I was safer in a cell than I might have been outside, that was one benefit. It appeared that in Venta I was actually at risk — though whether that was just me, or whether it would apply to any traveller, I could not quite be sure. I suspected that it was personal. I had twice been followed through the town.
And then there was that misleading message to my slave. The more I thought about that the more alarming it became. Someone in this town had sent it, in my name and quite deliberately. There was only one purpose served by doing so, as far I could see. It prevented the soldiers at the mansio from questioning my absence and sending out a search. That was sinister. It was clearly not intended that I should return. And, it occurred to me, the message had the additional effect of ensuring that my attendant was not outside the pastry shop when I went back for him, so I would be walking through the streets alone, deprived of the protection of a slave.
I wondered again where Promptillius was now. He had obeyed the ‘message’ on the writing tablet, presumably, supposing that it came from me, and had left the mansio with my clothes. The fact that my patron was being entertained at a feast was clearly common knowledge in the town — even Big-ears and his friends had known it — but how could anyone have guessed that I came from the military inn, and that Promptillius was attending me? By watching us, perhaps — that was distinctly possible, judging from my own experience.
I shifted on my pile of straw and groaned. I ached all over. As soon as I got out of here, I vowed, I’d send for Junio and some of Gwellia’s balm. The comforts of my home seemed far away.
That brought me almost upright with a jerk. My home was far away. Who, in this town, could possibly have known my name to forge that note? Had I told anyone? I tried to think, but I was almost sure I hadn’t. So who had sent the message? The red-headed expert with cup and ball who had delivered the message to my slave outside the pastry shop was Lyra’s spy, Rufinus, I was sure of it. But how could she possibly have known my name, or that Promptillius was mine? I hadn’t told her anything about myself, and besides, he was dressed in Marcus’s household uniform.
So who had been behind all this? There was only one candidate that I could think of: Plautus. The man who was not dead. Who else could have associated me with Marcus and the military inn? Only Plautus, who knew from Glevum who my patron was. Most of Venta would know about the feast, and that Marcus had been present at the games — I had the evidence of the three young men for that — but no local resident could know my trade: yet the mansio guard had said that I was referred to as a ‘pavement-maker’ in the written note.
The written note. That was another thing. Whoever sent that message had access to wax tablets and a stylus, and sufficient education to produce written Latin good enough to look like Marcus’s or mine. That didn’t sound like Lyra or the butcher’s boys. Plautus, on the other hand, had been a member of the Glevum ordo once, where reading and writing were necessary skills for any councillor.
Respectable, dull Plautus. It seemed incredible that he should want to kill me, but it was the only explanation I could see. I’d made it obvious that I recognised his face, and he did not wish it to be recognised. He had not wanted to waylay me and explain — he’d had the opportunity to do that, and had run away. So why would he follow me about, unless it was because I knew he was alive and he hoped to silence me? Boring old Plautus as would-be assassin? Was it possible?
I gulped. It would not have been very difficult, if that was his idea. An unprotected stranger on the streets at night, in a town where rival gangs are active — it would not be wholly surprising if I disappeared, or turned up in a gutter somewhere with my purse missing and my throat cut. If it had not been for the chance of that donkey blocking up the street, whoever had been on my heels would have caught up with me — it was possible that even my decision to accost Big-ears and his inebriated friends had helped to save my life.
Then another thought occurred to me: one which sent shivers down my already chilly spine. Was Lupus’s murder quite as unconnected with my presence as I thought? I had talked to Lupus, and a moment later — so his wife had said — someone had come out of the dark and slit his throat. Was that because I might have said too much to him? And was the follower also aiming to kill me?
I was still contemplating the full implications of this terrible idea when my thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the door. It was the warder who, true to his word, had brought a ‘kind of blanket’ — a length of coarse woollen cloth smelling overpoweringly of horse — and a hunk of bread. It was no more fresh than the blanket was, but I thanked the man sincerely and fell on my frugal feast.
He watched me for a moment. ‘I’ll get those oatcakes fetched in early,’ he observed at last. ‘I expect the prison governor will want to see you first thing. Now, if you’ve got any sense, you’ll try to rest. I’ll wake you at dawn.’ So saying, he snuffed the taper, went out, and shut the door, leaving me in total darkness, except for the faint glow that filtered from the street.
I found that I was shaking with relief and weariness. There was nothing for it but to act on his advice. I took off my sodden clothes, wrapped myself in the makeshift covering, lay down on the straw-pile and — in spite of the terrors of the day and my attempts to think things through again — fell almost instantly into a fitful sleep.
Chapter Nine
The warder woke me shortly before dawn, but I was not conducted before the prison governor, as he had suggested I might be. ‘That travelling magistrate has agreed to hear the case. You know, the one who’s visiting the town. I hope you’ve got proper proof of what you say. He’s a hard man, I hear, and he’ll brook no nonsense if it’s all a lie. Still, it’s meant that our governor can wash his hands of you. He isn’t even going to have you scourged — leave you to more senior men, he said. Doesn’t want any trouble, if you ask me. Now, here’s your oatcake. They’ll be coming for you soon. Anything else you want to buy before you go?’
I looked up from my meagre breakfast — certainly the most expensive oatcake I have ever eaten in my life, and not entirely fresh. ‘A bowl of water and a drying cloth.’
He looked astonished. ‘Whatever for? Not thinking of trying to drown yourself, are you?’
‘To clean myself a little. I don’t want to look too much of a disgrace.’
He seemed unable to believe his ears. ‘Where did you say you come from, citizen? They must do things very differently round there. Most prisoners here want just the opposite — beg me to send out for rags for them to wear, and dust and ashes to rub on their hair and face, so they can look properly penitent in court.’
I nodded. ‘It’s the same in Glevum too. Prisoners try to arrive before the judge looking as dishevelled and pathetic as possible. I know the idea is to whip up pity from the crowd.’ When the accused man looks properly pitiful and contrite, if the verdict goes against him there is often an outcry from the onlookers and even nowadays that can be enough to affect the sentencing — although the kind of trial where the presiding magistrate refers the verdict directly to the mob is getting very rare, except in cases where public sympathy runs deep and it might avoid a riot. ‘But it won’t work for me.’
That was the understatement of the Empire. I knew Marcus. I was a member of his official party and the more disreputable I looked, the more discredit I brought on him, and the more displeased he would inevitably be. My appearance was profoundly disrespectful as it was. Bad enough that I was only in a tunic, but my brief sojourn in the lower-dungeon mud had not improved that humble garment, despite my attempts to sponge off the worst of it. In addition, I was rain-soaked and travel-stained and I could feel a big bruise swelling up above one eye.