‘Surely he could find somebody to buy the odds and ends?’ I said, remembering Lupus and his thermopolium.
He laughed. ‘He does. He sells them to forest-borderers, it seems, though he will hardly make his fortune doing that. Those people have no land: they scrape a living out of selling wood and bits of anything that they can scavenge by the road. They’ll take anything he has: little scraps of flyblown meat — they boil that up for soup — or even bits of bone and teeth. The womenfolk carve ornaments from them and sell them to people passing by — I’ve seen them hawking the wretched things myself. Apparently they have a barter system with the butcher — he gets things like firewood in exchange.’
‘So he went out there at dusk?’ I said, and realised what a daft remark that was. Of course he went at dusk — wheeled transport could not operate by day. ‘Is he not afraid of brigands, in the dark?’
‘I suppose he’s used to it. He and the boys sometimes stay overnight with relatives who have some land out there. They’ll be home again tonight — or tomorrow at the latest — and then we can bring them in and question them. Till then, that’s all the information that we’re going to get. His Excellence is going all through it with the man again, but I really don’t think he’s got anything to add. He wasn’t even at the butcher’s yesterday: he’s got his own stall selling something else — and, in case you were going to ask, his wife looks after that when he takes his brother’s place. All quite a family affair — like everything round here. Look, there he is. I see they’ve let him go. He’ll be pleased at that. We dragged him from the market as he was — bloodied arms and all — and he is obviously anxious to get back to the shop.’ He made an exasperated face. ‘And I must go as well. I am expecting a messenger to come from Lyra’s house. I’ve been in enough trouble over you!’
He hurried off. I looked where he had pointed, and sure enough, there was the man in question scurrying away. He was a hunched and furtive-looking little man and had clearly been brought in straight from the market-stalclass="underline" he was wrapped in the bloodied leather apron that all butchers wear and he still bore streaks of spattered flesh and fur. I grinned. Marcus would not have enjoyed his interview with that!
The fellow saw me looking and glowered fiercely back. I had a strong impression that I’d seen him somewhere before, though after all the anxieties of the last few days I couldn’t for the moment work out where. I was still standing, staring after him, when the optio’s other messenger arrived, saying that Lyra was nowhere to be found. She had been in her rooms this morning, it appeared, but now she had gone out and none of her girls knew where she was.
‘Touting for business, probably, or visiting some special customer,’ the rider said to me, with a suggestive leer. He swung down from his horse, and gave it to a mansio-slave who took it round the back to stable it again. ‘I’ve left orders for her to report here as soon as she returns. That seems to be the best that I can do. Are you going to tell His Excellence the news, or do you want me to?’
‘You tell him,’ I said quickly, though I felt a little qualm as I watched him swagger off towards my patron’s room with innocently cheerful confidence. I knew what Marcus’s mood was apt to be when his plans were frustrated in this way. I made myself as scarce as possible, but even from the stables I could hear the bellowing.
Chapter Eleven
I did not see my patron again all afternoon: he had himself carried off in a private litter to the public baths where he was no doubt soothed and entertained by meeting the wealthy officials of the town, and the delights of hot plunge pools and steam. I had already had my chilly dip in the mansio bath-house and — ridiculous in my ill-fitting borrowed garb — could not go anywhere, not even to the market for that clasp. My tunic had been taken to the fuller’s to be cleaned, but I knew that it would be at least another day before I could expect it to be returned to me.
There was nothing for it but to hang around the inn, and a very boring afternoon it was. Even the optio had no time to chat. I guessed that Marcus had been short with him. He had lost his air of polished eagerness, and hurried distractedly about, bellowing orders and ignoring me. A series of officials bustled in and out for hasty conferences in his private room and I guessed that this was part of an attempt to make the enquiries which Marcus had required. I would have loved to ask a question or two of these men myself, but the optio was quite abrupt when I suggested it, and without my patron to intercede for me there was nothing I could do.
In the end I went back to my room and went to sleep — a rare enough pleasure in the afternoon, but a welcome one, after the discomforts of the night before.
We dined in the optio’s private quarters later on, at his request. He was clearly very proud of his domain, and if he had offended Marcus, this evening was intended to atone.
There was a proper dining couch — though only one instead of the more usual three, because his private dining room was small. Still, there were slaves to serve us with the meal, and the young officer fussed about to arrange us suitably on his solitary couch, as if he were presiding at a major feast.
‘Your Excellence, if you would take the guest of honour’s seat, there on my right hand, I, as host, shall have the central one, and I have also invited a town official whom I was sure you would be interested to meet. He will be sitting on my other side.’
He gestured to the individual in question, a stout, self-important man with gigantic sandy eyebrows as big as tufts of reeds — the sure sign of a provincial. I saw Marcus flinch. Like any pure-blooded Roman my patron would endure hours of discomfort at his barber’s hands — tweezers, bat’s blood depilatories, anything — rather than appear in a public place looking like that.
This apparition was the local censor, it appeared, the town senator responsible for keeping the taxation records for the civitas and the surrounding area, and he was blithely unaware of his offence. On the contrary, he was inflated, like a bullfrog, with his own self-importance and portentousness. Marcus rarely dined with town officials of such lowly rank, but the man was clearly oblivious of that: in Venta he was an important personage, and he condescended to us wonderfully.
Since all three places on the dining couch were thus accounted for, I was placed at one end of the table on an uncomfortable stool. I had swapped my borrowed tunic for a borrowed synthesis — the sort of combination robe and toga generally reserved for special feasts — in which I looked, if possible, even more absurd. In this setting it was wholly out of place. Even the optio wore informal dress. He was reclining in a simple yellow robe — and looking entirely at home.
The mansio kitchen had excelled itself. The food was pleasant and the servings liberal (though I noticed that pork and fennel was among the offerings again). By the time the optio’s slave came round with watered wine even Marcus had shrugged off something of his bad mood. I almost wondered if our host would produce a lute-player or some other after-dinner entertainment, as there might have been at a civilian feast, but of course he did nothing of the kind. Instead, as soon as the final dishes were removed, he turned the conversation to the day’s enquiries, and it became clear why the censor had been invited.
The optio cleared his throat. ‘I have carried out your instructions, Excellence, and now I have the honour to report. I had the whole town searched this afternoon, especially the so-called Roman quarter of the town. I have also interviewed all members of the watch, but I fear there has been no news of the man with the scarred face whom you’re looking for.’ To my surprise he seemed secretly pleased, if anything — though since he had nothing positive to report, it was a little difficult to work out why. If I wanted to be promoted to centurion, I would not have smiled.