Cautiously I made my way along the shadowed streets, trying to recall my earlier movements and retrace my steps. I expected at every turn to hear footfalls behind me and know that someone was trailing me again, and once I did pause – thinking I heard a muffled, rhythmic thump – but it was only my own heart pounding in my ears.
I went up the alleyway where I’d followed Plautus earlier, and came to the narrow passage by the fuller’s shop. If I wished to find my hot-soup stall with certainty, there was little choice but to go where I had gone before, and edge up there in the dark and wet. I almost baulked at the prospect, but then I remembered the dining knife I carried at my belt. Marcus had given it to me quite recently, and I’d had it newly sharpened for this trip. I took it out, wishing that I’d recalled it earlier: it was not much protection but it made me feel a good deal more confident. Thus armed, I made my way gingerly up the sinister and oppressive little passageway, but encountered nothing worse than stench, the slippery blackness and the now relentless rain.
I reached the corner where the armour stall had been. Still nothing. The stalls were closed up long ago, the piles of wares all taken in and locked away from thieves. Lacking these landmarks, it was hard to find my way – the street seemed longer and wider than before and ominously empty.
I moved to the very centre of the road, between the carriage ruts, telling myself that there I was less likely to be surprised by anyone lurking in a doorway, or watching from a window space above. My sandals seemed to make a startling slapping noise on the wet paving stones, and I was getting drenched, but nobody threw open window shutters to shout down at me, and the one couple I passed (slaves, by their tunics, underneath an arch) were too busy with each other to pay much heed to me. Or so, at least, I hoped.
Then, on the distant corner of the street, I recognised the thermopolium. To my surprise I saw the glow of torches from within and the door stood wide ajar. The soup stall was still open, seemingly – certainly there were people in the shop. Quite a group of people – some of them women, by the look of it. I could see their shadows on the wall as I approached.
Suddenly I felt a flare of hope. I remembered how Lupus, the owner of the shop, had said to me that he’d thought of letting out a room. Of course, his wife had voiced objections to the plan, and he’d done nothing further, but it did occur to me that there might be sufficient space upstairs for me to sleep somewhere. It was just possible that his wife could be persuaded to agree. I would be prepared to pay them very well – the whole contents of my purse, if necessary – and I remembered that the woman was a Christian. I don’t have much dealing, in the normal way, with followers of that extraordinary cult but they have the reputation of being honest folk, even if their beliefs are rather odd. An appeal to her religion might well do the trick and save me tramping further through the wet.
Well, there was only one way to find out. I took a deep breath and tiptoed down the street towards the open door, still keeping circumspectly to the far side of the road. I saw that the females were not the wolf-house girls, as I had half expected at this hour, but a group of ageing, stoutish matrons in sturdy Celtic plaid. The men – by their fish-scale armour, brawny arms and leather tunics – looked like members of the town watch. All solid townspeople. No sign of Plautus or his youthful spies. Reassured, I crossed the road and made towards the doorway of the shop.
And then I saw what was lying on the floor – something which had been hidden from my view till now by the presence of the crowd of onlookers.
Lupus was sprawled against the counter, quite obviously dead. His tunic had been ripped aside and somebody had not only slit his throat, but savagely slashed that giant form from throat to stomach. There was more of Lupus oozing out onto the tiles than was good for anybody’s health. One of the watch was standing over him, holding the lighted taper in his hand.
Lupus’s wife was standing, shaking, in another woman’s arms, convulsed with silent sobbing, while the others looked on, silent and appalled. It was like a dumb-show at the theatre, representing death.
I suppressed the cry of horror which had risen to my lips, but before I could even think of slipping off again, Lupus’s wife glanced up and saw my face. Her eyes bulged with astonishment. She shrugged herself free from the arm that sought to comfort her and raised an accusing finger at me as she found her voice.
‘That’s him. That’s the man. The one I was telling you about. He came in and was drinking with Lupus here tonight. I saw them together with my own two eyes. See, he is still carrying a knife! Seize him, guards. I accuse him of this killing. You are all witnesses to that.’
Before I had the chance to think, let alone make any move at all, I found myself – for the second time that night – flung up against the wall. The town-watch guards were rougher than my drunken friends had been, and more efficient too. The knife was knocked flying from my hand, and I was bound – none too gently – at the wrists. At the same time a filthy rag was stuffed in my mouth and I was jerked painfully upright again by the remnants of my already thinning hair.
It was of no use to struggle and I was powerless to protest – the woman had made a formal accusation, in front of witnesses, and the only escape now was through the courts. A man can only be prosecuted, of course, if he is captured and delivered by his accuser to the authorities, but I had saved the watch the trouble and expense of catching me by walking straight into their arms.
The senior guard insisted on the usual formula. ‘Before Jupiter, and in the name of Rome, you accuse this man of crime?’
