by Jane Finnis
He nodded. “You’ve got it.”
“Then I’m afraid I can’t oblige. This is an official mansio. However much I’d like to help, it isn’t a good place to keep secrets. For most of the year, it’s full of people travelling on the Empire’s business, soldiers, government officials, messengers, people trained to have sharp eyes. I can’t guarantee that none of them will see you or your men, and if they spot you, they’ll start getting curious.”
“We’re used to keeping out of folks’ way,” he said. “And I’m only talking about this winter. I’m sure we won’t need to trouble you in the spring or summer. Sensible wolves,” he added with a grin, “change their hunting-grounds with the seasons.”
I shook my head. “Sorry, Otus. I don’t think it’s a good idea. Even in winter we have guests. We’ve got a houseful now, as it happens, some relatives of the provincial Governor’s. And my own brother is coming to stay over the holiday. He’s an army man, based down south, but he comes up here when he can, and he often brings friends along for a spot of hunting.” Two days ago that would have been true, and it still sounded convincing.
He shrugged. “Well, don’t say no straight away. Think about it. These are dangerous times, and I’d hate to see you having any trouble here.”
“That’s good of you. Look, I really am grateful for what your lads did today. I’ll be glad to buy you all some Saturnalia refreshment.” I fished in my belt-pouch and found a couple of silver pieces, which I handed to him with my warmest smile. “But it’s not possible to do any more. I hope you understand.”
“Oh aye. I understand all right. But if you change your mind, you can reach me care of the Wolf’s Head tavern in Eburacum.”
“I shan’t change my mind.”
His smile as I ushered him out still showed his broken tooth, but lacked any warmth at all.
Albia was alone in the bar-room, so I quickly told her about my message to Silvanius. She’d realised what I was up to, and was pleased. But when I went on to report my meeting with Otus she looked alarmed.
“It’s worrying, but you did the right thing. We can’t start buying protection from local gangs. And we’ve already decided to keep ourselves well guarded over the holiday. We’ll just have to make it a regular routine for a while, till they find some other poor victim.”
“Yes, it’s all we can do. I’m beginning to think Taurus was right about that mistletoe. Nothing seems to be going smoothly just now, does it?” I threw another log onto the fire. “Have the other two gone to bed already?”
“Margarita’s settling Gaius down. He’s still a bit upset, poor little mite.”
“What was all that crying about? Why did he get so upset when we mentioned the market?”
“If he misbehaves, Sempronia quite often threatens him that she’ll send him to market to punish him. And Diogenes, of course, does the same when he thinks he can get away with it.”
“But why is going to market a punishment?”
“Not just any old market, Relia. A slave market.”
“Merda, no!”
“Yes. It’s foul, isn’t it? The poor little boy’s got the constant threat hanging over him, that he’ll be sold off to strangers if he displeases her ladyship. Margarita says he has nightmares about it. She probably does too.”
Margarita came back into the room just then, and sat down by the fire. “He’s asleep, thank the gods. He’s had a busy day, and he’s tired out. He’ll be fine now.”
“I’m sorry my chatter about the market scared him so. I’d no idea.”
She shrugged, “How could you have? It’s typical of Sempronia to use that sort of threat to a child. It’s horrible, but from her point of view it works, because it’s enough to keep him under control, and me too. She likes power, and she likes us all to know that she has it.” She shivered. “And now all this business about altering his lordship’s will—oh, she’s having fun with that, making us all run round in circles and jump through hoops.”
“I thought they were just changing the will to disinherit Candidus,” Albia commented.
“That’s the main reason, but Sempronia wants Plautius to make various other alterations at the same time. The old will is—well, old, out of date, apparently.”
I remembered what Timaeus had told me about the division of opinion between those who favoured the existing will, and those who wanted a new one. “Are you affected yourself, Margarita? I mean, if they change it?”
“Yes. There’s some talk of the master giving me my freedom. As things stand now, I’m bequeathed to Horatius. Gaius too, if we both behave ourselves.”
