I stared back. “If you know who I am, you know why.”
His eyes drifted down and lingered on my mother’s medallion. I’d forgotten to take it off that morning.
“I know who you are. But some say you turned against your own people long ago.”
He knew who I was, all right.
“Which people? I’m a Roman-and a Briton.” I wasn’t in the mood for this. I couldn’t afford to lose my temper again.
“I’m a man. Madoc. My mother married a Roman. I was adopted by another Roman, who was born in Gaul. That makes me-what exactly?”
He looked surprised when I addressed him by name.
“It makes me a man. One among thousands, in Britannia and Gaul, in Phoenicia and Nubia and Bithynia. I’m a native and a Roman. A Brit and a Roman. And I’ve never turned against any of my so-called, goddamned people.”
He waited for my color to die down. I hoped I hadn’t lost all chance of getting some information.
“Romans and Britons.” He shook his head. “I do not think you can be both. But I know you tried to help. At Mona.”
Mona. My nightmares came back at Mona, the ones where they were swinging the ax at my mother and all I could do was scream. It’s funny how memories turn into dreams.
I looked at him. Madoc had fought there. I’d been caught in between. I turned my back on the carnage, and on Agricola. I’d tried to reason with the governor-make him see that the wound would never heal, that destroying Mona would never destroy the Druids.
Rome’s greatest strength was in embracing other faiths and making them her own. The only thing left for Rome at Mona were the puddles of blood and the desecrated, chopped down oak groves. I’d never forget the smell of burning wood and corpses, the smoke filling the sky while the waves lapped against the shore. Mona was a bad dream. It was a worse memory.
I said: “It wasn’t enough.”
“So now what do you do? Now whom do you help?”
Something in his voice… I stared at him. Was he referring to the Syrian’s murder?
“I help-peace. I don’t want war between my people.”
He gazed at me thoughtfully. “But who are your people, Meddygon?”
This time I stayed in control. He was testing me. Now I remembered why I hadn’t gone to a rite in so many years.
My eyes met his with a stubborn frown and I answered in the native tongue. “All who desire justice. All who value life. And all who seek the truth.”
The reply seemed to satisfy him. After a minute, he began again.
“The Syrian you seek. He is dead.”
“He was murdered. I have to find out why.”
He shook his head. “Accept what is. You do not always need answers.”
I felt my lips pinching. I’d forgotten how irritating the priests of the Old Faith could be. Or was he just trying to warn me?
“The dead man was important, Madoc. To the Emperor. If I don’t discover who murdered him, it could be blamed on the natives. And it will hurt Agricola. I know he’s made mistakes, none worse than Mona. But he’s done much good for Britannia. He’s my friend. And another governor might be worse.”
Madoc’s face stayed stony, but I caught a look of alarm in his eyes. Maybe some self-preservation had penetrated his thick British skull. Or maybe he was frightened, too.
“You have been a friend to us. I respect you. I tell you this: there are other believers, different believers, who hate both Roman and native. They hide in the darkness. They hold only one god holy. They wish to destroy all others. Look for them when you seek the truth.” With one last piercing look, he wrapped his head, and vanished down the narrow lane.
CHAPTER NINE
Draco and I watched him go. He blended into the wattle-and-daub houses like a politician at a resort town. Interesting. And irritating.
He’d been trying to protect someone. I could feel it. Who? And how the hell did he know about the murder? Was Rhodri guilty? Was he protecting Rhodri? I shook my head. Always more goddamn questions.
So the Druid blames another cult. One-he says-that hates Romans and the Old Believers. The only group I knew of who worshipped one god, in secret, were Christians. An offshoot from the Jews. A one-god belief, and if there was one god above all others in Rome, he was squatting in a palace on the Palatine Hill. So they kept quiet, if they wanted to keep alive.
Mithras was more reasonable. His temples could be a little damp, but he didn’t care how many other gods you went out with as long as he got his share of the sacrifice. He was a normal kind of deity. Not like the jealous gods of Judea.
I scratched my chin with my thumbnail, and thought it over. There’d been no trouble from that part of the world since Titus stamped out the rebellion of another faction. The Jews were supposedly embarrassed by the whole affair.
Of course, the Christians embarrassed them, too. The Jews had spent generations adjusting the careful balance between Rome and their god, between what they owed the Empire and what they owed their priests. Then a clique decides to commit suicide by not paying taxes and not giving allegiance to the Emperor. It was insane.
When I was a boy in Rome, I saw some, once, queue up in the amphitheater to be killed by Nero. Then I threw up on a shriveled old senator and Classicianus took me back home. I couldn’t understand it then, and I couldn’t understand it now. Because if reports were true, they were doing the same thing for Domitian, and happy about it because they got to meet their god sooner. I could wait a lifetime to see mine, and I had a few to choose from. And none of them was worth dying for.
Debating the behavior of a strange cult brought me no closer to a solution or to Gwyna’s house. I was hungry, and it was time to find some food. Draco’s stomach already sounded like a dog fight. We continued down the road to find Bilicho’s bakery closed. We’d have to depend on our hosts for lunch, but at least we wouldn’t need a dentist.
Across from the baker and a little further down stood a Roman-style house. It was old and hunched over, and probably built when Londinium was founded. It had managed to escape Boudicca’s fury, but not the more patient malice of time. I turned to Draco.
“Stay outside the door. Whistle if someone wants in.”
He nodded, while his belly groaned in privation.
“I’ll ask them to bring you some food.” I tried to brush off as much mud as I could, and told him to do the same. After readjusting my toga, I was ready.
“Knock on the door.”
He was about to try again when I heard a shuffling noise. The door opened with a squeak, swinging precariously on two hinges. A blue eye, topped by bristling red eyebrows, peered belligerently through the crack at Draco. I stepped closer, so that it could see me.
I said: “I’m here to pay a call on Claudia Catussa.”
The eye scrutinized me carefully. The door opened a bit wider.
“That your slave?” a voice growled.
“Yes.”
It examined me again, afraid it had missed something the first time. The door opened a little wider, and I could see a face. A full red beard hid most of the craggy, cantankerous features of a man in his fifties or sixties. His beard was stained with wine and food, and he was clearly missing most of his teeth. I remembered Bilicho’s warning.
With a final groan, the tortured door opened wide enough to let me in. He had to prop it open at an angle, due to the missing hinge. Both eyes crawled over Draco from head to toe, hoping to find something objectionable. Finally, he nodded once.
“Enter.”
“My slave will wait on the doorstep. We don’t wish to be any trouble.”
He snorted, as if that were unlikely. With another abrupt head movement, he motioned me inside. I caught the odor of chickpeas and pork, and so did Draco. He sniffed the air like a Molossian hound, and longingly peered through the opening. Red-Beard seemed to take delight in closing the door in his face, but was hampered by the fact that it was a slow process.