She nodded. ‘Didn’t I just say so? Who else could it have been? He was here with Lupus just before he died. When I came out, he scuttled off – I thought he looked suspicious at the time. There was no one else about. I went into the back room – just to rinse the dirty cups in a bowl of water which I keep out there – and the moment I was gone he must have slipped back here and cut my husband’s throat. There was no time for anybody else to get into the shop. I was gone an instant, no more, when I heard the thump. When I came back I found poor Lupus, lying there – like this. And he hadn’t even been baptised.’ She burst out again in helpless sobs.
The smaller guard nodded sagely. ‘Anything missing, that you know about?’
She looked down at the body on the floor. ‘He still has the arm-purse that he was wearing,’ she said, with some surprise. ‘I probably disturbed the villain before he had a chance to cut it free. The money chest from underneath the counter’s gone.’
I was amazed. Christians in general avoid the law – their refusal to swear upon the Roman gods, particularly the Emperor himself, often leads to their being executed for treason themselves. And here was this woman making baseless charges against me! I tried to make a protest, but the gag prevented it. I managed only a muffled ‘Mwmm!’ before a sharp jerk brought my head up painfully and almost pulled my hair out by the roots, reminding me that speech was not allowed.
‘You mind your manners,’ the guard said nastily. ‘You’re coming to the jail with us. We’ll soon see then what you’ve got to say.’
I nodded dumbly. This was not what I’d imagined earlier. I could have endured a night locked up in a military cell, inside the mansio. But this would take me to the public jail. I only hoped that I would have a chance to speak before they gave me to the torturers. If matters proceeded according to the letter the law, I would have a brief chance to state my case before a magistrate – and so reach Marcus, possibly – but I was not even confident of that. The evening had gone from terrible to worse. However, there was little help for it. I submitted to what was, in any case, inevitable now, and did not struggle as they looped a second rope round my neck and led me ignominiously away.
At least, I told myself, shivering with damp and tiredness and cold, this solved the problem of where I would spend the night.
Chapter Eight
The evening when they dragged me to the town jail in Venta is not one I wish to dwell upon and certainly not one I’m anxious to
repeat. First I was hustled through the rainy streets, almost more quickly than my legs and heart would stand. One of the guards was holding the halter round my neck, and he kept jerking it and dragging me along so I was half choked to death and scrabbling like a stray dog on a leash. Nor was this a private spectacle. The clop of hobnailed sandals and the clank of armour must have alerted the sleeping townspeople, because doorways and window spaces which had been empty when I passed before were suddenly alive with curious onlookers. As we passed the closed-up bath-house, there were even jeers.
We halted at the prison, a dismal building in a courtyard. The stone walls were as thick as tree trunks and, judging from the steep steps leading downwards from the door, much of the accommodation was underground. A bleary warder with a torch came out to squint at us.
‘This one’s accused of murdering a hot-soup seller down the bath-house end of town, and stealing all his gold. Claims he isn’t guilty, but don’t they all? We found him with a knife. Stick him in a dungeon overnight, and tomorrow we’ll see what the inquisitors can do,’ my captor said, shoving me forward into the jail.
My mouth was still tightly bound so I could not protest, and they pushed me without ceremony down the flight of stairs to where a leering guard unlocked a heavy door.
There was very little light or air down there, but by the taper that the warder carried I could make out a sort of stinking cellar of a dungeon, where three wretched prisoners were already chained up. Not only were they tethered to the wall, but their hands and feet were linked by chains to a collar round the neck, so that the unfortunates could not sit or stand, and were compelled to grovel on their knees, like dogs, to lap for slops of food. It is a method often used by dealers when transporting slaves, so I know how uncomfortable it is.
The atmosphere was damp and foul, besides, and so cold that it struck instant chill into my bones. I shivered. I was already soaked through by the rain and a night in here would be the end of me, I thought – and even if I did survive, there would no doubt be torturers awaiting me at dawn, unless I could reach Marcus first. Something must be done.
I was almost at the limit of my strength after the progress through the town, but I gathered what effort I could still command and as one the guards undid the gag and pushed me down onto the filthy floor, I raised my head and managed to croak out the magic formula.
‘I am a Roman citizen. I appeal to the provincial governor.’
It was a desperate gamble, even then. Since the official governor, Pertinax, had left the country to take up his new African command there was a danger that, after this appeal, I would stay locked up until his successor was installed. However, since Marcus was opening the local court tomorrow, I hoped that they would call on him to deal with me – quickly, while he was still in town. It was likely that they would: since he was Pertinax’s representative and the senior magistrate for miles around, it would have been an insult to his dignity to do otherwise.
Of course, it was possible that he would decline to hear the case, I was aware of that. He could not know that I was in the dock. No one, so far, had even asked my name. It was clear that my captors would not risk his wrath by interfering with the feast to carry any messages from me, and since he was not returning to the mansio that night, he was quite unaware that I was not tucked up safely in my bed.
‘I appeal to the imperial courts,’ I said again.
One of my escorts gave a scornful laugh and aimed a kick at me, and for a moment I thought they would dismiss the whole idea, just as the soldier at the mansio had done. But the warden, in particular, was looking doubtful now.
