There were other legionaries there, of course – having swords or javelins sharpened, boots repaired, or links in their armor refitted – so Lucius’s presence was not unusual. Still, he hoped to blend in as best he could, and did not wish to call attention to himself. He did not want word to get out that he was snooping around.
A smithy’s hammer rang out in long repetitive beats. Horses and mules muzzled with feedbags munched silently. Harnesses were repaired and made ready for the next day’s march. Groups of men idled around fires talking casually. Some glanced at him with a moment’s curiosity, but most paid no attention to him. He had brought his gladius, in the event that he needed an excuse for being where he was, though the blade had been sharpened only two days before.
A ruckus sounded from a well-lit tent nearby. The tent flaps were open, and he could see that it was full of men, cheering on an arm-wrestling contest between two shirtless men. Lucius entered and found a spot to sit between two of the onlookers. He nodded and smiled to the man next to him, and the man smiled back. The man held a cup of spirits and appeared to have already imbibed in several cups of the Gallic brew.
“Long march today, soldier, eh?” The man said pleasantly, as if to make small talk. “It’s been a long time since I’ve pushed my teams this fast.”
From the man’s dress, Lucius assumed him to be a mule driver, and a Cisalpine Gaul, like the two men from last night.
“It was indeed.” Lucius replied.
“Care to put out a wager?” The man asked Lucius, cutting his eyes at the contest of strength that was about to begin. “The black Nubian is favored ten to one.”
So that was the motivation for the man’s friendliness. It would serve Lucius’s purpose. He produced five denarii from the purse at his belt.
“Five on the Nubian,” Lucius said, smiling.
“I will take that bet, soldier,” the man said, producing the two sestertii that he would put at stake.
The wrestling match was no contest. The Nubian’s opponent, a short barrel-chested Gaul, was much stronger than he looked – either that, or he had the proper technique down – because the Nubian’s arm went over like a wet reed. Lucius had fully expected that, and pretended to part with his money reluctantly.
“Sorry, soldier,” the Gaul said, smiling. “Better luck next time. Care to place another?”
“Maybe. But first, I was thinking that perhaps you could help me.”
“With what?” the Gaul eyed him suspiciously.
“There were two men found dead outside the fort last night. They were team handlers, like you. Did you know them?”
The man's smile faded. He glanced around the room, and then made to move elsewhere, but Lucius flashed another five denarii, prompting him to sit back down.
“Yes, I knew them,” he said guardedly.
“One man had a tattoo on his face, on the left cheek.”
“Bren was his name. But I don’t believe I caught your name, soldier.”
“My name isn’t important, but five more denarii for you might be.”
Again the man glanced around the room, before taking the offered money and pocketing it. “What do you want to know?”
“I played a game of dice with Bren a fortnight ago,” Lucius lied. “I must admit, he beat me squarely, as you just did. I could only pay him half at the time. I still owe the other half, and I am an honest man, to the living as well as the dead.”
“I see,” the man said, in a tone that indicated he did not believe a word of Lucius’s story.
“Anyway, I want to clear my conscience of the whole thing and pay my debts in full. Did Bren have a wife? Did he have any children? Someone I can send the money to?”
The man chuckled and took a drink. “I did not know him well enough to tell you any of that.”
“Can you tell me who might know these things?”
The man looked around at the dozens of other jabbering spectators who were busy placing bets for the next round, and then gestured with his cup to the opposite side of the tent.
“Finnan,” he said. “Finnan was his friend. That’s him, over there.”
Lucius followed his gaze to see a short, round-bellied man looking back at him from the other side of the crowded space. Finnan’s eyes looked nervous when they met Lucius’s, and he abruptly rose and walked out of the tent. Obviously, he knew something, and Lucius nearly clawed his way over the other spectators in an effort to not let him get away. Once outside, Finnan broke into a sprint, and Lucius bolted after him. It did not take long to overtake him. Finnan was paunch and in no shape to run, and could not hope to escape the swift muscled legs of a legionary. Lucius caught up with him and violently pulled him by the hair into the shadows between two tents. The man started to yell out, but stopped mid-yell as the cold steel of Lucius’s drawn dagger touched the fat skin around his neck.
“If you call out, I will slit your fat throat. Is that understood?”
The man nodded, his jowls shaking as he did so.
“I want to know about your friend Bren. I want to know why he was outside the fort last night, and I want to know who sent him there.”
The man shook his head, struggling not to brush too briskly against the sharp point of the dagger. “I have no idea. I don't know what you're talking about. I drive the carts. I don't get involved.”
Lucius clapped him on the ear, and then pressed the pugio harder into the fatty folds. “I think you’re lying. Your friends were waiting for me in the forest. I want to know why. And you're going to tell me.”
“They were paid.”
“By who?”
The man looked reluctant and resisted but more pressure from the dagger point made him start talking again.
“It was the tribune’s adjutant. The one with the golden curls. He said that if they killed you, they would each get three hundred denarii.”
Lucius gasped, not so much at the murder plot as at the amount. Evidently, he was worth a small fortune – dead.
“I want to know more.” Lucius said, pressing the knife harder. “Tell me more!”
“I don’t know much more than that.”
“Try harder.”
“I only know that they tried to kill you before, but something went wrong with that. I'm just telling you what I heard. I don't know any more. I swear it. I swear I was not involved.”
“Is anyone else involved in this?”
“I-I do not know. All I know is they want you dead. And they are willing to pay handsomely for it. And they will kill anyone who tells you or warns you in any way.”
Lucius considered for a moment. If the Tribune wanted him dead for some above board reason, some infraction he had committed in his duties, there would have been no reason to go about it in such a surreptitious manner. The tribune certainly would not have brought the two mule drivers in on the plot for fear of a scandal. There had to be another reason, something personal. But what grudge could the tribune possibly hold against him? It seemed absurd that Piso would pay six hundred denarii just to have him killed.
And then there was Vitalis.
“Were there any other Romans involved in this?” Lucius demanded.
“I don’t know.”
“Were there any?”
Finnan struggled, appearing much agitated by the question. After a swift box on the ears, he started talking again. “I don’t know, I tell you! I saw a centurion, a big fellow, leaving the tribune’s tent that night. I can't remember his name.”
“Was it Vitalis?”
The man did not answer. But he did not have to. His eyes were confirmation enough.