Enemies of the Empire (12 page)

On the contrary. The removal of the veil revealed a painted face: not merely showing a touch of chalk and white lead applied to face and neck, as women sometimes do for vanity, but flaunting a whole host of artificial tints. Even at this distance I could see bold smears of ochre on the cheeks, lines of sultry lamp-black round the eyes and lips dyed scarlet with the lees of wine. Given that her hair was also dyed an artificial blond and pinned up with jewelled trinkets in the curls, the lady’s profession was not hard to guess. Why would such a woman pay an advocate? It seemed more likely that he’d be paying her.

I was still gazing upwards, wondering about this, when I felt a sharp tug at my arm. My former guard was back. He followed the direction of my look and gave a mirthless laugh. ‘You’ve spotted one of Lyra’s girls, I see. No time for dreaming about that, my friend. I am to take you out of here as fast as possible. Your patron is awaiting you outside.’

I gave up on the little mystery and followed him at once. It is never wise to make my patron wait.

Marcus was indeed expecting me. He had given instructions for the official litter to delay, and another carrying chair to be fetched for me. However, he addressed no word to me, simply mounted his conveyance and left me to do the same. I returned to the mansio in solitary state, swaying in a hired litter borne by sweating slaves.

No question this time of a challenge at the gate; the sentry stood aside sharply to allow us in. Marcus had already dismounted and disappeared inside but, as soon as I had paid the litter-hire, a soldier came out to summon me.

I followed him, a little nervously, and found myself in the commandant’s offices, standing before a table at which my patron was already seated on a sort of folding stool, with the optio beside him, looking flushed and grim. It was like appearing in the court again, except that I could tell from Marcus’s face that this time I would not get off so easily.

‘Well?’ he said, tapping his baton impatiently against his palm – a sign that he was seriously annoyed. ‘I’m waiting. I presume you have some explanation for all this? And what have you done with that young slave I lent to you?’

‘I left him in the market, Excellence. And then I saw someone from Glevum that I thought was dead . . .’ And I told him the full story, starting with following Plautus in the street and ending with the wax-tablet message which had reached Promptillius at the pastry shop and sent him hustling into Venta with my clothes. ‘Meanwhile I went back to the hot-soup shop and got arrested, and they took me to the jail.’

Marcus waved the rest of my narrative aside. He was more interested in his valuable slave than in my recent plight, and obviously the name of Plautus hadn’t registered. There are a good many people with that name. I tried to draw his attention to the point. ‘Gaius—’

Marcus interrupted. ‘Well, never mind all that. Where do you think Promptillius is now? He left here on your instructions, so he told the guard, but he did not come to the house where I was feasting yesterday.’

I nodded. ‘I didn’t think he would have, Excellence. And remember, those instructions didn’t come from me – although presumably he thought they had. I imagine he obeyed them, whatever they might have been, and took my toga to some false address. No doubt the boy who brought the wax tablet told him where to go. The directions obviously weren’t written down – that would have created suspicion from the guard on duty here. The mansio knew where you really were, and someone would have spotted that inconsistency at once.’

Marcus furrowed his brow in a frown. He was still wearing his magisterial wreath, and the combination made him look immensely stern. ‘So where do you think they sent him?’

I could only shrug. ‘That is the problem, Excellence. I’ve no idea. I left him waiting for me at a pasty-cook’s close to the forum while I went to buy the clasp, but when I came back he simply wasn’t there. He didn’t even know that I’d set off in pursuit of anyone in the street. We’d already parted company by then.’

Marcus’s scowl deepened. ‘So you deliberately set off into the marketplace without a slave? Here, where you had been warned that there was discontent with Rome, and a degree of trouble in the streets? Don’t protest – the optio assures me that he’d warned you about that. And after I had left you an attendant of my own! You seem to have been inviting problems, that’s all I can say. I’m surprised the authorities permitted you to go.’ He looked severely at the optio as he spoke, making it clear that his displeasure embraced both of us. ‘Well, you have delayed us by a whole day as it is. We shall have to leave without Promptillius tomorrow, that is all, and have him sent after us when he is found. This is all extremely inconvenient.’

It was dangerous, but I knew it must be said. ‘Supposing that he
is
found, Excellence.’

Marcus stared at me. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I think it is possible that someone wanted to kill me yesterday – and if there was an attempt on me, a citizen, then the murder of a slave would hardly bother them.’

He gaped. There is no other word for it. ‘To kill
you
? I thought it was merely some shopkeeper who died.’

I spelt it out to him. ‘Think about the sequence, Excellence. I see Plautus. He runs away from me. After that I’m followed through the town – first by Paulinus, then by someone else – and I only get away by accident. Then I find that my slave has been sent off on a false errand, so I won’t be missed, and a man I simply talked to is slashed gruesomely to death – presumably in case I’d said too much to him. What does that suggest to you?’

He nodded. ‘This Plautus fellow?’

‘It rather looks like it. I know it is difficult to believe, but it is the only explanation I can think of which accords with all the facts. And what is he doing here in any case? You and I helped bury him not very long ago.’

This time it registered. ‘
That
Plautus?’ He gaped. ‘It can’t have been.’ He stared at me. ‘You’re sure that it was him? He might have had a twin.’

‘With an identical scar across his face?’ I shook my head. ‘Anyway, he knew me. That was obvious. Why else would he run away like that? And who was it that we cremated in his place?’

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.’