But that left me with a problem. My roundhouse, and Junio’s too, had been built on part of what was once the grounds – granted by Marcus as a favour years ago, but there were no formal witnesses to that. What would be my legal status now?
Worse, if Marcus had experienced a sudden fall from grace then not only would his seal carry no authority, it marked the holder as his protégée. And I knew what that could mean: any of his associates might find themselves arraigned – guilty by connection – and exiled in turn.
In which case my welcome here was no surprise at all. My best course – indeed the only one available – was to cease to draw attention to myself and try to be grateful, as the guard had said, that I’d not been treated worse. As yet, anyway! I hardly liked to think of what the dawn might bring. For the moment I was glad enough to settle down again, waiting for the feeble taper-light to fail and plunge me into total darkness for the night. In the end I must have drifted into troubled sleep.
So I was astonished a little afterwards to be wakened by a rattle at the door. I did not even have the time to sit upright before the guard came in again, accompanied by the inn-slave, who was carrying a tray. And not an empty one! To my astonishment I saw a bowl of food and a metal cup of something that looked very much like watered wine.
‘Put that down beside him!’ barked the bear. ‘And change that taper so that he can see.’ The inn-slave hurried to do as he was told.
I blinked up at my captors in surprise. ‘Food? For me?’ I was beginning to consider if this might be a trap.
‘For you, indeed! Who else do you suppose? But if you do not want it, we can take it back again.’
‘Oh, I want it,’ I said, struggling to sit up and snatching for the tray before it disappeared. ‘But I have no implement to eat it with.’
Too late I realised that this might be a trap – the food might be poisoned – but I really had no spoon. If I had been a normal civilian traveller, I would have a combination spoon-and-dining-knife – they are readily available at market-stalls, and the only kind of blade that non-soldiers are permitted to carry on the road. But I had not felt the need for carrying eating implements – a wedding host is likely to provide them for his guests and they are generally supplied at any mansio.
Even at this one, it appeared. The guard slapped down a spoon that he’d been carrying. He showed no signs of departing and leaving me to eat, so – trap or not – I took a morsel of the food. It was a sort of oatmeal stew with tripe and beans thrown in – so it was uniformly white, and did not taste of much. On the other hand, I seemed to take no harm from it. Besides, the slave, I noticed, had just licked his hand where he’d accidentally splashed it with the food. And I was hungry. I took another bite.
I was convinced by now. This was standard army fare – wholesome and sustaining, but not designed to titivate. (Though it did occur to me to wonder if Trinculus had been served the same, and whether – since presumably he ate this all the time – he might even be enjoying his.)
‘Army gruel?’ I said, approvingly. For someone who’d expected to receive no food at all, even army porridge is a privilege, and I was anxious to sound grateful. ‘I’m very glad of it.’
The bear-guard nodded. ‘But the wine’s your own.’
‘Mine?’ Of all the inexplicable events today, this was the oddest. ‘I possess no wine.’
‘Your so-called attendant had it in the cart. Left over from last night – or so he says – the inn-keeper put it into a little amphora for you to take away. Rhenish, apparently, and highest quality. I don’t know how you came by such a thing, but the mansionarius insisted that it should be served to you, in case it had been poisoned and was meant for someone else. So you drink it at your peril, and don’t say you’ve not be warned.’ He favoured me with an unpleasant grin, displaying a range of pointed yellow teeth. ‘Though if you refuse it, we shall know what to think.’
It was so exactly the reverse of what I’d previously feared myself that it was almost comical – once my befuddled brain had worked out the provenance of the wine. ‘Ah, the gift of Crassus Posthumous! Of course! That was kindly of the innkeeper,’ I said.
After my experience at Marcus’s dinner-feast, I was not really anxious to drink any wine at all – especially not ‘best Rhenish’ which had been my downfall there – but this was clearly no moment to decline. Besides there was just a single cup of it, no doubt watered in the accepted style. (No self-respecting Roman drinks undiluted wine, except for anaesthetic purposes, such as having teeth extracted or wounds and boils lanced!) And I was very thirsty.
