Shadows in the Night: An Aurelia Marcella Roman Mystery (Aurelia Marcella Roman Series)

by Jane Finnis

  “I didn’t know it had a name before Father came.”

  “It is called Dru Nemeton. The place of the holy oaks.”

  “You mean this was one of your holy groves? Here, where the mansio is now?”

  He nodded, and then looked me squarely in the face. “Aurelia Marcella, I know you have had trouble here. I don’t want to see it becoming worse for you. You and your family have always lived in peace with our people. You’ve treated us well, and kept open house for all comers. As with me, now. Most Romans would have thrown me out, and sent for the town watch to arrest me.”

  “You’ve seen our town watch, I take it?”

  He laughed briefly, but then became grave again. “I’m old now, and close to death. We don’t fear death, because we know that our souls will move on to another life after this one, and so we will live forever.”

  It sounded weird. Everyone knows that death means descending into the underworld, except for a few poor lemures. But I was much too interested to interrupt.

  “Old age has its advantages,” he went on, “and one of them is coming to realise that not everything can or should be resolved by violence. Oh, I know what you Romans think of our religion. You think our gods are savage, primitive beings, and you believe we native Britons are the same.”

  “We’ve fought some bloody wars against your people,” I pointed out. “We’ve mostly seen you and your gods in anger. Now there are rumours of more trouble coming. It makes me sad. I don’t want war, I want peace. I want to make my life here, and die here in my own bed. Live and let live, that’s my motto. But if anyone attacks us, we’ll defend ourselves. This is our home.”

  I hadn’t meant to speak so bluntly, but it didn’t seem to disconcert him. “I know. I even understand. Your father brought you here when you were young; he took this land—”

  “He was given a land-grant by the Governor! He didn’t just steal it.”

  “Yet the land was stolen, before your time, perhaps before your father’s time. Stolen from our gods, and our tribesmen who used to worship them here. Do you see what that means?”

  “You’re saying you want the land back, and I should just walk away and let you take it? Never!”

  “I’m not presuming to advise you. I am simply telling you that others are saying it. Younger men, with hotter heads, who long for the old days. They will bring those old days back at the sword’s point, if they can.”

  “And kill us all in the process?”

  “Not if you go peacefully.” He shifted in his chair, and leaned forward to look at me intently. His black eyes were very piercing, reminding me of Hawk’s. “If you were to agree to leave now, I could guarantee you’d have no more trouble here.”

  “Guarantee? So you can control these young warriors?”

  “Up to a point.”

  “Then can’t you stop them attacking us? Everybody knows that all I want to do is live here peaceably. I’ve no quarrel with the natives, if they’ll leave us alone. Can’t you make them see that?”

  “When a tribe decides to go to war,” he answered, “it’s like a river flooding. It carries everything away, with a tremendous force, and nobody can stop it. I can redirect its course a little, that’s all.”

  “And if I refuse to leave?”

  “Don’t refuse. Try to understand what is at issue here. The river of war among my people is approaching its full spate now, and it will fling you aside if you try to block its course. They will sweep all Romans out of Brigantia, perhaps even out of Britannia altogether.”

  “Get out or die….Yes, we’ve received their message. But we’re not leaving. We’ve sworn an oath before our gods. We’re staying.”

  He sighed. “I feared you’d say that. I wish I could persuade you otherwise. Because our young men will soon take an oath too, to return this place of the sacred oaks to the old gods. A formal oath, sworn before the whole people. There will be no going back from it, once they have sworn. Which means….”

  “Destroying us and everything we’ve built. Well, let them try. Just let them try, that’s all!”

  “They will try, and they will succeed. Aurelia Marcella, I sense that you don’t take these young warriors seriously. You dismiss them as a band of hotheads, energetic and brave, but no match for your legions. Am I right?”

  “That about sums it up, yes.”

  “But you miss a much more important point. The young fighting men are the most obvious sign of Brigantia’s opposition to Rome, but they are not alone. All Brigantia is behind them, supporting and encouraging. And, as perhaps you know, some of your own people, too.”

