I tried to look enthusiastic. “That’s wonderful, sir. More efficient weaponry means saved lives.” Not just Roman lives, but I didn’t add that much.
He nodded energetically. “That’s what I’ve always felt.” He paused, and started tapping on the desk with the stylus. “So how can I help you?”, he asked, a little more formal than before.
“Well, to begin with, what kind of man was Maecenas? What did he do for the Emperor?”
He thought for a minute. “Now, I didn’t know him well, you understand. But I think he was one of Caesar’s freedmen, a sometime secretary and sometime messenger. As I said, I saw him in Rome. And of course, he’s been in Britannia a few times-somehow, I seem to recall he had an interest in a silver mine here. Moderately well-off, I should think. Syrian by birth.”
“Do you know why he was in Londinium?”
“No, I really can’t say. Business, probably. He struck me as a somewhat greedy fellow.”
“You haven’t heard anything about a marriage?”
He smiled, laid down the stylus, and rubbed his eyes. “My dear Arcturus. If I paid attention to every vulgar rumor that crosses my path, I should be unable to do my job. Bad things, rumors. I try to avoid them.”
I smiled in return. “For the sake of my inquiry, sir, I’d appreciate it if you’d try to remember any you’ve heard recently.”
His mouth twitched, a little petulantly. “Oh, very well. Rumor is the lowest form of information, you know-completely untrustworthy. Let’s see-I seem to recall someone telling me something about Vibius marrying a native girl. I wasn’t sure when or where or whom, because, as I’ve said, I wasn’t paying attention. That’s all, I’m afraid.”
“Nothing else? Nothing about a message, for instance?”
On the last word, he stared at me, and sucked his teeth a little. “Garbage. Nothing but garbage,” he snapped. “You should know better than to listen to them. There was talk at the triumph for the Emperor, and I refused to hear it then, and I refuse to hear it now. Garbage.”
“Garbage that maybe killed Maecenas,” I said softly.
Lucullus pinched his face up tight and suddenly didn’t look as nice. “I don’t like this, it does no credit to the governor or the Emperor. Or to you, I might add.”
“I’m willing to get dirty. That’s why I’m here.”
He clenched his jaw, and stared at me. I held his eyes, and he finally caved in. “All right. It goes against my principles, but if it helps the governor …”
“It will,” I assured him.
His brow knit in memory. “There was a rumor going about at the triumph-I don’t remember who tried to tell me-and I immediately dismissed it as the sort of bilge sparked by jealousy, and afterward I didn’t hear any more about it, thank goodness. The rumor was that a messenger would be coming to Britannia with imperial orders for Agricola to step down. I don’t think Maecenas was mentioned personally, but I seem to remember he was present when I heard this, and in an uncommonly good mood. Until I told them all what I thought.”
He frowned, and his mouth dug ditches down to his chin. “But that can’t be true. Domitian thinks very highly of Agricola, he’s told me so on numerous occasions. He knows the governor is about to conquer the rest of the province, and believe me, he wants it. And Maecenas was robbed, wasn’t he? Was he supposed to have a lot of money on him?”
Never discuss money with a procurator. I laughed. It sounded a little hollow to my ears. “What’s a lot of money in Britannia? They’ll slit your throat for a night on the town these days.”
He looked at me closely, like I didn’t add up. But it seemed to pacify him. “All too true.” He put down the stylus with finality. “Well, Arcturus-”
I rose. “Thank you, sir. I really appreciate you telling me what you’ve heard. Good luck with your records.”
Thank you. And do come back for the pilum demonstration.”
“I will.” At the door I turned back to face him. “I almost forgot-just one more thing, sir-”
He’d already started to unfold a tablet full of calculations. “Yes, what is it?” he demanded impatiently, not looking up from the book.
“Do you know a Marcus Caelius Prato?” A pause lingered in the air between us like a bad odor. I waited for it to clear. The procurator was still hunched over his tablet, and hadn’t said anything.
“Caelius-”
“I heard you the first time. I’m trying to remember. Seems to me I’ve heard that name in conjunction with a business here in Londinium.” He finally looked up, and scratched his chin. “Something unsavory, as I recall. Wait-I do remember. Prato, you said? There was a Prato mentioned in that last rumor I told you about, the one about the message. Don’t know whether it was Caelius Prato or not. Is that all?”
“Yes sir, and thank you again.”
The siren call of mathematics lured him back, and he barely grunted in reply. I opened the door, to find the pack of scribes and assistants waiting anxiously. “He’s all yours,” I said with a bow, and turned to walk down the long hallway.
As I passed Domitian, the bored guard was leading in a soldier. The man-a legionary-stared at me. His eyes were an unusual brown-green, and glowed with something I couldn’t see. Someone I operated on? I couldn’t remember. Probably a temple member, who recognized me from last night. He was wearing a green scarf with a thick red sagum held in place with a fancy gold pin-looked like the shape of Apollo. Maybe he was one of Avitus’ men. If he was part of the mithraeum, I’d soon meet him. Saturninus would have to prepare me for the initiation when I got back from Camulodunum. But meanwhile, I had real work to do.
Big Feet was waiting for me. He sprang up from the steps of the temple when he saw me-they must’ve been cold, and he wasn’t wearing trousers. I smiled a little, and threaded my way through the rest of the pack, their numbers dwindling with their hopes.
I walked out in the street, and meandered north-east. I thought I’d pass the Forum on my way-where? I was improvising, and I didn’t like the tune. I needed to find Rhodri. That was the one refrain that kept playing over and over, and I was getting tired of hearing it.
Too late to start for Camulodunum now. I could swing by Lupo’s, and just observe the place-maybe take a look in on the whores. Then go home and check Bilicho, and send a message to Saturninus and find out when this initiation is supposed to take place. And I could look up Mollius, see what the vigiles know. Head for the palace and tell Agricola I’m leaving tomorrow. Maybe Avitus discovered something. Maybe Meditor had an epiphany and killed himself.
It all sounded good, particularly the part about not seeing Gwyna. I was resolutely pushing her out of my head. If Meditor somehow discovered my interest in her, he’d be first in line at the crucifixion. I’d left out any private motives for the murder last night-better for Rhodri’s chances, and better for me. Even if Vibius was killed for personal reasons, he was here as the Emperor’s agent. That made everything political.
The streets were beginning to get crowded, and I could see a throng at the market in the Forum. Big Feet almost lost me in the crowd a few times, but I waited for him. I wriggled my way past the turnips and cabbages and homemade beer and pots and pans to the rostra, the site of official speeches and official boredom.
The rostra hadn’t really meant anything since Cicero had his hands and tongue nailed to the one in Rome a long, long time ago. But the Romans held on to the illusion that public speaking was free and put a rostra in every forum in every city in the Empire.
It was a good place to advertise. There was a gladiator show today, featuring some half-naked women from Carthage. They were probably fat, forty, drunk and from Gaul. Also on the bill was a live Thracian-always more exciting than a dead one-and a few dwarfs. Slave children the promoter bought, probably. As long as the crowd got some blood, they wouldn’t care even if they knew the difference.