‘To all the gods,’ I said, swirling it in the cup to shed a drop or two as a small libation. ‘With thanks to Crassus Posthumous.’ I raised it to my lips.
After the brackish water it tasted marvellous, and I had to force myself to put the cup aside and save the rest until after I had eaten all the stew. Some instinct told me that it was important to continue to behave in ways expected of a Roman citizen, though my claims to be entitled to the rank appeared to be ignored.
The guard, however, did not look impressed. ‘Not poisoned then? We thought it might have been. Well, if you’ve finished that, the slave will fetch a blanket and you can get some sleep. In the morning they will come and get you, as arranged.’
‘So you will send the signal?’ I had not expected that. In fact I was not sure that I believed it, now.
That yellow smile again. ‘And we shall deliver you unharmed and in good health – and that will be the end of our responsibility. And frankly we shall be glad to be relieved of you. Now, if there are no more questions …’
There were a thousand things, of course, that I would have liked to ask, but I knew better. I simply shook my head.
‘Then give him that blanket, slave, and leave him to his bed.’
The inn-slave tiptoed out and came back with the cloth – which must have been waiting just outside the door. It was coarse and brownish-coloured, but it was clean and dry and made a better cover than my cloak. Why was I being favoured with these things? Another mystery.
But I was suddenly too weary to think any more tonight. The moment that the door had closed again, I wrapped myself in this unexpected luxury and lay down on my sack.
I must have fallen instantly asleep, because when I opened my eyes again, what seemed like only moments afterwards, I found that the night had now completely fallen in the room. The second taper had burned out and I was in the dark.
Almost total darkness – but not quite. Through the open window-space there was a sullen glow, a reddish glow that flickered, and a strong smell of smoke. And there was frenzied shouting from below – that was clearly what had awakened me.
I felt my way over to the window-wall, but as I moved I overturned the rocky stool – knocking the metal bowl onto the floor and splashing my bare feet with the contents of the jug. The shock of the cold water seemed to rouse me, though, and I was less clumsy as I set the stool upright and stood on it to look outside and so confirm my fears.
Fire. There could be no doubt of that. And I was a prisoner on an upper floor. For certain no one was about to come and rescue me. I was already considering if there might be some way to escape. How could I hoist myself up onto the sill? Could I succeed in sliding through the narrow gap? And what were my chances of breaking just a leg – and not my neck – if I let go and slithered down into the dark, paved court below?
Well, it was a risk that I would simply have to take. Anything was preferable to being burned alive. Panic lends one an unnatural strength, and after a number of strenuous attempts I succeeded in hauling myself upwards by my arms, so that I was half-lying chest-down across the sill. I wedged my elbows firmly in the gap and was trying to imagine how I could raise my feet, when the shouting below me was suddenly renewed.
‘There, look! The fire’s been noticed.’
I pulled back a little, thinking that my effort to escape had been observed.
Another shout. This time I recognised the
voice. It was the bear-guard bellowing, ‘They’ve seen it. See, they’re answering! You can begin to dowse the flames.’
I edged a little further on my arms. Now, from my strange vantage-point I could see the ground below – and confirmed what the shouting had been telling me. How could I be so stupid? This was not an accidental fire. Various of the inn-staff were dancing round the blaze – which seemed to be a pile of broken furniture and straw – and were now attacking it with flails. As I watched, another soldier hurried up bringing a pail of water which he threw into the flames raising an acrid smoke which filled my lungs.
Instinctively, I leaned away from it, coughing and spluttering, and slithered to the floor, losing my precarious grip upon the window-space. But not before I’d glimpsed, what seemed like miles away, the answering glow the voice had spoken of. Someone had lit a bonfire in reply.
This must be the signal they had promised me.
