‘That they talk too much.’ He did not add, much like the Romans.
‘We do. But some of what we say is worth hearing, and much of the rest is amusing, and I am also good at listening. I must go now – for you see the lady must end any meeting of this sort. I heard the others extend an invitation. Do come and see us, for I have rented the house and they and their families are my guests. Come at any time, whether they are there or not. I must speak to you about the robbery at my grandmother’s house. You were there, were you not? Yes, I thought so. So come. If you like you can always kick Achilles around the floor for amusement. Walk on, you dolts!’ The last command was loud and aimed at the bearers.
Ferox walked on, slightly resentful as it half felt he had been given an order along with the slaves, and it was almost a relief not to run into anyone else he knew. A group of urchins surrounded him at one point, one trying to open his purse while another lifted the pugio from its scabbard. He smacked the largest with his palm and waved his cane at the others to drive them off.
The Temple of the Divine Vespasian stood at the corner of two wide streets, behind the high plastered and whitewashed walls of its precinct. A doorman sat cross-legged by the open gate, and simply nodded when Ferox explained who he was. In the courtyard were statues of Vespasian and Titus either side of the steps leading up to the high-roofed temple with its pillared front. On the right were Augustus and Claudius, and on the left Nerva stood alone. Ferox wondered whether the plinth, perhaps even the body of the statue itself, had originally been planned to hold the image of Domitian. That emperor’s images had never much resembled the real man, disguising that restless energy and the burning rage that led equally to cold cruelty or outbursts of appalling anger. The face of Augustus here was of a handsome, eager youth, not the old man he had become. It was hard to imagine so serene a face being disturbed by the antics of his wife’s dwarfs and other freaks kept for entertainment by the fashionable. Pretending that their best rulers became gods was one of the odder affectations of the Romans. Even after all these years, Ferox could not tell whether they were serious about it, or if it was yet another piece of flattery that everyone was too polite to question.
Slaves were scrubbing the flagstones near the altar as he passed, and a man was waiting to take him to the priest, who proved to be surprisingly young, with the even more surprising name of Julius Kopros.
‘Grandfather was a foundling in Alexandria,’ he explained, evidently used to explaining, at least to anyone he judged able to understand Greek. ‘He was left on a dunghill, so someone took him as a slave and named him Kopros. Years later he bought his freedom from the profits of making and selling shoes and somehow ended up in Gaul. He got a contract to supply boots for the army as long as he was willing to set up here in Britannia within weeks of Claudius’ legions invading. And so we have been here ever since.’ The priest had a thin, angular face, a neatly trimmed beard, curly black hair and thick eyebrows over clever brown eyes. ‘Grandfather and father are both long gone, but they felt it important to carry on the name. Why hide your past when you have worked to make your own fortune, they would say. Which leaves me running the business, serving the town as priest here in this temple – and putting plenty of my own money into the day-to-day running of the place – and with a name that ought to be swept down a drain and into the river.’ He grinned. ‘So, how can I be of help?’
In truth there was little more to add to the story, except for a story about the cloak.
‘I can tell you that it is old, perhaps very old,’ the young priest explained. ‘It was originally sent by Claudius himself as a gift to his new colony. Grandfather brought it from the Temple of the Divine Claudius in Camulodunum just days before the colonia was surrounded by Boudicca. He was not a priest, but was asked to bring it out, along with a couple of other pieces, by an old friend who was. Afterwards it took a few years before everything started again, and Londinium dedicated a temple to the cult of the emperors before Camulodunum so he presented them to the priests here. That was the old temple, now gone, but everything in it was moved to this one when they opened it twelve years ago.’
The other pieces he had rescued were a mould for baking sacrificial cakes and an incense burner, and Kopros happily showed them to Ferox. ‘They were in a box that the robbers opened, and they must have seen them and not wanted them.’
‘Even so I should keep on your guard,’ the centurion advised as he left. ‘They may not know the legate has the cloak and might try again here.’
‘We’ll be ready.’
As Ferox left, a spare, elderly man in expensive but sober clothes was asking the doorkeeper to send word to the priest. ‘Tell him that Cnaeus Domitius Tullus is here. He will know why.’
There was something about the voice, a hint of the rich inflexion of a well-educated Gaul, that made him turn because it seemed familiar.
‘Excuse me, sir, are you from Lugdunum?’ he asked. Ferox had spent years in the city being educated as a Roman, but it was more than just the accent that struck a chord. He did not recognise the man, and even though Flora had spoken of a merchant named Domitius it was a common enough name.
The eyes that glared back at him were cold. ‘What business is that of yours, soldier? You look more than half a barbarian. Good day to you, sir.’ He stalked off towards the temple, his cloak an unusually bright tartan.
‘Miserable git,’ the doorkeeper muttered. ‘Been here three times now and never given a tip for good luck.’
Ferox smiled. ‘Sorry, it slipped my mind,’ and handed the man a sestercius, suspecting immediately that this was too much. ‘Know much about him?’
The doorman glanced about to see that no one was paying them any attention. ‘Turned up a few weeks ago. Rumour is he will donate a fair bit of money to the temple, and others here in Londinium. There’s always folk like him arriving and trying to buy the connections to do the really big deals.’ He spat in contempt. ‘Usually they try to be a lot more friendly, though. This one acts as if everyone else is doing him a favour.’
Ferox was hungry, so he stopped at one of the many small bars opening onto a street and ordered posca, some bread and soup. It was simple but filling, and had the owner not kept on trying to sell him oysters he might have stayed longer. For a while he considered searching for Vindex and the others. It would be good to talk to Longinus, if he could get the veteran alone. In the end he decided that he did not have the energy and toyed with the idea of visiting one of the bath-houses. Then in the passing crowd he saw two hooded figures walking with purpose and deep in conversation. He recognised Domitius from his cloak. On a whim, he left coins to settle the bill on the table, waited for a little while and then followed. He had his own hood up, and kept his vitis low, so that it should not be obvious who he was unless someone was paying particular care.
Almost as soon as he started to follow the pair stopped, threw back their hoods and went into the precinct of another temple. Domitius’ companion was Julius Kopros. Ferox waited, staying where he was a good seventy paces down the street. A juggler was performing and he joined the half-dozen or so watching the man, while making sure he could see past him to the entrance to the temple. After perhaps half an hour, and another coin to make his interest in the entertainer convincing, he saw them leave. Ferox let them have a head start and then followed. The pair visited more temples, to Minerva, Silvanus and Liber Pater, and the brightly painted shrine to Isis and Serapis where, even outside, the air smelled heavily of rich incense and he could hear the rattles shake as the priests performed one of their rituals. Finally they crossed the long bridge to the smaller section of town south of the river and went to the Temple of Mars Camulos.