by Jane Finnis
“The housekeeper?”
“The very same. And now you tell me she may have tried to kill you?”
“Yes.” Plautius turned on me angrily. “So you’ve known my son’s whereabouts all along, and have been withholding the information? I thought better of you than that.”
“Certainly not! It was a while before I realised that your son is someone we know. He’s changed his name, he’s known locally as Perennius Candidus, so when Lady Sempronia asked me yesterday to help search for him, his real name meant nothing to me.”
“And you are the woman he wants to marry?” Plautius stared at Albia.
She sat up straight. “I am. And proud of it.”
“Even in the face of his parents’ strong disapproval?”
“Yes. We would rather have your consent, but we want to live together, and we will, with or without it.”
“Where is Decimus now? I want to see him.”
Horatius shrugged. “Where he is now, I don’t know. He left the mansio after he and Sempronia had finished quarrelling. Or perhaps she hadn’t finished, but he’d had enough.”
It was my turn for Plautius’ piercing stare. “You didn’t bring him to see me, as I asked.”
“I tried to persuade him, but I couldn’t. And I tried to tell you what was going on, while he was still here with her ladyship. You wouldn’t see me, or I suppose that was your slave. I realise now why he told me to go away, but at the time I thought you were just feeling unwell. I did tell Timaeus to come and make sure you weren’t seriously ill.”
“He wouldn’t bother to, I imagine. He knew it was Idmon in my bed.” He relaxed a little. “So Decimus and his mother had an argument. Did any of you hear what was said?”
“I did,” Horatius answered eagerly, “and so did everyone for ten miles around, I expect. A real battle they had! Well, you can imagine. Sempronia going through all the reasons why Decimus shouldn’t marry an innkeeper, and Decimus insisting he’ll live with her anyway, with or without your consent. He plans to set up in business in Eburacum as a trader. He wouldn’t give an inch, even when Sempronia told him about the will.”
“He won’t change,” Albia put in. “Neither will I.”
“Even though you’ll be the cause of my son’s being cast out by his family—deprived of his chance to make a political career?”
“He doesn’t want a political career.”
“And you realise that if I alter my will, he won’t inherit a single copper coin when I’m no longer here?”
“I’m not marrying him for his money, and he won’t give me up for it, either.”
Plautius sat in thoughtful silence for a while. Then amazingly he started to laugh, his whole body shaking with merriment. “I wish I could have been there when they met. Sempronia isn’t used to people saying no to her, especially in the family. And Decimus can be as stubborn as she is!”
“That’s true enough,” Horatius smiled. “Normally I’d put money on Sempronia getting her own way in the end. She usually does. But in this case….”
“She won’t,” Albia declared.
“Anyhow,” the lawyer refilled his beaker, “that’s why I came looking for you, to give you the latest news. I came earlier, but you were asleep, or rather Idmon was.” Interesting, I thought, that Plautius hadn’t even told Horatius about the change in sleeping arrangements. “So I went and had some food. Very enjoyable it was too.” He gave a satisfied belch and looked at Albia with a beaming smile. “At least if Decimus does marry you, m’dear, he’ll never be short of a good meal! Ah well, I suppose one shouldn’t joke.” He put down his mug. “So then, are you going ahead with altering your will, Gnaeus?”
“I’ve still not made a final decision. I want to give Decimus one last chance to change his mind.” He looked at Albia. “I’ll be frank with you. This is nothing personally to do with you, but we want our son to follow the political career we have planned for him, including marriage into a senatorial family. Both Sempronia and I will do our best to see that he does. I hope I make myself clear?”
“Very clear,” my sister said. “But you won’t succeed. I hope that is clear too.”
Plautius appeared not to have heard. “First we must find out who killed Idmon, mistaking him for me. After what you’ve just told me, Horatius, I’m fairly certain it must have been these two women, or perhaps just the one Decimus thinks he’s in love with. If she knew I was intending to alter my will, she—or they—might have decided to dispose of me before I could.”
