‘I shall do that,’ I said, ‘as soon as we have found them. For the moment they have eluded us. So, my friend, I have only your word for this.’
‘I swear by all my childhood gods,’ Zetso said. ‘The Celt was alive when I left here. And as for Felix, he was miles away. The ex-centurion will vouch for that.’
I was sure he would. I would, however, ensure that he was given the opportunity.
‘Egobarbus was singularly ill-fated in his appointments with your master,’ I observed. ‘Felix must have passed this very door on his way to Glevum, and yet he did not even pause to contact the man for whom he had rented the house. It seems a little calculated to me.’
Zetso flushed. ‘The Celt was importunate. He had almost caused a scene in Letocetum, trying to burst in when my master was in conclave with important officers from the northern legions. I think my master thought to punish him.’
It would be like Felix, I thought, to exact such a vengeance: keeping the man here, miles from anywhere, and failing to pay him the money that he owed. ‘And you have not returned here since? You did not come here after the feast?’
He shrugged. ‘I returned to the ex-centurion’s house, as instructed. My master had left some further letters there he wished me to deliver — as I was doing, when they brought me here.’ He opened the leather saddle-pouch to reveal two small sealed vellum scrolls and a fine hinged wax writing tablet and stilus.
I thought of demanding to see the scrolls, but the memory of the warrant deterred me. I contented myself with asking, ‘Who are these for?’
‘The men he was talking to in Letocetum. I do not know their names. I am to deliver these to the house, that is all. Now, with your permission, I have a letter to write myself.’ He took the writing tablet from the bag, together with a wax stick and a flamboyant seal-press.
He turned himself away so that the tablet was hidden from me and scratched a few lines hastily upon it. Then he folded and latched it, and with a contemptuous glance in my direction made a great performance of sealing it, tying the cords of the tablet so that the knot lay in the recess provided and then warming the wax stick in the candle-flame and dripping it over the knot to hold it. Then, for ultimate security, he took the seal-press and impressed it onto the hot wax, saying with satisfaction, ‘This seal is still effective, citizen, whoever may be dead. And I am still empowered to wield it.’
Only then did he hold the tablet out to me. I hesitated.
‘A letter to the ex-centurion, to let him know what has happened. He lives apart and does not hear the rumours. It will be a shock to him. Perhaps you will see it is delivered. No doubt you will wish to interview him, in any case.’ He gave me a brief description of where to find the villa.
I wondered what welcome awaited me if I arrived there bearing this letter. I did not trust Zetso a thumb’s-breadth but I took the tablet without a murmur.
‘Now if I am to deliver my own messages before nightfall, citizen, I suggest it would be wise to let me go. Very wise. I still carry a warrant, and these letters are of imperial importance.’
I looked at the octio and he at me. I was defeated. Faced with the Emperor’s orders, I could only let him go. I nodded, and the door was thrown open. We all blinked fiercely in the sudden light of day.
‘My horse!’
The octio scuttled to fetch the animal. It was a handsome brute. I have not possessed a horse since I was taken into slavery, but I had once loved to ride and I knew good horseflesh when I saw it. I was seeing it now.
Zetso slung his saddlebag over the neck, took the reins and swung up effortlessly onto the animal’s back. He looked down at me. ‘Your servant, citizen.’ It was a sneer. Then, with a clattering of hooves, he was gone.
I stood there for a moment, clutching the writing tablet. I knew in my bones I should not have let him leave. But I could not hold him longer with impunity: I dared not even open his sealed letter. And he knew it.
I turned away and went back into the mansio.
Chapter Twenty-three
Junio was waiting for me. Wine was on offer at the inn, but he had obtained from somewhere a flagon of honeyed mead and a handful of spices, and was in the process of heating them up in a borrowed pan over the communal fire, preparing my favourite drink.
‘Where did you get this from, you young scoundrel?’ I asked, taking the proffered drinking vessel with real relish and pretended severity. In fact, knowing Junio, I guessed that he had probably won them from some unsuspecting player of twelve stones.
Junio grinned. ‘There is a tax-collector newly arrived in the mansio from Glevum, with his slave. The others in the inn have kept away from him’ — I nodded, tax-collectors are generally as popular as lepers — ‘but I am not too proud to play a game of dice with his servant. Especially as he had a flagon of mead about him. I know your preferences, master. And there was little risk — they were his dice.’
I smiled, indulgently. Gambling in inns is technically forbidden, except on public feast-days, but provided there is no fighting over stakes the law is rarely enforced — one might as well attempt to stamp out an ants’ nest with a pin. ‘I see the Fates have favoured you again.’ I poured out a little of my mead in front of the hearth. ‘There, I have given the gods an oblation in gratitude.’
I was jesting, but there was method in my action. I am not a superstitious man, but my dealings with Zetso had frightened me severely. And it had distressed me to fail. I felt some sort of offering was necessary.
Junio knew me. ‘You let him go then, master?’
I sighed. ‘I had no option, really.’ I knew what Junio was waiting for, and (as is my custom on these occasions) I told him all about it, word for word as nearly as I could remember. Merely telling him is sometimes enough to give me insights, and he will occasionally notice details which I had missed.
He did so now.
‘Killers.’ He interrupted my recital. ‘Why should Zetso think of killers? In the plural? That is suggestive, don’t you think?’
I forced myself to smile. I have tried to teach Junio my trade, and I should be pleased when he is more observant than I am.
‘He talked of earlier plots, in Rome,’ I answered feebly. My pleasure at my servant’s skill does not necessarily entail drawing his attention to my own lack of it.
Junio grinned. ‘I am not surprised. Felix must have made many enemies. He had not been in Glevum above a day, and already I can think of people who would cheerfully have killed him.’
I sipped at my mead. ‘But who would have dared? Or had the means and opportunity?’
‘You think Zetso killed him? If Phyllidia could steal poison from her father, presumably his slaves could do the same. Or perhaps Zetso plotted with others, and his fellow conspirators struck sooner than he expected? That would explain both his surprise and his remarks.’
‘It is possible,’ I said. ‘He has the mentality for it. I saw his face when he recalled the herald. I think Zetso enjoys killing.’
‘Then he found himself the right master,’ Junio said.
I nodded. I might have said more, but at that moment the door opened and a short, thin, self-important man in a vulgar vermilion-dyed tunic and voluminous cloak looked in. He glanced at my dishevelled tunic with a mixture of disdain and astonishment, said, ‘Good evening, countryman,’ in an affected, but imitation, Roman accent and disappeared again. I didn’t need to be a rune-reader to recognise the tax-collector.
‘There goes the most hated man in all Britannia,’ I said, raising my drinking cup again. ‘Now that Perennis Felix is dead, that is!’ The mead tasted all the sweeter now that I had seen its rightful owner. It is rare that tax-collectors find themselves on the receiving end of improper extortion.