A Whispering of Spies (12 page)

I shook my head. Why had the lictor chosen Glevum, anyway? It seemed a strange decision after years in Gaul. I could understand a wish to move away from where he’d served – a lifetime of inflicting punishment does not earn one friends, and once the governor of the province had retired back to Rome there was no longer his protection to be relied upon. But why to Glevum? Why Britannia at all? This northern province with its cold, wet winters and so far away from Rome seemed an unlikely choice for someone who had no ties to it. There must be a reason, but I could not think of one.

My musings were interrupted by the opening of the door and a ray of sudden daylight so bright it dazzled me. I was still sitting, hunched up on the straw and blinking stupidly, when someone grasped my elbows and levered me upright. Firm hands pulled me gently out into the court and then, amazingly, begin to dust me down.

‘Citizen, I can’t apologize enough!’ I realized that it was the plump centurion, his face now scarlet and his voice concerned. ‘Nobody told me you were a citizen! I trust you have not taken any serious harm?’ He was pulling damp straws from my dishevelled cape. ‘Come into the guard-room and I’ll see you get some wine and perhaps a bowl of water so your slave can rinse your feet.’

I gazed around and realized who my saviours were. My heart gave an idiotic leap of hope. Junio and Minimus were standing in the guard-room, staring out at me. My son, I saw, was looking furious. ‘So, am I to be freed?’ I murmured foolishly.

Emelius shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not, citizen. It’s simply that I put you in the common cell instead of taking proper care of you. I can only beg you to pardon my mistake. It was an honest one. I knew that purple-striper was a citizen, of course, but I didn’t realize what treatment you were entitled to, until members of your household informed me of your rank.’ He swallowed visibly. ‘I hope you were not planning to file a complaint.’ His distress – in the circumstances – was almost laughable.

I did not permit myself even the vestige of a smile. Having a legal hold, however faint, on the centurion might well prove to my advantage later on. I tried to look like an affronted man of dignity – instead of an ex-slave who was relieved to be outside in the clean rain. ‘I have not yet decided,’ I told him loftily. ‘But I would be glad to receive the little comforts you suggest. And I believe that I’m entitled to confer with the members of my household who I see are here.’

The centurion nodded. I knew what he supposed. It is not uncommon for a prisoner (provided that he is not charged with an offence against the state) to pay his captors to bring him extra comforts in his cell, like food and drink and something warm to wear. If he does not have sufficient wherewithal for that, a coin might at least persuade the jailors to permit his household to bring things in for him. Emelius no doubt surmised that I was going to ask Junio for some little luxury, or for money with which to pay the guard! Perhaps it would be wise. However, that was not what I’d been thinking of. I wanted to have someone go back to my wife and let her know what was happening to me.

‘Your son and slave are waiting in the guard-house now,’ my captor said. ‘Come in and speak to them.’ He was already opening the door and ushering me inside.

The soldier with the abacus had finished his accounts and was now carefully sprinkling the bark-paper with sand to dry the ink. He was doing it so slowly that I was almost sure he was protracting the job deliberately in order to stay and listen in. He’d obviously heard about the incident, though I suspected – from the expression on his face – that he was not so much concerned that I’d been locked in the wrong cell as he was keen to know if this meant trouble for the plump centurion.

However, he did not have the chance to satisfy his curiosity. The centurion was already ordering him away with instructions to have wine and water brought for me. I, meanwhile, was waved on to the stool on which the optio had been sitting up till then.

Junio had already risen from the bench beside the wall. ‘Father!’ he cried. ‘What have they done to you? Your face and hands are filthy, and your cloak as well.’

I looked down at myself and saw that he was right. I hadn’t realized what a spectacle I made. I flapped a muddied hand at the still-clinging straws. ‘They haven’t hurt me. I’m dirty, that is all.’

Junio was clearly not convinced by this. ‘If they have harmed you, tell me instantly. I’ll see that Marcus takes the matter up with the Provincial governor.’ He saw me shake my head and went on urgently. ‘I am sorry that it took so long for us to get to you. We went to the curia, where we thought you were, but we couldn’t find you. One of the street-urchins told us you’d been marched away.’