  I looked at him intently. “Vitalis, you mean? He’s hardly more than a boy.”

  “A young man of courage and talent,” he smiled. “And also a young man who’s had a Roman education. So when it comes to serious matters, Vitalis will always do what his father tells him.”

  “I hope you’re right, but I wouldn’t bet on it.”

  “You safely could, I believe. But there are more Romans than young Vitalis who sympathise with our people’s ambitions.”

  “Oh? Who?” Well, it was worth a try.

  He shook his head. “That I can’t tell you. But I’ll say this much. When love feels itself betrayed, it turns to hate, and it is the bitterest hatred of all.”

  He got carefully to his feet, and began to walk slowly across the room.

  I’d have liked to pursue that; but there was something more urgent I needed to ask.

  “You said the young warriors will take an oath. When?”

  “Soon. This is the time of year when the youths dedicate themselves and are accepted by the tribe as full warriors.”

  “But when exactly?”

  He began to walk along the passage back into the bar-room. “Our ceremonies are not for the eyes of strangers. But it will not be long.”

  At the outer door, he turned to me. “I thank you for your hospitality, Aurelia Marcella. And I bid you a last farewell.”

  After he’d gone, I just stood rooted to the spot. His last farewell sounded a good deal too final for my liking. I don’t know how long I stayed there, seeing and hearing nothing, trying to digest what the old man had told me. Eventually a hand touched my shoulder, and I jumped. Albia was there, looking worried.

  “Relia, are you all right? I shouldn’t have left you alone with that old Druid. Has he put a curse on you?”

  “No, nothing like that.” I told her the gist of it.

  “When love feels itself betrayed,” she pondered. “Did he mean love of a person? Has the Shadow of Death been betrayed by his sweetheart, and taken to a life of killing?”

  “Gods, yes!” I repeated the story about Vedius murdering the tribune after his woman had betrayed him. But even as I recounted it, I felt doubtful. I didn’t think Vedius’ experience, however sad, would turn him into a rebel leader. And the Druid’s words had been ambiguous.

  “He didn’t say love of a person. He could have meant love of a country—of Rome.” That would fit in with Felix’s earlier revelations. Felix and Vedius…both bitter from betrayal. Both equally unlikely, in my view, to be the Shadow of Death. Which meant, as Quintus would say, they were both equally likely….

  “What was the Druid like?” Albia asked. “Friendly? Angry?”

  “Neither, really. A bit scary, perhaps. So calm and courteous….Now tell me about those young warrior boys out there. Did they behave themselves?”

  “Yes. They stayed together and were as good as gold. But of course they noticed the tree-felling near the house, and they saw Junius measuring out where the new stockade will be. I told them the army are helping us protect our property because of the troubles in this area.” She giggled. “I made it sound as if we’ve got a whole century of men here.”

  “Good. Oh, no, not another visitor! Am I never going to get any work done today?”

  She followed my gaze. Out on the forecourt a large carriage was pulling up, and Silvanius was getting out of it.

 
Like Felix, he had come to see how I was faring after my ordeal of the previous night. All this attention was very flattering, but I still had a mansio to run, and these interruptions weren’t helping at all. However, I answered all his questions, reassured him that I hadn’t suffered any ill effects, and took the chance to introduce him to Junius, who, it appeared, had become Prefect of Builders; at any rate he was very much in evidence around the outside of the house, whereas Quintus was nowhere to be seen.

  The three of us walked round the buildings and showed Silvanius the line of the new stockade. And I realised that Junius, young as he was, had fully mastered the art of dealing with pompous but important civilians. He asked Silvanius’ advice on one or two minor points, which I’m certain he didn’t need, and in no time Silvanius was congratulating us on our efforts and offering any help he could give.

