Enemies of the Empire

by Rosemary Rowe

  Marcus looked horrified at this, as if that implication had just occurred to him. ‘I can see your point. You think Plautus may have killed someone in Glevum and disposed of the body on the funeral pyre? I suppose it’s possible. The face was covered for the ritual – horribly crushed under the falling masonry, they said. So it’s quite possible it wasn’t Plautus after all, although we all assumed it was. Dear Jupiter! What an amazing thought! Ah – dates!’

  A military orderly had come bustling in, all importance, with a small bowl of these honeyed dainties which he offered to my patron first, as the senior person present. Marcus took the whole dish from him, selected the biggest fruit and ate it absently without relinquishing the bowl. The orderly looked bewildered and chagrined and – finding himself superfluous – backed out again.

  Marcus picked out another juicy date. As I had eaten nothing but one measly oatcake since my stale bread of the night before, I watched him with envious interest. ‘But why should Plautus come here in any case?’ he said, taking another thoughtful bite. ‘Venta is hardly the safest destination one would think of for a Roman citizen, especially one outside the protection of the law.’ He laughed grimly. ‘And since he is officially dead, I suppose, he is outside the law’s protection, whether he killed anyone or not.’

  ‘Perhaps that was the attraction, Excellence. It is the last place anyone would look,’ I said. ‘But there is one possible reason why he chose the place. Plautus only gained his citizenship late in life, by wealth and effort. He was not born to it. He has the red hair of a Silurian. Perhaps he comes from somewhere in this area and has family here. If so, what could be more natural than that, if he was responsible for someone’s death – even if it was an accident – he should come home to hide until the threat was past?’

  ‘If I may dare make a suggestion here, your mightiness,’ the optio put in, with careful deference, ‘it might be possible to search the tax records. You say this citizen is wealthy, so no doubt his relatives are too. If he or his family have property hereabouts, it must be liable for tax.’

  Marcus rewarded him, not only with a smile, but by offering him the platter of dates. ‘An excellent suggestion. I wonder I did not think of it myself. His full name is Gaius Flaminius Plautus. That should not be too difficult to find. Send for the keeper of the scrolls at once.’

  ‘Excellence, with all respect . . .’ I began. Why does it always fall to me to point out the obvious? Marcus was starting to look grim again. ‘If Plautus holds property himself, there is no difficulty at all. It will be registered in his Latin name. But although he has a Roman name himself, his family may not be Flaminians, unless they are all citizens themselves. The name would have been bestowed upon him with his rank.’

  Marcus was looking unimpressed by this. ‘So what name do you think we should be looking for?’

  ‘That is another problem, Excellence. It is impossible to guess. It is possible he holds land here in his own name, of course. But his fortune was in Glevum, according to his will. And I’m only guessing that he has family hereabouts. But it is a smallish town. You could ask the tax collector if he has any recollection of dealing with a man who has a livid scar across his face – or if he knows a family which has such a son.’

  Marcus snorted, but the optio signalled to a man beside the door, and a messenger was soon dispatched to find the keeper of rolls. ‘In fact, if I might suggest it, Excellence,’ the optio was still intent on demonstrating how helpful he could be, ‘it is possible that one of my men would have some recollection of the man you seek. Or a member of the town watch, possibly. We know that he was in Venta yesterday – someone must have seen him pass the gates. Would you care to have me make enquiries?’

  Marcus shrugged. ‘It can’t do any harm. Though – when I consider what Libertus says he saw – I’m not entirely convinced that it was not a sign or omen of some kind, rather than an actual living man. We should consult the augurers perhaps. I presume they will still be in session with the court?’

  I looked at my patron with surprise. He is not usually a believer in such things. Of course, he is sometimes obliged to call the augurers – they are regularly consulted by senior magistrates when there is any dispute over the outcome of a trial and no decisive evidence can be brought on either side. But he is not usually much in awe of the result. Last time we spoke of it, he agreed with me that although the method is sometimes surprisingly efficient, this is usually because the guilty man, half crazed with fearing what the torturers will do, begins to believe in earnest that the gods will speak and hence confesses of his own accord, rather than as a result of anything the augurer actually concludes from inspecting entrails or the shape of clouds.

