“Let’s see it.”
Mollius looked it over while I sucked down some of Venutius’ oats and honey. I felt like I hadn’t eaten for days. A door slammed, and a few minutes later Bilicho poked a sleepy head into the dining room.
“How did it go last night?”
“Fine. I wasn’t killed.”
He thought I was joking until he saw Mollius’ face and the sword in his hand. “What happened?”
“Part of the initiation involves getting stabbed with a trick sword. Only someone didn’t like the trick part, and switched it out for a real one, with a point. Arian, the signifer that gave me a hard time on the way back from the mithraeum the first night-you remember-he was showing me how to use it, and he took the blade instead. He’s at the hospital; his gut had a hole in it I had to sew up.”
“Will he live?”
“He should. You never know.”
Bilicho gave a low whistle. “At least they can’t blame Rhodri. Will they let him go?”
“Maybe. I doubt it. You know Meditor. Mollius and I are going there now. I’d like to talk to Stricta when I get back.”
His forehead creased with worry. “She wants to talk. But Arcturus-she’s not in good health. She won’t eat, she’s as thin as a papyrus leaf.” He turned a little pink. “She can’t sleep nights, either.”
“I’ll take a look at her. Probably just nerves. She’s been through a lot.”
“More than you know.” I couldn’t remember ever seeing Bilicho like this. I wondered how long he’d known her, and when it finally hit him, and how long the dazed look would stay on his face. I hoped I didn’t look that witless.
When Mollius and I walked outside, a light drizzle was falling on Londinium, not enough to clean the city, but enough to bring out the smells.
“That sword-it looks like an auxiliary man’s. Maybe someone from Dalmatia or Thrace.”
“Yeah, it looked like that to me, too. How’s the curfew going?”
“Makes ‘em mad as hell. I don’t blame them. Meditor is an asshole.”
“One of the biggest. And he’s shitting on us.”
“Not just us. On every Brit who’s not a citizen-and that’s most-and the whole idea of why Agricola supposedly put in the vigiles to begin with.”
“I know, Mollius. Your pietas, again.”
He looked at me, and said: “I found some things out about Caelius Prato.”
“Tell me.”
“Do you think he was involved last night?”
“I don’t know. I’m fairly sure he didn’t try to break into my house-the others told you about that yesterday. He’s a physical coward, hides behind rank and power and poor giant Lupo. He didn’t actually go to Meditor and complain about Draco, did he?”
Mollius shook his head.
“I didn’t think so. He’s in too deep and about to get buried. There’s no business between him and the fort?”
Mollius shook his head again. “Only the regular traffic between soldiers and whores. He wouldn’t know a barracks from a bathhouse. Somebody inside got to that sword.”
“Somebody who knew where it was kept and knew what it was for and knew who was supposed to use it. Me.”
“That leaves him out of it but good. Your Caelius Prato has conspicuously avoided the military path. He’s an equestrian, the third son of some ne’er-do-well who lost senatorial rank under Titus. He’s spent time in the East-Judea, and generally is careful to keep his nose clean. Stays out of court, for example. He’s been running Lupo’s for a year.”
“Where did he get the money? A dead aunt?”
Mollius frowned. “I don’t know. I haven’t been able to find out. It would take considerable capital-buying Lupo, and all the women.”
“Try to find out for me, would you?”
“Do you think it’s important?”
“Mollius, I always think money is important.”
We were at the jail, a plain, grim looking building in the back end of the forum next to the basilica. Roman jails weren’t built very well, because no one ever stayed in them very long. They were just a waiting room on the way to the cemetery.
“I’m leaving now, Arcturus. I don’t want Meditor to see me with you.”
“Good idea. You should be out finding natives to harass, anyway.”
He gave me his crooked smile, and turned back toward the west end of town. I was glad to see him like this. I walked in, and a bored vigil greeted me.
“Salve. What do you want?”
“Your superior’s head on a spit, but that’s not likely to happen. Where is he?”
He was easily confused. “Who?”
“Meditor. Med-i-tor. Chief vigil and all-around asshole.”
“You shouldn’t talk that way.”
“Yeah, but I can’t seem to stop. So where is he?”
“Upstairs. In the office. With a beneficarius.”
Must be Avitus. “Thanks. Has the torture started yet?”
“Of the prisoner?”
“Yes. Mine started when I walked in here.”
He looked confused again. “The native hasn’t been questioned yet.”
“Thanks again.” I left and entered the Basilica Claudia, named after the glorious Emperor with the too-small head. Meditor was on the second floor. There were some soldiers and what looked like merchants waiting on the steps, probably for some legal wrangle. They’d scratched a game board into the rock and were playing a game of terni lapilli. I watched two red pieces get caught by three blues, and walked up to see Meditor.
I didn’t knock. When I opened the door, Avitus was trying to explain something to him, and Meditor was turning red and shaking his head. “Salvete, gentlemen. Or gentleman. I’m here to talk to your prisoner, Meditor.”
He allowed himself a full minute to gloat in my face. “The prisoner that you traveled over a hundred miles to find? The prisoner that you said isn’t guilty, and yet we’ve found weapons in his house? The prisoner that-”
“-is an innocent man, and whom you’re holding without any reason at all, except for the fact that you’re a bully and an idiot. Yes, that prisoner.”
We stared at each other, and Avitus smoothly intervened. “I’ve just been telling Meditor what happened to you last night, Favonianus. Agricola is holding off the quaesitor until you can talk to him.”
“Just one? Make sure it’s a good one, Meditor-maybe the one that tortured those German mutineers last year.”
“You mind your own business.”
“This is my business. Avitus just told you what happened. Your boy was locked up in that hole last night-he didn’t try to kill me.”
“That would hardly be a crime.”
I pushed my nose into his face. “Look at me, Meditor. I’ve been beat up, nearly killed twice, gone without sleep for days, and had to save a good man’s life by stitching up a quarter inch slash in his gut. You give me one more word, one more reason, and I’ll rip your goddamn head off and shove it up your ass and no one-no one!-will give a damn.”
Avitus plucked at my elbow. “C’mon, Arcturus. Talk to the prisoner.”
I stared at the pinched slits that passed for eyes in Meditor’s bald head.
“He’s still guilty, your native pretty boy. Sure, maybe he’s in league with someone-we’ve always known there’re two involved. It’s a set-up to make him look innocent.”
I stared, but found no sign of anything but hatred. That must be what kept Meditor upright. It sure wasn’t intelligence. I shrugged off Avitus’ hand, and followed him out the door and down the steps.
“You shouldn’t let him get to you like that.”
I didn’t say anything.
The same dumb guard looked surprised when I walked in with the beneficarius. “This man is here to interview the prisoner.” The guard nodded. Avitus leaned over to me and whispered: “We haven’t been able to get anything out of him.”
I grunted, and followed the soldier to the back of the prison. The door was barred with a block of wood that weighed more than I did. He was holding a lamp and a torch, and gave the torch to me. There weren’t any windows in the jail. He set the lamp on the floor, drew his sword, and banged the hilt on the door.