  I tried not to show it, but I was in a dilemma. I needed his help, I wanted to accept it, but Quintus and Lucius were suggesting that Silvanius could be the Shadow of Death. I still found this hard to believe, but I had to consider it as a possibility. Could Silvanius’ help be in the nature of a Trojan horse?

  “You’re very kind, Clarus, but I think we are managing well enough for now. I’ll be sure to come to you if I need anything.”

  The sun was high and warm now, and customers were starting to arrive, but he seemed disposed to linger and chat. I offered him some refreshment in the garden. We sat by the pool, and it was hard to believe it was less than three days since we’d last sat there together sipping wine. We chatted in a desultory fashion, me trying to think of a tactful way to get him to leave without offence, and he, obviously, having something on his mind that he was finding difficult to talk about.

  I wanted to say “Spit it out, I haven’t got all day,” but I said instead, “Clarus, I hope you won’t think me presumptuous, but you and I are old friends, and I can tell there’s something bothering you. Something you want to discuss with me?”

  He looked relieved. “You’re very perceptive, Aurelia. There is something, in fact there are two things, neither of them very easy.”

  “You know I can be discreet.”

  “Well then, it’s Balbus. I heard something quite disturbing this morning. He’s been seen consorting with a known anti-Roman sympathiser, one of the old aristocrats. One of the names on our list.”

  “Who?”

  “Segovax Vericus.”

  The name made me start, and Silvanius saw my reaction.

  “Do you know him?” he asked.

  “Not personally. We’ve got some of the Segovax family as neighbours here, but not Vericus. It’s just that the leader of the gang that ambushed me was called Veric.”

  “It’s a common enough name, of course. Most of the Segovax clan live further west, in the heart of old Brigantia. They have never, how shall I put it, fully recognised the benefits of Roman rule.”

  “They could be rebels, in plain Latin.”

  “Yes, they could be. They were war-lords in the old days, and that’s how they think of themselves still. They supported Prince Venutius when he quarrelled with Queen Cartimandua, and a couple of the sons of the house were killed in the fighting when our troops came to the Queen’s rescue.”

  “And Balbus has been seen with them? Couldn’t he just be selling them pots? We all know Balbus would sell his wares to the gods of the Underworld if the price was right.”

  Silvanius smiled in spite of himself. “Well, perhaps. But it makes it difficult to trust someone when you know he’s keeping company with the enemy, even for quite innocent reasons.”

  “Absolutely.” I hoped nobody would tell him I’d recently been entertaining a Druid. “But after all, we only had our meeting and drew up our plans yesterday. So what Balbus did last market day or last month needn’t reflect how he feels now.”

  “No, that’s true.”

  “Of course,” I added, “there is this business of the paint.” I told him about Felix’s visit, and how he’d been so certain he’d seen the paint before. “I’m going to go down to Balbus’ shop and look for myself when I’ve got a spare couple of hours. While I’m there, I can try and sound him out about his contact with the old Brigantian families. See if he admits it, or denies it, or doesn’t think it’s important. His reaction might tell us quite a lot.”

  “Excellent! You do that, Aurelia, and tell me the result. All the same…I can’t believe Balbus is involved with rebels and traitors. Can you?”

  “No, Clarus, I can’t. Anybody less like a traitor it would be hard to imagine. But as my brother is fond of saying, the only sure thing about traitors is that they don’t look like traitors.”

  “Ah yes. Your brother,” Silvanius said unhappily. “That brings me to…oh dear. The last thing I want to do is cause offence, but….”

  “I shan’t take offence,” I reassured him.

  “Well, you know I’m calling a meeting of the Town Council tomorrow. So I’ve been spending the morning talking to various of my council colleagues. Some of them feel that your position here, running the Oak Tree, is a little—ah, irregular…and…well….”

  “Really? What does that mean?” As if I couldn’t guess.

  “A business, especially an official enterprise like a mansio—it’s more usual to have a man in charge.”

  “Have your colleagues got some fault to find with the way I run things here?” Attack was the best form of defence.

  “Oh not at all, not at all.”

  “Well then?”