It should have been a reassurance, but somehow it was not. Was I still expected to attend this wedding then? Of course it was a comfort and relief to know the inn was not on fire and I was not about to roast, and perhaps it suggested that Marcus’s disgrace – whatever it consisted of – did not extend entirely to me.
In fact, when I considered, I should have guessed as much. I was being treated, if not with courtesy, at least no worse than any common soldier might expect, who happened to be visiting the inn. Except for losing my possessions and being locked into the room!
‘For your safety’, according to the guard. Safety from what? Were there local rebels who’d become so bold they would dare attack a military inn? Someone with a personal grudge against my patron perhaps, who saw this as an opportunity to wreak revenge – by killing me, knowing that Marcus was now powerless to respond? I could see why that might frighten the mansionarius: the death of a citizen at his mansio would mean disgrace for him, loss of his rank and privilege at least, if not indeed his life. So perhaps that did make sense?
I shook my head. It was impossible. Granted that the fall of an important man is always the subject of gossip which spreads faster than the plague – how could rebels have come to hear of it so soon? Indeed, how could news have travelled to this mansio and not have reached us yesterday before we left? The mansionarius there had been helpfulness itself – as witness the provision of wine. He was clearly unaware of anything amiss. Yet a messenger would bring the news to each mansio in turn – and we’d not been overtaken by a courier on the road.
So was there something that I had overlooked? Or was my theory simply incorrect? It was only my conjecture, after all. I shook my head. It was inexplicable. Tonight, however, I could think no more. I groped my way across the room – even the dim glow had disappeared by now. I felt the mattress with my feet and lay down gratefully.
Whether it was the strain of travelling, the panic of the fire, or my scrambled half-escape I did not know, but I was exhausted. I closed my drooping eyes.
I did not stir again until I heard a voice. ‘Get up then, sluggard! It is almost noon. Your guide has come for you.’
TWENTY-TWO
I did not have to look to know it was the guard. I forced my eyes to open – which they seemed disinclined to do – and blinked up at him. He was standing at my side, holding out my sandals.
‘Get these on your feet. And if you want to break your fast at all today you’d better do it soon. The inn-slave brought this to you hours ago.’ He gestured to a tray beside me on the floor, containing a crust of bread, some crumbs of cheese, and a beaker of water. ‘The guide is waiting at the gate and your companion too. I’ll tell them that you’re finally awake. Back in five minutes.’ He went out and I heard him lock the door again.
I sat up, astonished to discover that I had slept so late. I must have been exhausted by the events of yesterday and the panics of the night. No doubt the days of jolting travel had played their part as well, but even now I did not feel entirely refreshed.
But hungry! I picked up the bread, which was no longer fresh. I dunked it in the water pot to soften it, and used the sop to eat the cheese fragments, then gulped down the water, which was clear and cool. The brackish contents of the jug, I realised, were meant for washing with, so – feeling a little foolish – I made use of them, dipping my head and dusty beard into the bowl. My tunic, though, was hopelessly bedraggled by this stage. I was just wondering where my other garments were, and whether I could expect them to be given back to me, when the bolt flew open and the guard was back again.
‘Ready or not, it’s time for you to leave. Downstairs, double quick – and don’t try any tricks, or I’ll have the greatest pleasure in persuading you.’ He pulled his dagger out. It was wickedly sharp and he looked as if he meant exactly what he said.
I pulled my cloak and sandals on as fast as possible, not even pausing to fully fasten them, and hobbled to the door – aware that the weapon was inches from my ribs. I would have liked to ask him what ‘tricks’ he was expecting me to play, but my first attempt to turn my head earned me a dagger-prick, and I resigned myself to simply scuffling along. The passageway was dark and shadowy and I was glad when the little slave appeared with a lighted taper to show us to the stairs.
When we reached the doorway that gave out onto the court, the sudden morning light was so sharp it blinded me, though the day was cloudy and the sun no more than peeping through. The wind was cold, besides, and I shivered as I shuffled down the steps.
