‘… I dread to think what they talk about.’
‘Yeah, I know, it don’t bear contemplation; but the main thing is that she and Pallas are keeping her safe. Flavia still has no idea that both Messalina and Corvinus are a threat to her or the children’s safety and Pallas reckons it’s best to keep it that way.’
Vespasian looked dubious. ‘I suppose he’s right.’
‘Course he is, sir. He knows the workings of Claudius’ court as well as anyone; he’s convinced that if Flavia was to live in fear then she could well do something stupid and offend someone important. As it is she sometimes dines with Messalina because Titus and Britannicus have become such good friends.’
‘Yes, she mentioned that in her last letter — she was full of it. I wrote back trying to explain that it’s not such a good thing for our son to be too friendly with someone who could become emperor, even though he’s only six. A lot of future emperors never fulfil their promise and their friends can suffer too.’
‘Well, there ain’t anything that you can do about that at the moment; worry about it when you get back to Rome.’
‘That could be another two years at this rate.’
‘Two more years to get rich in.’ Magnus drained his cup and then rummaged in his bag; he brought out five scrolls and placed them on the table. ‘I’m off to find a spare tent; I’ll leave you with these. There’s one from Flavia, Caenis, your uncle, your mother and Pallas.’
‘Pallas! What does he want?’
‘How would I know? The letter’s addressed to you.’
Vespasian lay on his camp-bed, perusing the last of his letters in the flickering light of the single oil lamp on a low table next to him. The first four had been much as expected: words of love and reassurance from Caenis; news of dinner parties and a request for more money from Flavia; complaints about Flavia’s attitude to parenthood from his mother, Vespasia; and advice from his uncle as to which political factions to pretend publicly to support and which to really support privately upon his return to Rome. It was the fifth letter, which he was now rereading, that had caused him some surprise.
It had seemed odd that Pallas had chosen to send his letter via Magnus rather than use the official couriers that daily set out from Rome on the long journey to the new province; but when he had seen the content of the letter he realised that Claudius’ powerful freedman had been frightened that the missive would be intercepted. As a veteran of imperial politics, Pallas was forever embroiled in intrigue and as Vespasian finished the letter for the second time he shook his head, chewing on his lower lip, his expression strained; even here on the fringes of the Empire he was not beyond the reach of the schemes and plots of his masters back in Rome.
Hormus slipped through the entrance to Vespasian’s sleeping quarters with his breastplate, helmet and greaves all freshly polished and hung them on his armour-stand. ‘Will there be anything else, master?’
Vespasian glanced at the letter again. ‘Yes, Hormus; ask Paetus to report to me an hour before dawn. Wake me by then.’
The slave bowed and went about his errand. Vespasian rolled up Pallas’ letter, placed it with the others on the table, and then blew out the lamp. In the dark of the tent he closed his eyes to the sound of almost ten thousand men settling down for the night and the scent of the smoke spiralling up from the smouldering wick.
The lamp was burning when Vespasian opened his eyes; he shivered despite being well wrapped in woollen blankets. Feeling more tired than when he went to bed, he sat up; the flap to his sleeping quarters was swinging as if someone had just passed through. ‘Hormus!’ He waited a few moments, yawning deeply; there was no reply. ‘Hormus?’ Untangling himself from the blankets he sat on the edge of the bed, stretching.
‘Yes, master,’ his slave said, walking in, wiping the sleep from his eyes.
‘Bring me some bread and warmed wine.’
‘Yes, master.’
‘Is Paetus here yet?’
‘I’m sorry, master?’
‘You heard me.’
The slave shook his head looking nonplussed. ‘No, master, he’s not; I only got back a couple of hours ago. It’s at least five hours until dawn.’
‘Then why did you wake me?’
‘What do you mean, master?’
‘The flap was swinging when I woke up — you’d just gone through it.’
Hormus was looking increasingly confused. ‘I was asleep in my bedding-roll just the other side of the entrance.’
‘Then who came in?’
‘No one; they would have had to step over me; I would have woken.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, master, no one came in.’
‘Then who lit the lamp?’
Hormus looked at the spluttering flame and shook his head mutely, his eyes wide.
Vespasian felt another chill. The hairs on the back of his neck and on his arms bristled.
‘The wick must have just reignited,’ Magnus asserted, looking down at the offending item four hours later.
Vespasian shook his head, his expression again strained. ‘Impossible, it was completely out; I remember smelling the smoke from it.’
‘Perhaps Hormus is lying; perhaps he did light it and then pretended he didn’t to scare you.’
‘Why would he want to do that?’
Magnus hunched his shoulders, spreading his hands. ‘I don’t know; perhaps he just doesn’t like you. Or perhaps he’s been planted by the enemy to distract you, take your mind off the campaign.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. He wouldn’t need to do that; he could kill me in my bed any night.’
‘How long have you had him?’
‘I bought him soon after you left for Rome, so May last year. I’ve had him nearly a year; he’s placid, meticulous, unobtrusive and, I believe, honest, as nothing has ever gone missing.’
‘What is he?’
‘He’s a slave.’
‘Yes, I know that; I mean what was he?’
‘He was born a slave, that’s why I chose him; he’s never known anything else so I wouldn’t have to tame him. I think he said that his mother was originally from somewhere around Armenia; he doesn’t know who his father was but I suspect that he was his mother’s owner. She never told him and died when he was ten. That’s all I know about him.’
‘So you’re sure he wasn’t lying?’
‘Yes. So if he didn’t do it, who did?’
‘Well, I don’t know, sir; does it really matter?’
‘Yes, it does; it matters greatly.’
‘Why?’
‘Because last night someone got past the guards at the front, past Hormus sleeping outside my door, into my room and then for some strange reason lit my oil lamp and then walked back out.’
‘Or something did.’
‘Now you’re being ridiculous again.’
‘Am I? You know what this island’s like; you heard the stories: the strange spirits, wraiths, old gods that have been here for centuries, from even before the Britons arrived. Things that we don’t understand. Ancient things.’
‘I’ll admit that this is a strange place. Sabinus talked to me about it when I saw him at Plautius’ briefing this winter; he told me about a legionary who had been found dead, with no visible wound and yet there wasn’t a drop of blood in him. Another had been flayed alive and yet was still wearing his uniform; apparently before he died he rambled on about spirits that sucked the skin from his limbs. I pretended to Sabinus that I didn’t believe it, that I thought they were just exaggerated legionary stories designed to frighten the new recruits.’