  “Oh Aurelia, I fear I have offended you. But when your father died it was understood that your brother would take charge at the mansio, with you and Albia assisting him. He is here so rarely though. One or two of the council are beginning to feel that, in these dangerous times, the mansio should be in the strong hands of a man.”

  “Let me guess. Vedius Severus for one?”

  He nodded.

  “Is that what you think too, Clarus? That I can’t protect my home properly?”

  He considered seriously. “No, it is not. I believe that you do an excellent job, and I think you are capable of protecting it as well as anyone else. However I’m bound to be worried. You are vulnerable here, and even with your new fence….Will your brother be visiting you soon? Then perhaps….”

  “On the first of next month, if not sooner. I heard from him a few days ago.”

  “Ah, that’s good. Because I should hate anything to happen to you, or the Oak Tree, which would give others the excuse to….”

  He was having trouble finishing his sentences today, but he didn’t need to finish that one. Some of the charmers on the council would be happy to take over running the mansio if they could prove I couldn’t look after the place properly. I was angry, and then suddenly I saw what it meant, and I laughed.

  “What is the joke?” He looked at me warily, as if I might be going mad.

  “Tell your council friends, Clarus, that I shall keep the Oak Tree safe, both from the rebels, and also from any business rivals who might be wishing me to fail. I’m glad to find that my family have made this mansio so successful that now some of the council want to try and take it over. They’ll be disappointed, though. I’m here to stay. They can like it or lump it. Is that clear?”

  He smiled and took my hand. “Absolutely clear, and absolutely right. And whatever happens, you have my full support.”

  For what that’s worth, I thought, and then hated myself for such a mean-spirited reaction. It was horrible finding oneself suspecting everyone, even good friends.

  At last he left, and I could get some work done. The logging and fence-building were going at a good pace, and there weren’t many bar customers, so I went into my study to face the pile of jobs waiting on my desk. The most urgent were filing a report about the destruction of an official vehicle and animals, and making out the order for replacements from Eburacum. There was no escaping this tedious paperwork. I’m sure that if I’d been killed but the transport had survived unharmed, there’d
have been a lot less of it.

  Then I proceeded to checking orders, and paying bills. Among the bills I was pleased to find a small one from Balbus, which would give me the perfect excuse to go down to his shop. I consulted Albia about what crockery we needed to buy; there was quite a bit. Even when the maids don’t drop trays of beakers, it’s amazing the rate of breakages, and we’re quite a respectable house, not one of those rowdy wine-shops in a garrison town where the patrons throw the mugs over their shoulders every night at going-home time.

  During the afternoon I snatched a few breaths of fresh air, taking a stroll round the horse paddocks. I said hello to Merula and her foal, and several of the other mares and their young. I was soon joined by Titch, bringing some pieces of carrot to feed the mares.

  “Mistress, I wanted to ask you about that old Druid,” he began excitedly.

  “He wasn’t a Druid, Titch.” I looked at him sternly. “Druids are illegal, as I’m sure you know. If I had a Druid in the house, I’d be in all sorts of trouble. That old man was a bard. A singer of ancient songs.”

  “Oh aye? But I got a good look at him, and I could see he was….”

  “…a bard. Of course you could. So could I. What about him?”

  He grinned. “Well that bard, then. I’ve never seen him before, but he says to me, ‘You’re new here, aren’t you, lad?’ How did he know that?”

  “Good question. We’re being watched for sure, but who by, I don’t know. Now here’s a question for you. Was there really a lame pony?”

  “Nah. It wasn’t even limping. One of them warrior lads made a performance of getting a stone from out of its offside rear hoof, but he could just as easily have had the stone hid in his palm. You know, like the cavalry boys do sometimes, when they want an excuse to stop.”

  “I thought so. The old man came to warn me that the spot where the Oak Tree stands now used to be a Druid holy place years ago. Some of them want it back.”

  “I don’t like the sound of Druids. They have human sacrifices, don’t they?”

  “Yes.”