“How many more times must I tell you, we don’t care about your money!” Albia almost shouted. “I love Candidus. He loves me. We two can make our own living, and we will!”
“And if they need any help,” I added, “Albia has family who’ll stand by her and support her, even if Candidus hasn’t.”
“Admirable sentiments, to be sure. But does standing by your sister include committing murder for her, or assisting her to commit it?” He turned to the lawyer. “What’s your view, Horatius?”
“Oh, if you want my opinion, I don’t think either of them did it.” I could have hugged him, but it wouldn’t have helped.
“You don’t? Why not? They were almost caught in the act.”
Horatius shook his head. “She’s right about the blood. Whoever stabbed Idmon will be carrying some traces of it. And now it’s public knowledge that you’re likely to be altering your will, there are several people in the household who might want to…well….” He trailed off, but Plautius smiled.
“Put an end to me while the old will is still in force?”
Horatius nodded. “There’s bound to be all sorts of gossip about whether you’re making other changes too.”
“Yes, you may be right.” Plautius rubbed his chin thoughtfully with his thin hand. “Diogenes—Margarita—Decimus himself, of course, if he didn’t ride away, but stole back to the mansio.”
“But not me.” Horatius chuckled. “I prefer the new arrangements we discussed, given a choice. No, this isn’t a clear-cut case. However, we can’t take any chances. Tell me,” he faced the two of us squarely, “who’s the chief magistrate in this area? You were telling Sempronia about him at breakfast.”
I nodded, remembering at the same time that, in the confusion of the morning, I had forgotten to send him a message, as I’d promised Sempronia. “The Chief Councillor of Oak Bridges is Publius Silvanius Clarus.”
“And will this Publius Silvanius Clarus vouch for the two of you?” Horatius asked. “Will he declare on oath that you’re not murderers, and that you won’t attempt to run away until we’ve found who killed Idmon?”
“Certainly he will. I’ll send a message now, and ask him to come here, so you can talk to him yourselves.”
“I’ll send,” Plautius corrected. “We need to notify someone in authority about this anyway. Killing a slave isn’t a serious matter, but attempting to assassinate a senator is. And especially in an official mansio.”
I tried not to show the sinking feeling his words gave me. “Silvanius will be happy to help in any way he can. His house is a little over a mile away. He can be here before dark.”
“Good. And meantime, what shall we do with these two, Horatius? Lock them up somewhere?”
“I don’t know about that, Gnaeus.” Fortunately Horatius realised what shaky ground he would be on if he imprisoned two citizens who turned out to be innocent.
I said quickly, “Lock us up? I’ll have you know we’re citizens, with a brother in the Governor’s service, and nobody is going to lock us up when we’ve done nothing wrong!”
“Besides,” Albia added, with a mischievous gleam in her eye, “if you lock us up, who’s going to run the mansio? Provide your meals, look after your animals, make sure your rooms and the bath-house are well heated? These things don’t happen by themselves, they have to be properly supervised. By us.”
That wasn’t strictly true. It was our proud boast that we’d trained our staff so well that they could run the place with
out us. But the boast hadn’t reached Horatius’ ears.
“Very well then, suppose we compromise,” the old man said. “You give us your word not to leave the mansio, and you also promise to stay together till this magistrate gets here.”
“Of course,” I said. “I promise not to run away. I’ve no reason to.”
“I promise too,” Albia agreed.
“As an extra safeguard,” Plautius added, “one of our household will stay with you at all times.”
I assumed my best dignified manner. “Our word should be enough.”
“That depends, doesn’t it,” he answered, not unkindly, “on whether you’re innocent or guilty. For people who have tried to murder a senator, breaking a promise would probably seem a trivial misdemeanour.”
I couldn’t fault the logic, so I simply said, “In our family, if we make a promise, we keep it.”
“Margarita can stay with them,” Horatius suggested.
“Margarita? That proves you don’t believe they are guilty. If they’re murderers, you’ll be exposing her to some personal danger. Very well, let Margarita act as our watch-dog.”