  This time, however, he seemed in earnest. Even the optio seemed a bit surprised. ‘I believe they are in session, Excellence. I will have them called.’

  I risked a little joke. ‘Perhaps the augurers can also tell you, Excellence, which spirit wrote that note? And what has happened to Promptillius and the treasure chest? Or would you prefer to make some enquiries yourself, and talk to that woman from the brothel, and the butcher’s boys?’ Although Marcus observes the public sacrifices to the Emperor, of course, and would not dream of dining without proper libations to the gods, he is usually fairly sceptical where the omen-readers are concerned.

  This time, however, he was not amused. ‘This is not a moment for your levity, Libertus. If it were not for you, we should not be in this dilemma now and I should not have lost a valuable slave. However, I suppose you’re right. It would be sensible to talk to them. And since both the butcher and the brothel-keeper have premises in town, it’s possible the drains-and-water tax might throw some light on them. Officer, can you see to that, as well?’

  ‘At once, Excellence,’ the optio said, getting obediently to his feet, though he looked less than delighted with his task. ‘I’ll deal with it myself. In the meantime would you care to have the mansio kitchen send in a little food? It is well past noon.’

  Marcus looked thoughtfully at the dish of dates, and I thought for one awful moment that he would refuse, but after a moment he inclined his head. ‘Since, thanks to Libertus, we have had to change our plans, I suppose it would be wise. And since we will not be in Isca till tomorrow night, I should also send a messenger to the commander there – and one to my home in Glevum too – to tell them of the alteration to our timetable.’

  The optio was walking backwards, bobbing all the time, such was his desire to look industrious. I guessed that Marcus had made his feelings very plain about the wisdom of conniving at my market-trip, and the poor man was clearly desperate to atone. He ran an anxious tongue round his lips. ‘I’ll see that it’s arranged at once. Leave everything to me.’

  And, still bobbing, he backed out of the room. My patron looked at me, and for the first time since yesterday he relaxed his frown – although one could not pretend he actually smiled.

  ‘Well, Libertus, I must say I’m relieved not to have been forced to find against you in the court. If I’d been obliged to have you exiled – or worse – I should have missed your company very much. Though I must say that I expected better of you than to go out, dressed like that, when you are part of my official retinue. How do you think these things reflect on me? That tunic is an absolute disgrace. I understand this mansio has a bath-suite of a kind – a cold plunge, anyway, for passing soldiery. Go and make use of it and find yourself something more respectable to wear.’

  The rebuke was far less harsh than I had feared. I nodded. ‘Excellence!’ I was in the act of following the optio’s example, and bowing myself, when another sobering thought occurred to me. I was obliged to stop and stutter out the words, ‘Excellence, I’m very much afraid I don’t have a toga to change into any more. From what I understand, Promptillius took my possessions with him when he went. Is there a member of our retinue, a slave perhaps, who might have a spare clean tunic I could use meanwhile? And do I have your permission to send a note back to my household, when
you send your messenger? I have another tunic back at home, and an ancient toga too, of sorts. I can arrange to have it sent out after me.’

  Marcus was looking furious again at my unseemly lack of suitable attire, but clearly there was no alternative. He gave a brusque, dismissive nod. ‘Very well,’ he muttered tersely, and applied himself to nibbling dates again. By the time I came back – glowing from the cold plunge, and wrapped in an old tunic of the optio’s which was far too wide for me, and didn’t reach my knees – he’d eaten every one of them.