She said it in such a matter-of-fact manner. Yet it struck me as a new thought, how horrible it must be for an intelligent, hard-working woman to be disposed of in a will, like a set of cooking pots or a mule.
“To Horatius?” Albia said. “But I thought Priscus….”
“Exactly. Priscus loves me, and would like me to live with him, but of course his parents want him to make a political marriage.”
“And you? Do you want to live with Priscus?” Albia asked.
She answered bleakly, “It would be all the same if I didn’t, wouldn’t it? When you’re a slave, the very last thing anyone considers is what you want.” She finished her wine. “Oh, don’t mind me, I’m just feeling sorry for myself. Priscus is a good man.” She yawned and stretched. “It’s time I was in bed. I don’t want Gaius to wake in a strange room and find I’m not there.” She picked up a small lamp and smiled at us. “I trust you’re not planning to run away tonight?”
“Not me,” I answered. “I’ve got to wash my hair.”
“Nor me. It’s too cold,” Albia added.
She nodded. “Then good night, and thank you both again, with all my heart.”
We lingered a while by the fire, glad of its warmth as we listened to the night wind rising outside. “I wonder where Lucius is now?” Albia mused. “I suppose he’s in Eburacum, playing the part of a disgraced investigator, looking to stir up trouble.”
“Do you think the spy he warned us about is someone in Sempronia’s party? It seems likely, doesn’t it?”
“It’s Diogenes,” she declared. “Slimy, sneaky little Weasel. He’s a spy, I’d bet any money.”
“Lucius would say he’s too obvious, and a real spy would be more discreet.”
“Poor Lucius! Gods, Relia, I hope he’s all right, out on his own like that.”
“Let’s go and say a prayer for him, and then get an early night. We’ve another busy day tomorrow.”
So we went to the household shrine and stood before the dear, familiar statues of the gods there, and I asked them to protect Lucius, and us too. Praying made us feel better, though it’s hard to say why, since we couldn’t know whether the Immortals had heard, let alone answered. All we did know was that the Aurelius family needed all the help it could get.
CHAPTER XII
I rose at the first crack of dawn, remembering my promise to Titch to look after his dogs. The air felt cold still, and the snow crunched under my boots as I walked to the stable yard. When I reached the old cart shed, I saw Titch waiting at its door, barring my way in.
“Mistress Aurelia, thank the gods! I was hoping you’d come soon.”
“Good morning, Victor. Of course I’ve come. You didn’t think I’d forget my promise, did you? But I see I could have had an extra quarter-hour in bed. You’re back safe and sound.”
“Aye, thanks for remembering. But I didn’t mean that. The dogs are fine.”
“Did you deliver my letter?”
He nodded. “We saw Councillor Silvanius hisself, and he read your letter straight away. He said to tell you he’ll come and sort everything out this mornin’. And he’ll make sure to put on a proper show to impress the guests.”
That sounded like Silvanius, who never missed a chance to present himself as an important pillar of provincial government. “You told him a bit about the visitors, then?”
“Just a little.” He
lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I thought he ought to be prepared. He was real interested. And real nice, too. He gave me and Castor some wine, and offered to let us stay the night, but I wanted to get back here.”
“Good, that’s fine. Thank you.”
“It was easy. Except now I’m not sure if I’m glad or sorry to be home.”
“Why, what’s happened?”
“I’ve found something bad. I didn’t know what to do, and there wasn’t any point wakening anyone up. I was hoping you’d be the first to see it.”
“Thanks very much!”
He grinned. “I mean you’ll know what’s to be done. You always do. The others’ll just flap around like a box of birds.”
“Then you’d better not keep me in suspense. Tell me the worst!”
“I’ll show you, better still.” He turned towards the old shed. It was dilapidated and shabby, and we used it only to dump odds and ends, since we built our smart new stone carriage-house. The door was half off its hinges, and creaked as Titch pushed it open. “Sorry, this isn’t very nice, Mistress.”
