I was still tipsy, but I went home anyway. My sister took one look at me then held her peace. How sensible.
Helena was closeted in our private suite, playing with the children. Julia, our two-year-old, spotted my demeanor with those great dark eyes that missed nothing and simply decided to observe proceedings. The baby, now five months, was lying in Helena's lap throwing her limbs in all directions; she continued, gurgling, lost in her own gymnastic world while her elegant mother dodged the worst kicks and tickled body parts that asked for it. This was, in effect, how Helena Justina had always dealt with me.
"Say nothing about my state."
"I shall not comment," Helena replied calmly.
"Thanks."
"Been working?"
"Right."
"Got nowhere?"
"Right."
"Want a nice kiss and a bowl of food to take the nasty wine away?"
"No."
She stood up and came to kiss me anyway.
Somehow the baby, Favonia, ended up being passed into my arms, then when I sat in Helena's half-round wicker chair, little Julia scrambled in there with me too and lay smiling up at me. This left Helena free to stroke my hair smoothly, knowing I could not shake her off without harming the children. I growled. The baby may not have understood quite what she was at, but all three of my supposedly subservient females giggled at me. So much for being the top god in the household shrine.
As in most families, patriarchal power held no meaning. Eventually I gave in to the onslaught of comfort and just slumped glumly.
Helena left me long enough to settle, then said quietly, "You do not like Britain."
"You know that, love."
"Marcus, is this situation dangerous to you personally?"
"Someone killed a man. That's always bad."
"Sorry!" When Helena was so reasonable, it cut like a reproof.
"I'm upset."
"I know."
We left it there. Later, after the children had been collected by staff from the nursery, when she thought I was up to the pressure, Helena told me how things had progressed that day here. We were supposed to be dressing for dinner, though neither of us had made a start.
"The governor has sent a dispatch rider to King Togidubnus. Frontinus decided it is best to admit what has happened. The hope is, this will be the first the King hears of it. The murder will be explained the way it sounds best-well, sounds least bad-and the messenger can try to judge whether the King knows something he should not."
"The King is not involved. I won't have that!"
"No, Marcus. So what do you think Togidubnus will do?"
"Turn up here, in an angry mood. Noviomagus is sixty Roman miles, plus. One day's journey for an imperial post rider-if he chases. But he won't; this is not war or the death of an emperor. So the King will know about the murder by tomorrow evening, say-"
"He won't set out in the dark," Helena said.
"So at first light in two days' time he'll be on his way. He may be an old man, but he's fit. I need to supply answers, not by tomorrow but soon after."
"Oh, Marcus, that's not long enough."
"It will have to be."
I had no appetite for passing dainties on silver platters tonight. I did start to change my clothing, but I had more on my mind than a cultural soiree. Helena watched, not moving. She commented that there was little investigation I could carry out at this time of the evening. I answered that I needed movement. I needed results. I could do what I should probably have done this afternoon. I could revisit the Shower of Gold. I had no plan of how to tackle this, except that if they had changed the barmaid from the one I met, I would go in incognito.
"You will stand out as a Roman," Helena remarked.
"I am a master of disguise." Well, I had a scruffy tunic and a worn cloak.
"Your skin is olive and your haircut screams Rome." My mad tangle of curls only said I had forgotten to comb them, but she was right in principle. My nose was Etruscan. I had the bearing of a man who had been given legionary training, and the attitude of the city-born. I liked to think that even in other parts of the Mediterranean my sophistication stood out. Among fair-skinned, blue-eyed lackadaisical Celtic types there was no hiding me.
Helena by now was rootling in her own clothes chest. "They will be expecting more officials-" Her voice was muffled, though not enough to hide a note of excitement. "Any Roman male alone will stand out as far too obvious."
"This is where I need Petro."
"Forget him." Garments were being thrown in all directions. "With Petronius you just look like an official who has brought backup. Trust me," Helena cried, popping back upright and immediately dragging her patrician white dress up and over her head. I thought briefly of hauling her straight into bed. "You need a girlfriend, Marcus!"
And I had one. No further explanation was required. Luckily there were staff to look after our children. Fired up with excitement, their noble mother was coming with me.
IX
Fresh off the boat!"
"Exactly the look." I was unperturbed by Helena's hilarity. "And smell!" I added, dipping my head to sniff: laundry damp-and whatever of me the Noviomagus washerwoman had failed to remove.
My tunic was a heavy, coarse-weave, dirty rust-colored thing-gear I had packed to use on a building site. Over it I had a traveling cloak with a pointy hood that gave me the look of a woodland deity. One who was not very bright. As well as a hidden dagger down my boot, I wore another openly; its scabbard hung on my belt alongside a money pouch. Add a trusting look, tempered by crotchety tiredness, and I could be any tourist. Ripe to be conned by the locals.
Helena stripped off all her normal jewelry, leaving only a silver ring I once gave her. She then put on a pair of large, surprisingly trashy earrings. If these were some old lover's gift, she did right to ditch the swine. More likely, they were a present from one of her mother's attendants. Her muted clothes were her own, and might have revealed her status, but she had hitched them up awkwardly and trussed them under her bosom with a complete lack of grace. She looked as if she possessed neither closet slaves nor hand mirror, nor even taste. She was no longer herself. Well, that was fun for me.
Don't get me wrong. This was foolish and dangerous. I knew it. Two excuses, Legate: one, Helena Justina, daughter of the senator Camillus, was a free woman. If she wanted to do something I could not stop her, any more than her noble father ever had. Two, she was right. As part of a couple, I would be much less conspicuous.
Add to that, we were both bored silly with being well-mannered visitors. We yearned for stimulus. We both enjoyed shared adventures-especially when we sneaked off without telling anyone, and when we knew if we had told them, they would all disapprove hysterically.
We slipped out of the residence. Our departure was spotted, but when staff gave us a second look we just kept going. There was no point borrowing Aelia Camilla's carrying chair. It would draw attention to us. We could manage on foot. Wherever we were going in this town would be close enough to walk.
I was getting my bearings. Londinium had not been developed by addicts of Hippodamus of Miletus and his structured gridiron street plans. It never grew from a major military base, so it lacked form and it lacked town walls. Instead of a four-square pleasing pattern, the T-shaped development followed one line across the river, then sprawled untidily in two directions, with houses and businesses ribboning along important roads. There were very few developed plots behind the few main streets.