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.’
Marcus was looking furious again at my unseemly lack of suitable attire, but clearly there was no alternative. He gave a brusque, dismissive nod. ‘Very well,’ he muttered tersely, and applied himself to nibbling dates again. By the time I came back — glowing from the cold plunge, and wrapped in an old tunic of the optio’s which was far too wide for me, and didn’t reach my knees — he’d eaten every one of them.
He had, however, managed to obtain a battered writing tablet and a stylus for my use, so after a stout midday meal of army broth and bread, I sat down and drafted a letter to my wife and included some instructions for Junio, my slave. Since he was making samples of possible designs for the pavement of Plautus’s memorial it occurred to me that, by calling to show them at the house, he would be well placed to make a few discreet enquiries. However, I knew that Marcus would not approve of that — it has never been his nature to stir up hornets’ nests. So, after a little thought, I closed up the tablet at the hinge and, having tied it carefully, sealed the tapes with melted tallow-wax. It looked like the sort of makeshift fastening that anyone might use when sending a letter between distant towns: not a proper ring-seal, suggesting secrecy, but probably enough to stop Marcus from casually reading it before he passed it on. I reasoned that he could not overrule my instructions to my slave if he did not know that I was making them.
I need not have worried. Marcus handed my letter over to the messenger without a second glance, along with several missives of his own, and they were on their way to Glevum shortly afterwards. My patron was much more concerned with the information, brought by the optio, that neither the butcher nor his boys could be found. However, his men had rounded up the butcher’s brother, who had been left to mind the shop, and he was waiting in a back room of the mansio. Would Marcus care to come and question him?
Marcus would. He made a point of not inviting me — evidently I was still in disgrace. However, the man must have said something to the soldiers who had brought him in. I waited for the optio to come back through the court and intercepted him, bustling and busy though he obviously was.
The optio looked dismayed at seeing me. ‘Now what do you want?’ he said ungraciously. ‘I can’t stop to talk. His Excellence is furious with me as it is — he seems to blame me for the whole event. Just when I was hoping to make a good impression on a man of influence, and perhaps be made up to centurion by and by.’
‘This is as much in your interest as mine,’ I said. I outlined what I wanted.
He shrugged.’ There isn’t any mystery at all. The butcher, it seems, summoned both his sons last night and went out with his donkey cart at dusk. Took some skins out to a tannery a few miles down the road, and from there he was going on to visit a few of the larger stockholders nearby, to haggle for extra animals. There are some public feast-days coming up.’
‘And that’s not unusual?’
‘Apparently he does the same thing every day or two. He keeps a large cart in a private stable not far from the gate, expressly for expeditions like this. It’s a useful thing all round. It disposes of the waste materials from the stall and makes him a little extra on the side. He takes out the bones and ‘block-bits’ too, his brother says, all the ends and trimmings that he can’t get rid of here.’