Now my eyes had adjusted to the glare I looked round for Trinculus, but I couldn’t see him anywhere, only an inn-slave drawing water from the well. I was about to risk the dagger-point and enquire of the guard, when I was interrupted by a timid voice behind me.
‘Citizen?’ It was Trinculus himself. I whirled around and caught my breath. Without the dormouse ears I would not have known the lad. They had stripped him of the armour of which he was so proud, and left him skinny and insignificant, dressed only in his faded tunic and a pair of hobnailed sandals which looked incongruous on his scrawny legs. They had deprived him even of his military cloak.
But that was not the worst. His shoulders were a mass of yellowing bruises, fresh weals could be glimpsed around his arms and legs, while his face was red and swollen and one eye half-closed. Someone had clearly beaten him, most efficiently.
‘Trinculus, what happened?’ I was ready to protest on his behalf, though it would do little good, I knew. This was a military inn: the army manned and ran it, and he was subject to their discipline – which is often harsh. Even minor misdemeanours can be brutally chastised. Though I could not imagine what he might have done to deserve so severe a punishment.
But he shook his head and simply darted his undamaged eye in the direction of the guard, obviously fearing that he might be struck again. ‘Nothing,’ he managed, through split and swollen lips, though it came out as a croak.
I was furious and whirled to face the guard. Foolish of me, as I immediately realised – he was quite capable of stabbing me – but he simply raised his dagger and pointed to the gate. ‘Your host has sent his servant as a guide,’ he said, laconically, ‘and he’s welcome to you both!’ He made a gesture for the fellow to come in.
The man who entered was a tall, athletic youth, wind-tanned and muscular, and strikingly handsome in a non-Roman way. He was dressed in a brightly-coloured tunic with long tube-like sleeves which would have marked him as a Celt, even without the plaid breeches, and his long, combed, blonded tresses and moustache. He was barefoot and apparently impervious to chill – the trousers had been folded to above his knees. As a slave, he did not wear a long cloak like my own – which in Celtic circles suggests a man of status – only a short hooded cape which hardly reached his waist, and even that he had pushed back so that his head was bare. A bulging bag, made from a cured sheep’s stomach by the look of it, was slung across his back and held in place with cords.
All this I took in at a single glance, but as he approached I found that I was staring at his belt – a heavy leath
er one with an enormous clasp, which would have made a useful weapon in itself – and thrust through it, for good measure, were a bludgeon and a knife. Perhaps he was expecting trouble from us on the way, because he also held a three-pronged fishing spear, a wicked-looking object with long sharpened prongs, which he was spinning between the fingers of one hand as if to display his careless expertise. I was in no doubt that he could use any of his equipment with the same efficiency.
‘These is prisoner?’ His voice was silky but his Latin poor. ‘Then we go before come too much quick the tide.’
His words added to my increasing unease. So we were ‘prisoners’ after all? Or was that simply his misuse of Latin words? I turned, in one last desperate attempt to ask the guard. But now it was the fish-spear that was pointing at my chest.
‘Quickest, quickest or you death by swim!’ the youth said urgently.
The bear-guard laughed. ‘You heard the slave!’ he said, triumphantly. ‘If you don’t hurry there’ll be “death by swim”. So if you have further questions, ask Darturius. We have delivered you as we were asked to do.’
‘But my baggage?’ I persisted. Panic made me brave. ‘My own bedraggled toga is of no account, perhaps, but a friend entrusted me with the finer woollen one, and my patron sent a wedding present made of solid gold.’
Another grin. ‘We’ll keep the “borrowed” garments here—’ he stressed the word ‘borrowed’ with heavy irony – ‘and the golden plate as well. When the tide is more convenient your host can send for them. This, on the other hand, will be needed straight away.’
And to my surprise he produced my warrant, in its pouch. I risked a glance at the writing-block within, but it was the one I’d brought: Marcus’s distinctive symbol was etched into the front and his seal was still adhering to the tie.
The Price of Freedom Page 19