The lawyer looked thoughtful. “If they didn’t kill Idmon, then whoever did is still at large. So you ought to have a guard at your door from now on, Gnaeus.”
“I shall, never fear. I should have taken that precaution before. Now, Horatius, if you wouldn’t mind finding Margarita, I’ll draft a note to this Silvanius.” He looked at me and Albia like an old tomcat playing with a couple of field-mice. “Don’t think that you are no longer under suspicion. We shall be making strenuous enquiries into Idmon’s death.”
I said, “We’ve nothing to fear. They can only find us innocent.” As Horatius left to fetch Margarita, I sent a silent prayer to Diana to let my brave words prove true.
CHAPTER X
Sometimes you feel the gods are on your side, and sometimes not, but usually it’s hard to tell. I didn’t know which of the Immortals sent the sudden snowstorm that arrived just as Plautius finished dictating his note for Silvanius, but I was angry to start with. I badly wanted Silvanius’ friendly support, which I knew we would get if we asked for it. But how could we ask for it? No messenger was going to travel anywhere till the blizzard stopped. As it was still piling down thick and fast at dark, that meant Plautius’ letter couldn’t reach Oak Bridges at least till morning, but neither could any message from me. Or could it?
That’s when I realised the storm might be a gift from Diana in answer to my prayer. It gave us a slim chance of making contact with Silvanius before Plautius did, and telling him what had happened. The visitors’ men, being strangers, wouldn’t want to travel unfamiliar snowy roads at night, but we had several lads in our household who’d be prepared to venture to Oak Bridges in the dark, if only the snow would stop falling. The problem was going to be arranging it without being seen by Margarita, who politely but quite firmly stayed with me and Albia, and made sure we kept dutifully together.
The afternoon dragged by. Sempronia and Priscus and nearly everyone else in her party, except for Plautius and Timaeus, enjoyed long leisurely baths, and then retired to the guest wing, leaving only Margarita with us. We stayed in the bar-room, chatting to the small band of customers clustered round our fire, but they went home well before dark. Then we moved to the kitchen, still with Margarita in tow, and staved off boredom by helping with the preparation of the evening meal, although Cook and the maids could perfectly well have done it without us. We were serving cold sausage with olives for starters, then geese with damson sauce, and plenty of vegetables. Honey cakes, cow’s cheese, and a bowl of walnuts and hazelnuts were the dessert. I suppose the kitchen girls knew why we were all there, but they were too busy making a pet of Gaius to worry about it. They fed him such a mixture of rich titbits that I was afraid he’d be sick. But he was cheerful and well-behaved, and Margarita was good company. I was thankful that if we had to be dogged continuously by a couple of Sempronia’s people, we had at least been assigned the pleasantest ones.
Not that we were left entirely to our own devices. About an hour before dinner, Diogenes came into the kitchen and addressed Albia with his habitual disdainful sneer.
“My lady wants to see you, Miss. Please come with me to her sitting-room now.”
Albia put down her sewing. “Did she say what it’s about, Diogenes?”
“No. But I daresay we can all guess.”
“Do you want me to come with you?” I offered.
Albia shook her head. “I’ll be fine. I’m sure it won’t take long.” She left with the Weasel through the hall door, and almost instantly, Timaeus came in from the bar-room.
“Aurelia, my lord Plautius asks if you can spare him a little time. He’s in his bedroom.”
“Yes, of course.” We entered the guest wing only a few paces behind my sister and Diogenes. They went into her ladyship’s sitting-room, while Timaeus ushered me into Plautius’ room, past the looming shape of a bodyguard standing to attention in the passage.
“Ah, there you are.” The old man was sitting up in his bed, wrapped in his shawl, but looking none the worse for his earlier shock. “Sit down, please.”
I took a stool, and Timaeus remained standing by the door. They were taking no chances with a possible murderer.
“Lady Sempronia has told me,” he said slowly, “the details of her discussion with Decimus, and how he is refusing to change his mind about your sister, or about returning with us to Londinium. I want to ask you to be honest with me. How can your sister be persuaded to withdraw from her attachment to our son?”