  He had, however, managed to obtain a battered writing tablet and a stylus for my use, so after a stout midday meal of army broth and bread, I sat down and drafted a letter to my wife and included some instructions for Junio, my slave. Since he was making samples of possible designs for the pavement of Plautus’s memorial it occurred to me that, by calling to show them at the house, he would be well placed to make a few discreet enquiries. However, I knew that Marcus would not approve of that – it has never been his nature to stir up hornets’ nests. So, after a little thought, I closed up the tablet at the hinge and, having tied it carefully, sealed the tapes with melted tallow-wax. It looked like the sort of makeshift fastening that anyone might use when sending a letter between distant towns: not a proper ring-seal, suggesting secrecy, but probably enough to stop Marcus from casually reading it before he passed it on. I reasoned that he could not overrule my instructions to my slave if he did not know that I was making them.

  I need not have worried. Marcus handed my letter over to the messenger without a second glance, along with several missives of his own, and they were on their way to Glevum shortly afterwards. My patron was much more concerned with the information, brought by the optio, that neither the butcher nor his boys could be found. However, his men had rounded up the butcher’s brother, who had been left to mind the shop, and he was waiting in a back room of the mansio. Would Marcus care to come and question him?

  Marcus would. He made a point of not inviting me – evidently I was still in disgrace. However, the man must have said something to the soldiers who had brought him in. I waited for the optio to come back through the court and intercepted him, bustling and busy though he obviously was.

  The optio looked dismayed at seeing me. ‘Now what do you want?’ he said ungraciously. ‘I can’t stop to talk. His Excellence is furious with me as it is – he seems to blame me for the whole event. Just when I was hoping to make a good impression on a man of influence, and perhaps be made up to centurion by and by.’

  ‘This is as much in your interest as mine,’ I said. I outlined what I wanted.

  He shrugged.’ There isn’t any mystery at all. The butcher, it seems, summoned both his sons last night and went out with his donkey cart at dusk. Took some skins out to a tannery a few miles down the road, and from there he was going on to visit a few of the larger stockholders nearby, to haggle for extra animals. There are some public feast-days coming up.’

  ‘And that’s not unusual?’

  ‘Apparently he does the same thing every day or two. He keeps a large cart in a private stable not far from the gate, expressly for expeditions like this. It’s a useful thing all round. It disposes of the waste materials from the stall and makes him a little extra on the side. He takes out the bones and ‘block-bits’ too, his brother says, all the ends and trimmings that he can’t get rid of here.’

  ‘Surely he could find somebody to buy the odds and ends?’ I said, remembering Lupus and his thermopolium.

  He laughed. ‘He does. He sells them to forest-borderers, it seems, though he will hardly make his fortune doing that. Those people have no land: they scrape a living out of selling wood and bits of anything that they can scavenge by the road. They’ll take anything he has: little scraps of flyblown meat – they boil that up for soup – or even bits of bone and teeth. The womenfolk carve ornaments from them and sell them to people passing by – I’ve seen them hawking the wretched things myself. Apparently they have a barter system with the butcher – he gets things like firewood in exchange.’

  ‘So he went out there at dusk?’ I said, and realised what a daft remark that was. Of course he went at dusk – wheeled transport could not operate by day. ‘Is he not afraid of brigands, in the dark?’

  ‘I suppose he’s used to it. He and the boys sometimes stay overnight with relatives who have some land out there. They’ll be home again tonight – or tomorrow at the latest – and then we can bring them in and question them. Till then, that’s all the information that we’re going to get. His Excellence is going all through it with the man again, but I really don’t think he’s got anything to add. He wasn’t even at the butcher’s yesterday: he’s got his own stall selling something else – and, in case you were going to ask, his wife looks after that when he takes his brother’s place. All quite a family affair – like everything round here. Look, there he is. I see they’ve let him go. He’ll be pleased at that. We dragged him from the market as he was – bloodied arms and all – and he is obviously anxious to get back to the shop.’ He made an exasperated face. ‘And I must go as well. I am expecting a messenger to come from Lyra’s house. I’ve been in enough trouble over you!’

  He hurried off. I looked where he had pointed, and sure enough, there was the man in question scurrying away. He was a hunched and furtive-looking little man and had clearly been brought in straight from the market-stall: he was wrapped in the bloodied leather apron that all butchers wear and he still bore streaks of spattered flesh and fur. I grinned. Marcus would not have enjoyed his interview with that!

