‘But who are they? You’ll need to name an individual.’
‘That is the trouble. No one knows who really has the power. Some shadowy rebel figures who live out in the woods and operate from there. And they act in gangs. There is no one individual that you could bring to court. Even if we knew who was responsible for killing Claudinus, it would be impossible to prove. The family have supporters everywhere, bound to them by blood-ties, or by a mixture of bribery and fear. Most of them look like honest townspeople, but they are liars, butchers, bullies, thieves and cheats. All of them would be prepared to swear in court that black was white, if necessary, in order to provide one of the others with an alibi. They tolerate no disloyalty amongst themselves — there are stories of bodies with their limbs cut off — and anyone from outside the clan who dared to bring any one of them to court could rely on instant retribution from the rest. So no one does, and certainly I am not willing to. Who wants to take a risk like that, when there is no certainty of a result?’
Marcus looked piqued, though if I had been in the Silurian’s sandals, I’d have felt the same. Under Roman law a man must not only personally ensure that the accused is brought to court — which might be physically difficult with these vendetta gangs — but also he must stand before the judge and make the charge. From what Lucidus had said, that would be a quick way to ensure that portions of your anatomy would shortly be delivered piecemeal to your relatives.
‘In that case. .’ Marcus was rising to his feet. He took the napkin which the pageboy brought and wiped the peach juice fastidiously from his fingertips, then extended a ringed and perfumed hand to show that the interview was at an end, ‘I do not think that we can help you much. You might circulate a description of your brother, and we can ask the town guards if they know anything, but otherwise there seems little we can do. Unless you would like Libertus to take you to that stall tomorrow, where the arm-guard was?’
Lucidus turned pale. ‘In the back streets at the bath-house end of town? I think not, citizen. I’d never venture there without a guard — since we are not permitted to wear knives in self-defence. Though somebody might make the trip on my behalf, perhaps, and try to purchase the item for me?’ He was looking at me meaningfully as he spoke, and it was quite clear which ‘somebody’ he had in mind. ‘At my expense, of course. I will pay whatever price the wretches ask.’
I had no wish to venture to the bath-house end again, after my worrying experience of a day or two before. Of course, in daylight, things were different — clearly the whole town used the public baths — but the stall was down an alley, and I didn’t relish the prospect of returning in the least. However, if Marcus ordered it, I would have to go.
I need not have worried. Marcus had a different plan in store for me. He said loftily, ‘Perhaps the optio can spare a servant to do the task for you — if you prefer not to send one of your own. Libertus will instruct him where to find the stall. He cannot go himself. We hope to leave for Isca shortly after dawn, as soon as fresh mounts and guards can be arranged.’ My face must have betrayed how horrified I felt, because he added with a smile, ‘My dear Libertus, don’t look so aghast. Of course we must undertake the trip again, otherwise the rebels will have won. We will re-equip the carriage and take a larger force, and this time we will keep up a proper pace — no stopping to investigate the deaths of slaves or interviewing swineherds about herds of wretched pigs.’
This was a rebuke to me, I recognised. Those investigations had been at my behest, and Marcus was making it clear that he held me morally responsible for everything that had delayed us up to now. He was still in this condescending mood as he permitted Lucidus to kiss the ring and take his leave, with many protestations of thanks and loyalty.
When the Silurian had finished bowing himself out, Marcus turned to me. ‘Well, I think that was dealt with satisfactorily. He’s forgotten that he came here to complain.’ He was so pleased with himself that I essayed a smile, but in doing so I clearly over-stepped the mark.
He frowned and formally proffered me the ringed hand in my turn, and I was obliged to make obeisance too. He hadn’t demanded that of me for days. ‘I will have the optio send your rations to your room,’ he said, as I struggled to my knees and bent to press my lips against the ring. ‘When I dine tonight I do not think your presence is required.’
He turned and allowed the slave to show him out, leaving me kneeling rather stiffly on the floor. I smiled a little wryly as I struggled to my feet.
I had not entirely escaped his displeasure, after all.
Chapter Twenty-one
So I was condemned to eat my meal alone, I thought, as I made my way slowly back across the court towards my room. I had taken care to keep my face appropriately chagrined while Marcus was about, but in fact I was secretly relieved. My little punishment was not the deprivation he intended it to be.
For one thing the kitchen at the mansio had been busy half the day preparing a special meal for my patron’s sake, and I am not an enthusiast at the best of times for strong-tasting Roman treats. Sow’s udders are not my favourite dish, even when exquisitely baked, and kitchen orderlies at a military staging post are not apt to be the most accomplished chefs. Judging by the odours from the kitchen as I passed, tonight’s offering would be burnt and tough, and liberally doused with liquamen to disguise the fact — that revolting fish-paste sauce of which my patron is so fond, and which smells and tastes so powerfully strong that it will mask any shortcomings of the cook. If I was eating on my own, I would be spared all that. I could settle down to honest army stew and even send out for some good old-fashioned mead, instead of being obliged to drink watered Roman wine, of which I have never been particularly fond.
There was no one in the court or corridor to tell me otherwise, so without thinking about it very much I turned towards the sleeping room I’d occupied before. However, it seemed I was mistaken in assuming that it would be mine again. As soon I approached the door I heard the sound of voices from within. There seemed to be some sort of argument going on inside, though from here I could not make out the words.
I paused, surprised. Not so much because the room was occupied — this was after all a military inn, and they had not been anticipating our return. It was entirely to be expected that they would give my room to someone else. But one of the voices sounded like a girl’s — and that was astonishing.
Mansiones are military establishments, reserved for soldiers on the move, or travellers and messengers on imperial business. Women are not permitted past the gates unless they are accompanying important men — their husbands or their fathers — and rarely even then. I shook my head. There must be some other explanation for the voice. A castratus, or perhaps the youthful favourite of some wealthy man — some rich officials do keep pretty boys as ‘pets’ until their voices break.
In either case, this was no place for me.
I looked around. There was nobody in sight to ask directions from, and for a moment I stood hesitating, wondering where to go and what to do. Then the door of the room opened and the serving-boy came out — the same slave who had attended us in the office earlier.
He turned to me with an apologetic air. ‘I’m sorry, citizen. I went into the room to take your meal and found the lady was already there. I’m very sorry you were not informed. I don’t know how she got there, and she’s just refused to leave.’
‘Lady?’ I echoed in astonishment. When we first got back here to the mansio the officer had spoken of ‘people’ — in the plural — who had wanted words with me, but I’d forgotten that there might be more than one. And certainly I’d not expected this. ‘I don’t know any lady in this area, except the Christian widow from the thermopolium, and it seems unlikely she would seek me here.’