“She can’t, my lord.”
“If it’s a question of money….”
“It isn’t. She loves your son, and she won’t give him up.”
“You’re certain of that?”
“Absolutely certain.”
“From her point of view, marriage to Decimus would allow her to move up in the world, I suppose. I’m not trying to be offensive, just realistic. Innkeepers don’t usually marry into powerful senatorial families. However, I can’t approve of it. I mean it when I say that I may disown Decimus altogether. Your sister is aware that I’m considering this, but it has not deterred her. Is that because she thinks I won’t go through with it?”
How many more times must I repeat this? “No. It’s as I said, she loves your son, and that’s enough for her. I warn you, she has a stubborn streak as wide as the Appian Way. She won’t give him up.”
Suddenly he rapped out sharply, “I asked you to bring Decimus to me this morning. But you said he refused?”
“I’m afraid he did, quite categorically. He sent you a message.”
“Which is?”
“He said, ‘You can tell him this. I’m going to live with Albia whatever he and Mother try to do, and I’m going to set up my business in Eburacum and make my own way and my own life there.’”
“Do you know whereabouts in Eburacum he plans to live?”
“No, I don’t. All he’s told us is that he’s leaving his house near Oak Bridges and moving to new premises in the town. He didn’t tell me where.”
“Your sister knows, perhaps?”
“If she does, she’s not saying.”
“If she really doesn’t know, she must be expecting my son to return here, or at least send her a message telling her where he is.”
“If you say so.” There was no fooling this shrewd old man.
“Don’t play games,” he snapped, staring at me hard. “What arrangements have they made to stay in contact?”
“I’ve no idea. They haven’t confided in me.” It was the first lie I’d told him, and only a small one at that, but it was an effort to return his stare directly. I was finding this interrogation unpleasantly scary.
“Are you prepared to help find him and bring him here to see me? I’m reluctant to go back to Londinium until I’ve spoken to him face-to-face. I’m sure that you and your sister between you can trace him quite quickly, if you choose.”
<
br /> That was the last thing we’d choose, but I could hardly be so blunt. “I don’t quite see what more I can do. We don’t know Eburacum at all well, it’s just somewhere we visit occasionally. Looking for one newcomer who’d arrived there to make his fortune would be like hunting for a pin in a pine-wood. It’d be beyond us, I’m afraid. Couldn’t you send men to Eburacum yourself to search?”
“I could, but it would take time. And money. I thought, if you were prepared to assist—but never mind. There’s an easy alternative. I’ll arrange to have your sister arrested for attempted murder, and kept in custody for a while. Oh yes, I’m aware she’s a free citizen, but the Governor will authorise it, if it’s necessary. Decimus will come back then, to see her and perhaps try to get her released. Instead of seeing her, he’ll find he has to see me.”
And so, of course, I agreed that we would try to find Candidus and bring him to talk to his father. What else could I do? As I left his room, I reflected that every time I had a conversation with Plautius, I ended up being forced into some course of action I’d rather not undertake.
Albia was in the bar-room with Margarita. She was flushed and furious, and as I entered I heard the words “obscene old harpy,” so I guessed she was speaking her mind about Lady Sempronia.
“What’s up, Albia?” I settled myself down by the fire. “As if I couldn’t guess. You’ve had a bad meeting with her ladyship?”
“She tried to buy me off! Can you believe it? She offered me money if I’d give up Candidus. That’s after she’d tried threatening me, saying that her nephew the Governor could always find ways of dealing with ‘people of your sort’. The cheek of it! I told her, ‘I’m a Roman citizen, a centurion’s daughter, and I’m well aware of my rights. I’m sure the Governor is too.’ So then she tried bribery. She actually thought all she had to do was offer me a few gold pieces, and I’d walk away from the man I love!”
“You wouldn’t be the first.”
“And finally she said that she’d forbidden the marriage, and it would take place over her dead body. I tell you, Relia, it was all I could do not to say that I’ll be happy to see her dead body, if it means I can marry Candidus!”