He jumped when he saw me. “Yes-Arcturus. Any news? Have you found the native yet?”
I didn’t say anything, but looked over at Avitus. He wouldn’t meet my eyes. One of the logs snapped in the blaze, but there was no warmth in the room.
“What has Meditor told you?”
Agricola stopped pacing for a moment, and frowned at me. “More than you have. This Rhodri is a trouble-maker, he started a fight, was seen running upstairs, and that’s the last time anyone saw the Syrian. It seems obvious.”
“Maybe to Meditor. I’m not saying that Rhodri wasn’t involved in something. But it wasn’t murder.”
Agricola took a step toward me. His brown eyes, normally warm and frank, were filled with anger, panic and something I’d never seen before. Maybe I’d just never noticed it. Contempt.
“Listen, son. I know you like to help your people as much as you can. But we don’t have time for coddling. You haven’t given me one damn reason or explanation why we shouldn’t follow the only lead we have. Goddamn it, Arcturus, this is the Emperor we’re talking about! And possible war!”
I rose to my full height, something I rarely did around him. “If you follow Meditor’s advice and start undoing every decent thing you’ve done for these people, you’ll be making a war, not preventing one.”
He stared at me, breathing heavily, and after a few moments started to pace again. “Meditor thinks this is a crime by insurgents. Leftovers from Mona. We need to come down hard on them. Maybe we’ve been too soft.”
“Why would insurgents do you the favor of killing a man who was bringing you bad news? Not even your wife loves you that much.”
I watched the words strike his face like a closed fist, and wished them back too late. Agricola turned red, and the muscles around his mouth twitched while he stared at me. Where were my political instincts this evening? Buried with Galla?
Avitus shifted his weight, his mouth open in shock. The insult had at least braced the old man. His voice was guttural, a low growl.
“It’s late, so I’ll overlook the rudeness, Arcturus. I put you in charge of this-so far, you’ve told me nothing, given me nothing except complaints and laments for your mistreated natives. Meditor has brought me a name, one I could put before Domitian as an excuse for not responding to a message I can’t admit I know the contents of. You’ve brought me nothing but warnings.”
Anger closed my throat, but the words pushed through anyway. “You want a name, general? I’ll give you one. Marcus Caelius Prato. A Roman. He’s the owner of the whorehouse where the Syrian was killed. He told one of his whores to advertise that she was with the Syrian all night, until Maecenas supposedly skipped town and forgot his bill on the way to some other inconvenient little city. All lies. Meditor’s right about one thing. The murder took place at the whorehouse. And one of the whores, who knew just a little bit about it, was murdered last night or early this morning, by Caelius. She was beaten to death. He’s also consolidated the debts of the man you visited this morning, and wants to marry his daughter-the same woman Maecenas was going to marry. So who looks more guilty, general? The native or the Roman?”
Fear crawled back behind Agricola’s eyes. It was a hell of a lot easier to make it a native. The cracks in the general’s soul were showing. Funny, I’d never noticed them before. Not even at Mona.
“If the whore was a slave-”
“She was. But she was killed for what she knew. Rhodri was planning to rob the Syrian, not murder him. It’s Caelius that can lead us to the truth.”
He sighed and collapsed, suddenly, like an autumn leaf let down by the wind. “What do you suggest? That I arrest a Roman citizen?”
“No. I want to deal with Caelius in my own way. There were two men involved in the murder, according to what the whore knew. Caelius wasn’t either of the men, but he’ll know at least one, a soldier, a legionnaire. That could also explain the mithraeum connection. The bastard is as oily and slippery as a day old cod. He’ll squirm his way out of the country if we’re not careful.”
I scratched my chin, feeling the growth of beard. It would grow some more before I could shave again. “Rhodri didn’t kill Maecenas, and I don’t believe he knows anything about the message. But he’s in danger from the real murderer, and he needs to be approached with caution. I’m riding to Camulodunum tomorrow to find him. I’ll need a horse.”
He was now sitting down in a basket chair, and Avitus had moved away from the fire to stand by him. The general waved a grey hand. “Take one of the courier horses. What if he’s not in Camulodunum? What about Meditor?”
“All I ask, governor, is that if Meditor finds him before I do, he is to take him alive and unharmed. And don’t make a bad situation worse by stirring up a hornet’s nest with the natives. Your kindness has tamed them, not your sword. As your visit this morning should’ve reminded you.”
Agricola smiled, a small, tight, tired smile. “I forgive you lecturing me like a school boy because you’re a doctor and you’re used to it. I did enjoy the visit with Urien, and the fact that I went at all should tell you how much I value your advice, especially on native matters. But time is a luxury I can ill afford, Arcturus. I’ll do what is best for Rome.”
Mollius’ face flashed into my mind. Pietas. I was tired, too, tired beyond caring, tired beyond feeling. I wanted to go home, forget this frightened old politician warming himself with a cold fire, forget what I owed him, and what I felt for him.
Avitus finally spoke. “Anything else, Favonianus?”
I wrapped my cloak about me tighter, the room chilly, as if a gust had blown through the crevices. “I’ll be back in four days. When is the initiation?”
“Antonius will fetch you when you return. He’ll lead you through a rehearsal first.”
“Avitus-do you know any Christians among the men at the fort?”
The beneficarius arched an eyebrow. “Christians? No. Not that I’ve heard. I’m not sure I’d know what one was even if I saw one. Why?”
I shook my head. “I’m not sure.”
Agricola rose, his paternal benevolence reassumed. “Be careful, son. Chasing shadows can be dangerous.”
I turned to face him as I went through the door. “Not as dangerous as chasing glory.” I bowed and left him there.
* * * * *
It was dark when I left for Camulodunum, but the kind I could see through. More bad dreams that night. Screams and cries, the whistle of a blade before it strikes flesh, Gwyna bearing a child that turned into Galla’s battered face. I never told anyone but Bilicho about my dreams. Some people swore by them, claimed they knew how to interpret them to tell the future. I knew better. Mine could tell the past.
The grey mare was alert, her ears pricked forward, her shod hooves sure and steady on the cobbled streets. The echo rang against the muddy buildings, the businesses that followed the Romans like egrets after cattle. The egrets were better at keeping the flies away.
I called her Nimbus, because she looked like a rain cloud, and we’d have to be lucky not to run into any on the trip. I breathed in, trying to catch a whiff of country air. Maybe it would clear my head.
Londinium was thinning out. I passed the amphitheater, and wondered how the betting had gone yesterday. Some people loved the games, and I never understood why. Maybe power: power over life and death. That’s a power I sometimes thought I had, and never wanted. It wasn’t real.
The hoof rings grew infrequent, and fell into the choppy, comforting sound of churned-up mud. The road was starting to decay a little. Scratch the Roman surface with a fingernail and you uncover British dirt. That described just about everything in Britannia.
I abruptly reined Nimbus toward the north; she questioned me, her nose flaring. The road to Camulodunum was to the northeast. But we were outside the cemetery, and there was someone I wanted to see.
I passed the larger monuments, the ones offering dire curses on anyone who might disturb the peace of the dead, the shades and the shadows competing for attention just as much as they did in the upper world. “Look, stranger!” one called. “This is the grave of a good baker.” “Hearken, you who walk by”, another one shrieked. “I was a Senator’s daughter.” All the wives were good women who worked wool; all the husbands were faithful and kind. Funny how death makes everyone perfect.