  The fellow saw me looking and glowered fiercely back. I had a strong impression that I’d seen him somewhere before, though after all the anxieties of the last few days I couldn’t for the moment work out where. I was still standing, staring after him, when the optio’s other messenger arrived, saying that Lyra was nowhere to be found. She had been in her rooms this morning, it appeared, but now she had gone out and none of her girls knew where she was.

  ‘Touting for business, probably, or visiting some special customer,’ the rider said to me, with a suggestive leer. He swung down from his horse, and gave it to a mansio-slave who took it round the back to stable it again. ‘I’ve left orders for her to report here as soon as she returns. That seems to be the best that I can do. Are you going to tell His Excellence the news, or do you want me to?’

  ‘You tell him,’ I said quickly, though I felt a little qualm as I watched him swagger off towards my patron’s room with innocently cheerful confidence. I knew what Marcus’s mood was apt to be when his plans were frustrated in this way. I made myself as scarce as possible, but even from the stables I could hear the bellowing.

  Chapter Eleven

  I did not see my patron again all afternoon: he had himself carried off in a private litter to the public baths where he was no doubt soothed and entertained by meeting the wealthy officials of the town, and the delights of hot plunge pools and steam. I had already had my chilly dip in the mansio bath-house and – ridiculous in my ill-fitting borrowed garb – could not go anywhere, not even to the market for that clasp. My tunic had been taken to the fuller’s to be cleaned, but I knew that it would be at least another day before I could expect it to be returned to me.

  There was nothing for it but to hang around the inn, and a very boring afternoon it was. Even the optio had no time to chat. I guessed that Marcus had been short with him. He had lost his air of polished eagerness, and hurried distractedly about, bellowing orders and ignoring me. A series of officials bustled in and out for hasty conferences in his private room and I guessed that this was part of an attempt to make the enquiries which Marcus had required. I would have loved to ask a question or two of these men myself, but the optio was quite abrupt when I suggested it, and without my patron to intercede for me there was nothing I could do.

  In the end I went back to my room and went to sleep – a rare enough pleasure in the afternoon, but a welcome one, after the discomforts of the night b
efore.

  We dined in the optio’s private quarters later on, at his request. He was clearly very proud of his domain, and if he had offended Marcus, this evening was intended to atone.

  There was a proper dining couch – though only one instead of the more usual three, because his private dining room was small. Still, there were slaves to serve us with the meal, and the young officer fussed about to arrange us suitably on his solitary couch, as if he were presiding at a major feast.

  ‘Your Excellence, if you would take the guest of honour’s seat, there on my right hand, I, as host, shall have the central one, and I have also invited a town official whom I was sure you would be interested to meet. He will be sitting on my other side.’

  He gestured to the individual in question, a stout, self-important man with gigantic sandy eyebrows as big as tufts of reeds – the sure sign of a provincial. I saw Marcus flinch. Like any pure-blooded Roman my patron would endure hours of discomfort at his barber’s hands – tweezers, bat’s blood depilatories, anything – rather than appear in a public place looking like that.

  This apparition was the local censor, it appeared, the town senator responsible for keeping the taxation records for the civitas and the surrounding area, and he was blithely unaware of his offence. On the contrary, he was inflated, like a bullfrog, with his own self-importance and portentousness. Marcus rarely dined with town officials of such lowly rank, but the man was clearly oblivious of that: in Venta he was an important personage, and he condescended to us wonderfully.

  Since all three places on the dining couch were thus accounted for, I was placed at one end of the table on an uncomfortable stool. I had swapped my borrowed tunic for a borrowed synthesis – the sort of combination robe and toga generally reserved for special feasts – in which I looked, if possible, even more absurd. In this setting it was wholly out of place. Even the optio wore informal dress. He was reclining in a simple yellow robe – and looking entirely at home.