‘You’ve finished the pavement, then?’ I asked him.

That earned a bitter smile. ‘Only you would worry about a thing like that! Certainly we have completed it. But whether you wish us to deliver it – now that Florens has done this awful thing to you – that’s quite another thing. On what possible pretext has he brought you here and had you treated in this appalling way?’

I quickly outlined what the situation was.

‘So it’s the fact that Voluus received a written threat which really caused the problem?’ Junio said. ‘That’s clearly the letter that Brianus was talking about. I wonder if he could tell us any more? I’ll see if I can find him when I leave.’

‘I wanted you to tell your adoptive mother where I am and warn her that I might not be coming home tonight.’ That was the least of it, as Junio well knew. If things went ill for me, I might not be coming home at all, but there was no point in worrying Gwellia with that – for now, at any rate.

He inclined his head to show he understood. ‘If there is nothing more that we can do to ease your plight, I think I’ll go and see if I can talk to Brianus. Minimus can take your message to the roundhouse straight away and I will follow when I’ve finished with the lictor’s slave.’ He turned to me. ‘I’ll look in again here before I leave the town, and make sure that at least they’re still treating you aright. If I learn anything from Brianus, of course, I’ll tell you then. Come, Minimus. Take leave of my father and then take that message to your mistress as fast as possible.’

Minimus came to kneel a moment at my feet. It wasn’t a gesture I expected from my slaves and I found it rather touching, especially as he whispered as he kissed my hand, ‘Don’t lose heart, master. We will get you out of here.’

Then he and Junio left the room – just as the optio came in with the wine, followed by a skinny domestic orderly carrying a basin of clean water and a towel.

It felt wonderfully normal to rinse my face and hands, and to have the freedom to take my muddy sandals off and wash my grimy feet, though I was still uncomfortably aware of Emelius and the optio watching every move.

My ablutions took a little time and I didn’t hurry them. I have become so spoiled in recent years that I am not accustomed to doing this without a slave, and the orderly did not offer to assist except to hand me the towel afterwards. However, after my confinement in that airless cell it felt like luxury merely to be clean – and besides, the chill had clearly been taken off the water for my benefit.

When I’d finished, I was almost looking forward to my drink. Watered Roman wine is not my favourite beverage – especially not the rough kind which the army use – but today it seemed a symbol of respect. However, I did not get a chance to so much as sample it, for no sooner had the optio lifted up the jug to pour me a beakerful, than a stout soldier in burnished scale armour and military boots came bustling in and told us brusquely that our transport was outside.

‘R
eady and waiting,’ this apparition said. ‘And the message has been sent up to the commander too and he is on his way – so I hope that we’ve managed to get him what he wants.’

I looked at Emelius, surprised, ‘Was that so difficult? I thought the army had lots of carts at its command.’

The plump centurion shrugged. ‘It’s all a question of the type of vehicle. The commander asked for something that would hold all three of us – I think you heard him saying so to me – and there will have to be a driver, too, of course: I am no use in that capacity. The army expects the cavalry to ride and the rest of us to march: it doesn’t have many carriages to transport passengers. And he specified fast horses, so we couldn’t use an ox-cart, though we do have lots of those, for transporting food and all that sort of thing. But I gather something suitable was found?’

The reporting soldier looked extremely smug. ‘We didn’t have anything available ourselves – except for the commander’s gig, which carries two at best – so I’ve requisitioned a carriage from the hiring-stables just outside the walls.’

‘And who is driving it?’

‘I demanded one of theirs. The stable-owner wasn’t very pleased, but I quoted the regulations about
angaria
– “the army has first call on private transport at any time and civilian owners must cooperate, by order of the Emperor” – and there was nothing he could do. So he’s got this carriage waiting at the gate. Our own escort is armed and mounted and ready to depart. I hope all this is satisfactory.’ He waited for the centurion to nod, then went on silkily, ‘If so, perhaps you’d mention this to your superiors? I’m hoping for promotion to be in charge of stores.’