‘Here, look out,’ he said. ‘Suppose he’s right? The penalties for mistreating a citizen are severe. And why would he claim to be one if he’s not? That’s a capital offence.’
The town guard who had dragged me by the neck looked contemptuous. ‘Him, a citizen? Then what was he doing down the bath-house end of town at night? You don’t have to be a sibyl to know that’s not very safe.’ One of the prisoners made a snorting sound at this, and the guard repaid him with a savage blow.
All the same, the warder seemed to feel that Roman authority had been called into question by the guard’s remark. ‘We are the representatives of Roman law round here, and we have things under control. It’s just that it isn’t sensible to go where you’re not welcome after dark. But if he is a stranger to the town – and I for one have not set eyes on him before – it is just possible he didn’t know.’
He gestured to the others to join him at the door. There was a hurried consultation in which I strained to catch the words ‘can’t be too careful . . . what have we to lose? . . . it will be the worse for him tomorrow, if it proves a lie’.
I was fortunate. The two members of the town watch still looked sceptical, but the warden’s wariness prevailed.
My escorts looked at each other and then, exchanging nods, came over to where I was still sprawling helpless on the floor. ‘We’ll give you the benefit of the doubt, my friend, but woe betide you if you’re telling lies,’ the younger man muttered as he yanked me to my feet. That was as much of an apology as I was going to get.
‘If you are a citizen, why didn’t you tell us earlier?’ The other guard, who had pushed me over, was suddenly concerned to dust my tunic down, where it was stained by contact with the soiled muck on the floor. He sounded mildly aggrieved. ‘How were we supposed to know that you were anyone?’
I attempted to point out that I’d not had the chance to tell them anything, since they’d forced that wretched rag between my teeth. One of the pathetic creatures chained against the wall let out a feeble murmur of encouragement at this, and was promptly beaten for his pains.
The warder was anxious to cut short my complaint. ‘A most unfortunate mistake, but it is over now. And I had no part in it. I hope you will remember that, if you turn out to be telling the truth and there’s any official complaint. Now, we’ll take you somewhere a little more appropriate. If you will come with us . . .?’
He hurried forward with his torch and keys to push back the heavy door, and I found myself being propelled upstairs again almost as quickly as I’d been hustled down. Bound and still haltered as I was, I slipped and stumbled, but the two guards took my arms and half supported me, until we came to a small room halfway up the stairs.
It was still a prison cell, there was no doubt of that, but it was a good deal better than the wretched hole downstairs. Here there was a pile of cleanish straw, a proper cup and drinking jug (though both were chained to the wall), and – best of all – a little window-opening high up overhead, through which night air was blowing, wet and cold and carrying the tang of horse dung from the street, but blessedly fresh and pure compared to the atmosphere I’d breathed below.
One of my erstwhile escorts slipped the rope noose from my neck, while the other slashed the knot that bound my hands. With my arms free it was possible to rub the spot where my makeshift halter had been chafing me, and by the glow of the torch – with which the warder was now lighting a small taper on the wall (another concession to the status I claimed) – I could see the raw lines on my wrists where the tight bonds had been. Roman-trained guards know how to tie a knot.
The warder was still all concern for me. He seemed to be a decent sort, according to his lights. ‘I could bring you a bit of ointment, if you can pay for it,’ he said. ‘And a woollen cloth of sorts. Might make a kind of blanket for you overnight. And in the morning, you can see the governor of the jail, and tell him who you are. You let him know that I looked after you. There’s water in the jug, and I think there might be a bit of bread upstairs. Anything else, you can send out for when it’s light – supposing that you possess a purse? Otherwise there might be a moneylender who could see you through, if you can sign the right assurances.’
I shook my head. ‘I know what kind of interest those feneratores demand, especially if they know you’re desperate.’ I didn’t add the obvious, that few men are more desperate than a prisoner in
a cell. They force you to pledge everything you own for the most basic of commodities, and the contract is binding under law, so that even if the wretched prisoner is found guilty of his crime and executed, the debt is still enforceable and his surviving family has to pay. I would not subject my beloved wife to that.
The warder looked at me. ‘I can’t bring you anything unless you pay.’
‘The moneylenders won’t be necessary. Fortunately, I have some money of my own.’ I touched the drawstring pouch which was still hanging at my belt. ‘Although it appears that I have lost my knife somewhere. It is quite a valuable thing – I might have traded it for goods.’
If I hoped that the remark would disconcert the guards into returning my knife to me, I hoped in vain. The larger one laughed.
‘Oh no you don’t, my friend. That knife is evidence. Even if you prove that you’re a citizen, you had an illegal weapon in your hand. And we are witnesses. You can’t get out of that.’
I realised with a shiver that my knife had not simply been appropriated, as the belongings of accused men sometimes are. It would be produced against me at my trial, as proof that I was carrying a blade. That in itself was a capital offence, whether I was a citizen or not. Especially in this rebellious capital, no doubt, despite the stalls of armour in the streets and the dagger which Laxus had been wielding earlier.
Enemies of the Empire Page 7