It was gloomy inside, with only one unglazed window at the back to let in a small amount of the dawn light. The earth floor was strewn with sacks, broken tools, wheels, and old harness parts, and in the corner furthest from the door Poppaea and the puppies were ensconced in a big wooden box half-filled with hay. As I came in, the bitch sprang up and barked, her hackles rising.
“All right, girl, quiet now. She’s a bit jumpy, and no wonder. There, Mistress, look.” He pointed to the window.
A man was lying beneath it—a man’s body, I should say, because even from a distance I could tell he was dead.
I made myself walk over and look at him. He was a well-built brown-haired man in his twenties, with a pleasant face and wide-set brown eyes staring up at the ceiling. His pale features stood out starkly against his blue tunic, and the layer of snow that had floated in through the window couldn’t quite hide the blood that stained the cloth. There was a lot of blood, because he’d been stabbed in the neck, not very neatly. I assumed he’d done this himself, because his right hand lay across his chest, his fingers loosely curled round the hilt of a sword. His left was at his side, touching a folded piece of papyrus on the floor.
Gods, two dead bodies in less than twenty-four hours! I swallowed hard and managed to turn away only briefly, then I looked again more closely. “One of Sempronia’s bodyguards, wasn’t he?”
Titch nodded. “Aye. His name was Leander.”
“Poor lad. I saw him helping groom their horses yesterday. And you found him here—when?”
“First thing, before it was even light. I came in to feed the dogs, and there he was.”
“And he was dead when you found him? You’re certain?”
“No doubt of it. Stone cold and stiff.”
I reached down and felt his face. It was like ice. “And you haven’t touched anything?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t like to.”
“I suppose nobody uses this place now. When did you move the pups in here?”
“Last night, just before dark. He wasn’t here then, and neither was anyone else. And see, there’s some snow on him. It’s blown in through the window.”
“Yes. So he’s been lying in that spot since before it stopped snowing, which means about—what time did it stop? Somewhere round the third hour after dark?”
“I think so. It was clear and still when me and Castor went to Oak Bridges.”
I gently brushed the snow from the dead slave’s tunic, then gingerly tried to release the sword-hilt from his fingers, but I couldn’t. The stiffness of death held him fast. Another fact that pointed to early last night as the time when he’d been killed.
I straightened up again. “I don’t recognise the sword. It must belong to one of the visitors.”
“Aye, it does.” Titch indicated the hilt. “All their weapons have the letter P on them, for Plautius. Their lads were telling us about it, boasting that nobody could steal their gear and get away with it. But I’d say poor Leander wasn’t all that used to handling one. It’s not a very clean wound, is it?”
We heard footsteps outside, and then Albia’s voice spoke from the doorway.
“Relia, here you are! We’ve been looking everywhere. Margarita was getting quite worried—I think she thought you’d run off. Gods, what’s happened here?” She came into the old building and stopped short. Poppaea jumped to her feet and growled.
“Don’t worry, girl.” Titch went over and stroked his dog. “Saturn’s balls, something’s given her a real scare. I can’t leave her in here if she’s this upset.”
Albia gazed at the dead slave. “How dreadful! Leander, isn’t it—one of the bodyguards?” She came to stand beside me and examined him carefully, without touching. “He must have been here all night. And it looks as if he took his own life. Poor man!”
“Why, I wonder?” Titch said. “Just before the holiday, and all.”
“What’s that in the dogs’ box?” I walked very gently across to their corner. Poppaea eyed me warily, and then relaxed as I began to stroke her. I reached my hand down into the hay, but she growled again and bared her teeth. “This isn’t like her, Titch. Whatever happened here last night must have frightened her. Look, can you reach into this pile of hay? There’s something half buried in it, something blue.”
The dog made no objection as Titch plunged his hand into the hay and brought out a piece of blue woollen cloth.
“That’s come from one of Sempronia’s slaves,” Albia said. “Their cloaks and tunics are all that colour. The edge is frayed, look, so it’s been torn off somehow.”