Emelius waved this loftily aside. ‘Later, perhaps. There is no time now for anything like that. The commander is likely to be there ahead of us and he does not like to be delayed. Come, citizen prisoner, I’m afraid your wine will have to wait.’ So saying, he took the half-full beaker from the optio’s hand, put it on the table and marched me from the room.

Heads turned to watch us as we crossed the court and left the military enclosure, then past the sentry and through the public gate that led out of the town. The carriage and the horsemen were assembled there, as promised, and the commander, too. He was talking to the leader of the escort-party as we approached, but he looked up, saw us and signalled with a wave that we were to precede him into the vehicle.

The carriage was of a kind that one often sees for hire: a two-horse vehicle with a driver’s seat in front and a covered compartment for the passengers, complete with leather curtains at the side to keep the dust at bay. The driver was already sitting in his place, a picture of resentment, studiously looking the other way and making no attempt to help. He had not even provided any temporary step, although the sill was high, so I must have looked remarkably undignified as I hoisted myself in.

Emelius gestured me to take the central seat, then scrambled up himself, puffing and clanking his armour as he came, though the garrison commander – with the assistance of a military slave – managed to mount the other side with grace.

He fastened back the leather curtain, so that he could see (after the recent rains there was no chance of dust), then signalled to the horsemen and they trotted on ahead, while we lurched into motion and jolted after them. We had no sooner started, though, than I expected we would have to stop again – for as we pulled away a plump figure in a patrician toga came hustling through the gate, calling after us and waving something in his hand. Our driver must have seen him because he slowed the cart, but the commander briskly banged the floor and told him to drive on, leaving the purple-striper standing helpless in the road.

As soon as we were safely on our way and had cleared the outskirts of the town, the escort wheeled and cantered back to take up close formation round the coach: one pair to the side of us, another to the rear, and the last two continuing as outriders in front. This might have been for the commander’s safety, I suppose, but it underlined the fact that I was under heavy guard.

It was an uncomfortable journey, as such trips always are: though this carriage had the luxury of being hung on leather straps, and as we were on the military road there were no huge bumps and potholes to bounce us from our seats. However, we were travelling as fast as possible and the constant rattling over cobbled stones still set up a vibration in your skull which seemed in danger of loosening your teeth. I pitied Voluus and his party who must have suffered this, and worse, for days and days on end while they were travelling through Gaul to reach the coast.

There was a leather loop provided on the frame and the commander was holding grimly on to it. ‘I wonder what Porteus wanted . . . He seemed to be in haste . . . Nothing to your advantage, I imagine, citizen?’

So it was Porteus at the gatehouse, and the commander knew that he was there! I dared not ask for reasons, so I shook my head. ‘Perhaps he’s found another witness to swear that I was visiting Voluus today. Anything to prove that I’m involved in stealing from that cart. He obviously believes I’m guilty, although I don’t know why – or why he is so exercised about this theft, in any case. People are set upon by brigands every month or two.’

The commander smiled. ‘Porteus has a lively interest in Voluus’s affairs.’

‘I heard . . .’ I broke off as one wheel struck a cobble and pitched us in the air. ‘I heard he’d sold the lictor a parcel of his land.’

The commander nodded. ‘Voluus was looking for a place to build a villa on, and Porteus sold him some land. He’s been boasting ever since that he’s got a hefty price for it.’

‘Titus Flavius was teasing him about it in the curia, saying that he wanted gold to bribe his way to being Imperial Servir – though if he is planning to finance public works to win the vote, it does seem odd of him to sell the land. You’d think he’d need continued income from whatever crops he grew. Or was it not successful?’

‘It was for several years. Porteus owned a forest on the western hills . . . good stands of oak and pinewood . . . and was doing very well. He was shipping timber everywhere and making a small fortune out of it. But last year there was a devastating fire . . . he tends to blame the rebels, though other people say it was the hand of Jove.’

‘Meaning that it was struck by lightning?’ I asked, trying hard to sound intelligent, though it wasn’t easy when your teeth were rattling.