing from your mine. I think this cloak belonged to your son, with whom you conspired. I found it just now in Marcus’s estate office in the west wing. Along with a body, your son’s murder victim.’

  Claudia remained immobile, her ring-laden hands clenched like claws.

  Bulbo gave another despairing cry. ‘No! It can’t be. My boy, my only son! I promised his dear mother on her deathbed he would be the great success I never was. He’s everything to me. I don’t care about the money. It was all for him, everything I’ve ever done. But it’s not too late. I’ll save him! Lucius, my darling son, Father is coming!’

  Before Quintus could move, before the watching Tiro could let go of Aurelia’s hand and spring into action, Bulbo was lurching across the courtyard. He burst in through the smashed front doors, brushing aside the flames as if they were gauzy curtains. They could hear him shouting —‘Lucius, Lucius!’—until the shouts turned to screams, and then fell into silence.

  It was the longest night in Julia’s memory, even longer than the night Aurelia was born.

  Quintus told her gently about her dead brother. She listened as if from a vast distance, calm. Because she already knew. She had known that Marcus was dead from the moment she saw Quintus, exhausted and white-faced, burnt left arm hanging at his side, holding out the saffron cloak to Bulbo.

  Perhaps it was better so. In truth Marcus had been leaving them for a long time, with only a drawn-out death to look forward to.

  After hugging Aurelia until the girl protested, and then allowing herself one session of unbridled painful sobs seen by no-one but Britta, Julia composed herself. She insisted on treating Quintus’s arm before he did anything else. From the wrist to above the elbow his left arm was scorched and beginning to blister. Julia alone guessed the agony he was suppressing. She sent Britta to plunder Julia’s own baggage for the small bottle of essential lavender oil she took everywhere, poured a few drops into a bucket of cold water and forced Quintus to sit with his arm plunged into the water for as long as he could bear. She would have liked to smear hypericum and marigold ointment onto the blisters then, but lacking provision here at the villa she had to settle for honey instead. Ripping up the hem of her linen tunica, she soaked a length of fabric in Bo Gwelt’s own garden honey, and wrapped the bandage round Quintus’s arm.

  ‘There, pull your sleeve down tight over that. Try not to let it move or slip down. I’ll renew the bandage when you next rest.’ Quintus said nothing, but she fancied the greyness of his face warmed a little.

  Morcant and the other farmworkers had managed to extinguish the fires in the servant’s and reception wings, leaving part of the two blocks a broken black devastation, but still standing. The west wing was a lost cause. They simply left the fire there to burn out, and a merciful rain fell in the early hours to hasten the end. At dawn, Quintus, face still shadowy with fatigue, searched carefully through the cinders and soot. He found a smashed oil lamp on the portico by the estate office, and trails of oil baked on the bronze door.

  Tiro helped Morcant and the stableman carry the body of Marcus out of the smouldering west wing. Julia immediately confirmed the cause of death when she saw the head wound. Britta and Aurelia went to keep vigil over their master and father, laid out with love on a slab in the cool dairy room. Julia knew her silent white-faced daughter needed to be with her father, and asked Britta to sit with Aurelia for a while. Julia herself would follow to be with her beloved brother once there were no more injuries to treat.

  Then Morcant, Tiro and Quintus went off together through the ruins, searching. In the corridor outside the office they found another body. Morcant recognised him as a young servant, probably lighting the evening lamps when he was unfortunate enough to get in Lucius’s way. He had been fatally stabbed, and was long dead when the fire caught him.

  The other body they found felt even more tragic to Julia when she heard. He had been a big man, slumping to fat, with aspirations proclaimed by the charred remains of a toga. At least, thought Julia, Bulbo had escaped the worst consequences of his actions. He would not now have to live to see the downfall of his son. Quintus said very little, his face cool and still as Tiro turned Bulbo’s body over.

  ‘I wonder where you are?’ Julia heard him mutter. She knew he meant Lucius. Like her, he believed the culprit had g
ot away and was still alive somewhere.

  Claudia was locked into her sleeping cubicle, with two stout men hand-picked by Morcant posted outside.

  ‘What will happen to the Domina, mistress?’

  ‘I don’t know, Britta. Tiro may have a better idea.’ Britta needed no more encouragement, moving close to Tiro and touching his arm while they talked. Eventually Julia took Aurelia to her own bedchamber, and tucked her into bed beside her. The room stank of smoke, but at least it was untouched by the fire. Aurelia, who had hardly spoken since seeing her dead father, sank into a troubled sleep, turning and mumbling in her sleep. Julia was desperately tired, but sleep kept dodging away. Her mind churned between periods of dozing. Every time she woke she found she had been chasing down impossible corridors to unlikely sunlit endings. There was Aurelia to think of. Aurelia, who had just lost the father she adored. Aurelia, the new mistress of Bo Gwelt, who was now responsible for dozens of servants and hundreds of tenant farmers and their families, as well as her own future.

  No, she’s too young to take on that burden yet. I’ll speak to Demetrios about Marcus’s will. When I’m not so tired — then I’ll think about what’s best for Aurelia. Maybe she’d like to live in Aquae Sulis with me for a while?

  Julia drifted off at last, tears pressed between heavy eyelids and the image of her brother before her, sitting as she had last seen him in pale spring sunshine in the garden, with the books he loved.

  When they had all managed a few hours of rest in the least damaged rooms, Gwenn roused them with a hearty soup and fresh bread made in her own kitchen. Tiro smacked his lips, and slurped the broth down as fast as he could. Quintus gave him a poker-faced look.

  ‘It’s not proper Roman food, sir, not the fancy stuff you’re used to,’ Gwenn apologised to Quintus. She was still shy of Quintus, even after her husband had told her roundly there was no better man in an emergency. Julia was diverted into a fleeting smile, remembering a much younger Praetorian’s grumbling about army marching rations during the Caledonian wars.