“Bitten off by Poppaea, I reckon.” Titch patted the dog’s head. “Leander came too close to the pups and you went for him, didn’t you, girl?”
Albia took the cloth and held it rigid between her hands. “Yes, there are holes in it, and blood on it too.”
“Victor! Victor! Are you there, Victor?” a shrill childish voice called from outside.
“Gods,” Albia exclaimed, “it’s Gaius. He mustn’t see this. Make sure he stays out of here, Titch, won’t you?”
The lad nodded. “I’ll be glad to be out meself, now Mistress Aurelia has some company. I’m going to move the dogs out too. They’ll have to go back in the main stable block.”
“Victor! Where are you?” The child was closer, and Titch hurried out.
I went over again to where Leander lay, and examined his cloak. As far as I could see it was undamaged. “That’s odd.” I pulled the cloak back, but there were no bruises or bites on his legs or arms. “If she didn’t bite this poor man, then somebody else was in here last night.”
“Have you had a look at that piece of papyrus yet?” Albia asked.
“No.” I reached down and picked it up. “I assume it’s a note explaining why he killed himself.” I unfolded the paper, which was oddly-shaped, a small uneven scrap torn from a larger sheet. It had a few Latin words scrawled on it. The letters were crudely formed but legible enough.
I’M SORRY FOR DOING SUCH A WICKED THING. PLEASE FORGIVE ME.
I handed it to Albia. “Does that give us the answer? He took his life in a fit of remorse?”
She stared at it doubtfully, pushing a loose strand of hair out of her eyes. “He doesn’t name the ‘wicked thing’ he’s done, but he doesn’t need to.”
“I’m not so sure. Did he mean it was wicked to try to kill Plautius, or to murder Idmon by mistake? I’d say that’s two wicked things.”
“Stop being pedantic. We’re discussing a suicide note, not a work of literature.”
“Yes, I suppose so.” Suddenly a new thought struck me. “If Leander killed himself and admits trying to kill his master, then Plautius will have to accept that we’re innocent. This poor man’s death puts us in the clear.”
“By the gods, so it does!” We turned and hugged one another, taking in the relief of knowing we were no longer under suspicion. I realise this mu
st sound horribly unkind, but after the tensions of the last day, all I could think of was that the slave’s suicide must put our innocence beyond a shadow of doubt.
I was impatient to tell Plautius, but it was too early yet to go calling on a sick man, so I snatched a hurried breakfast and then went outside to do my morning rounds. Everything was in order in the stables, and Ursulus told me he’d set some of the farm boys to carting hay from the rick-yard into the barns and store-rooms closer to the house. “Can’t be too careful, with these young scamps about.”
“You’re right, we must be on our guard. By the way, I met the man Otus last night, the boss of the lads who helped us put the fire out. He asked me if a few of his men could sleep in that old roundhouse near the rick-yard now and then. In exchange for keeping an eye out for fire-raisers, he said.”
Ursulus raised an eyebrow. “Oh aye? And what did you say to him?”
“No.”
“You did right. Give people like that an inch, they’ll take a mile. I’ll warn my lads to keep their eyes open. I know, how about if I tell a couple of them to sleep in the old house themselves, just till we’re sure the gang have moved on?”
“Good idea, Ursulus, yes. And I’ll go and tell Secundus and the horse-boys.”
Secundus’ reaction was almost word for word the same as Ursulus’. “You did right. We can’t be doing favours for people like that. I’ll tell everyone to keep their eyes open.”
Titch and Gaius came out of the tack-room just then. When he saw me Titch said something swiftly to the boy, and came running over to me alone.
“I’ve been thinking, Mistress. About that note that was lying next to Leander in the shed. What did it say? Can I see it?”
I showed it to him. He read the words aloud slowly: “‘I’m sorry for doing such a wicked thing. Please forgive me.’ Aye, I thought so!” He tossed the papyrus in the air and caught it neatly. “Meant to look like a confession, as if he was doing away with hisself because he tried to kill his master.”