“Good. That fits. The rest of the missing lines would describe his office and list Domitian’s titles. I can just make out a few more letters here, right in the tear. Hmm. ‘-Olae’?” I looked up. “It could be ‘Agricolae’. That means the message was to Agricola.”
“Or about Agricola.”
“Maybe.” I carefully rolled the papyrus back up and turned toward the calf-skin pouch. It was sleek and expensive, beautifully tanned, and sewn with expensive gold thread. I weighed it in my hands.
“Heavy. We’ll find more than brass or bronze in here.”
I pulled open the leather strings, and emptied the contents on the table. Bilicho gasped. At least thirty freshly-minted gold aurei poured out, mixed in with about twenty silver denarii. The coins looked like the new type we’d heard about. Domitian had increased the amount of gold without increasing the face value, and the more valuable money almost never made its way up to Britannia. I stared at it. It didn’t get here by swimming.
The murder motive couldn’t have been robbery-at least of the monetary kind. But what was the Syrian doing with so much? Even a woman of Gwyna’s beauty wouldn’t fetch a price like this, even if she came from one of the scion families of Rome. Even if any were left.
The metal was a little too bright for my eyes. Next to it was a ring and a small pair of ivory dice. I picked up the ring. It was a signet, gold, thick, ostentatious. Malachite is hard to carve, and the initials were not elegant. I could make out the “V M” intertwined with a grape vine. I shook the pouch again, but it was empty.
“Nobody could spend this stuff. At least not on the street. And not without changing it.”
I put everything back in the pouch. Bilicho added a slow-burning log to the fire, while I walked into the chilly corridor and took what seemed like a long walk to my bedroom. I opened a locked chest. Only I had the key to it, and I kept it around my neck, next to my mother’s medallion. I nestled the pouch underneath some souvenirs of Delphi. Avitus would have to pull more strings than Orpheus if he wanted to search my house.
I stumbled and almost dropped the lamp on the way back to the dining room. Bilicho was sitting in the chair, nodding off. We were useless. I nudged him gently.
“Go on to bed. I’m staying here.”
“Why?”
“I need to think before I fall asleep. It’s bigger and warmer in here than my bedroom.”
Bilicho shrugged. “It’s your stiff back.” He stood up, stretched, popped a joint in his shoulder, and made his way out the door.
“You sure you’ll be all right?”
“There’s the mantle if I get cold later, and I’ll probably crawl into my own bed soon enough. Get some sleep.”
I heard him mumble in agreement as he walked down the hallway. I yawned again, and after wadding up one of my cloaks as a pillow, burrowed into the couch with a still-damp mantle as a cover. Tucking my hands beneath my head, I stared at the ceiling. Vibius Maecenas was dead. Murdered and mutilated. Agricola’s temple-a symbol of the Roman Army-desecrated. I closed my eyes, but it didn’t help. All I could think about was the smell of blonde hair on a summer’s day.
CHAPTER SIX
Rosy-fingered Dawn never visited Britannia in the winter time. It made her neither rosy nor excited to get up in the morning. All I could see was grey. I’d been thinking about yesterday for nearly an hour and a half.
In front of me was the governor’s palace. Four of the governor’s bodyguard waited in front of the heavily fortified door. One glanced at me as I stood on the river bank, belching out clouds of smoke in the frigid air.
The palace sold Rome like a fishwife sold mackereclass="underline" there was nothing subtle about it. It was big, obnoxious, and covered in reasons why you should get down on your hands and knees and kiss the ground because Julius Caesar had decided to take a piss across the Oceanus Britannicus. Green and white marble in front, black columns, painted statues-you coughed up the money before you remembered you didn’t like the taste of fish.
It was unfinished, but it didn’t matter. Even the guards were decoration-the palace was the real threat. Agricola had softened it with the generosity of other buildings: the baths, temples, the arena, law courts-everywhere you looked, you saw the benevolent smile of your governor, Britannia’s paterfamilias. And now, all of a sudden, everyone wanted to be Roman-at least the upper classes. The lower classes preferred to stay invisible.
I shifted my weight. The governor was a brilliant man. For the last five years, the sunshine of Rome had shone down on little grey Britannia, and peace was just around the corner. The south was officially subdued except for a stubborn few, who clung to the past like men on a life raft. They’d kill a soldier here, burn down a building there. But the distrust and resentment they fed on was lurking right beneath the surface. Even in Londinium.
Agricola didn’t worry about it. Tribal memory was as stubborn as a rock, and he’d worn it down to a pebble or two. Time would do the rest. He wanted the north; he’d get it this summer. He’d build a line of forts, and keep the south safely Roman.
He was a man with much to lose.
I turned back. The palace looked the same as it always did. The guards were alert but bored, the threat and the promise of Rome still intact. I would see the governor-but not now. Better to wait for Avitus.
I was a man with much to lose, too.
* * * * *
Roosters were crowing all over the city by the time I got home. Venutius made some warm oat porridge for a change, and dug up a few dried plums and bread rolls to go with it. Unfortunately, the porridge wasn’t the simple mixture it pretended to be. I smelled it, and my stomach shriveled in horror. Goat milk and garum. There is such a thing as too much creativity in a cook.
I was gnawing on a stale wheat bun when Bilicho came in, still looking sleepy.
“Did you see Agricola?” he asked, and sat down, reaching for a plum.
“Beware of the porridge this morning. No-I decided against it. I expect Avitus will arrange a meeting with the governor, and I don’t want to crowd him.”
“So where do we start?”
“The inn-”
Venutius came in to clear away the untasted oats, gave the still-full bowls a stricken look, and dragged himself back to the kitchen. We tried not to watch.
“-the innkeeper, the whore-even Lupo. Anyone who came into contact with Maecenas. And I want a look at his room right away.”
Bilicho leaned back in his chair, munching a date, his forehead creased. “It looks like two crimes. One, the Syrian. And two, the temple.”
“Could be. We can’t rule anything out.” I rubbed my eyes. “Here’s what we’ve got. A fat, hairy, and very dead Syrian, freedman to Domitian, part-time spy and full-time sycophant. Carrying a message-probably imperial-to Agricola. It’s gone, taken by somebody. He was also carrying enough cash to buy a small army of his own, and build a homey villa on the side. But nobody took the money. He wasn’t killed in the mithraeum. Maybe he was killed at Lupo’s, and then delivered to the temple. Maybe he’s his own message. He must’ve really had something, if two sets of people are fighting for the credit of murdering him.”
“You sure he wasn’t killed in the temple?”
The bridge of my nose hurt from frowning. “They used sheep or pig blood on the altar. The bastard was already dead-the throat slice was for show. I wish I’d had more time with the body-I should’ve found another wound.”
“Could it’ve been suicide?”
“You mean he kills himself, someone finds the body, steals the document but not the money, and mounts him on the altar like a choice heifer?”
Bilicho grinned. “All right. What about poison?”
I looked at him. I remembered the sickly sweet odor from the Syrian’s mangled neck. For some reason, I didn’t mention it. “Possibly,” I admitted. Then I changed the subject.