Enemies of the Empire (10 page)

And then there was that misleading message to my slave. The more I thought about that the more alarming it became. Someone in this town had sent it, in my name and quite deliberately. There was only one purpose served by doing so, as far I could see. It prevented the soldiers at the mansio from questioning my absence and sending out a search. That was sinister. It was clearly not intended that I should return. And, it occurred to me, the message had the additional effect of ensuring that my attendant was not outside the pastry shop when I went back for him, so I would be walking through the streets alone, deprived of the protection of a slave.

I wondered again where Promptillius was now. He had obeyed the ‘message’ on the writing tablet, presumably, supposing that it came from me, and had left the mansio with my clothes. The fact that my patron was being entertained at a feast was clearly common knowledge in the town – even Big-ears and his friends had known it – but how could anyone have guessed that I came from the military inn, and that Promptillius was attending me? By watching us, perhaps – that was distinctly possible, judging from my own experience.

I shifted on my pile of straw and groaned. I ached all over. As soon as I got out of here, I vowed, I’d send for Junio and some of Gwellia’s balm. The comforts of my home seemed far away.

That brought me almost upright with a jerk. My home was far away. Who, in this town, could possibly have known my name to forge that note? Had I told anyone? I tried to think, but I was almost sure I hadn’t. So who had sent the message? The red-headed expert with cup and ball who had delivered the message to my slave outside the pastry shop was Lyra’s spy, Rufinus, I was sure of it. But how could she possibly have known my name, or that Promptillius was mine? I hadn’t told her anything about myself, and besides, he was dressed in Marcus’s household uniform.

So who had been behind all this? There was only one candidate that I could think of: Plautus. The man who was not dead. Who else could have associated me with Marcus and the military inn? Only Plautus, who knew from Glevum who my patron was. Most of Venta would know about the feast, and that Marcus had been present at the games – I had the evidence of the three young men for that – but no local resident could know my trade: yet the mansio guard had said that I was referred to as a ‘pavement-maker’ in the written note.

The written note. That was another thing. Whoever sent that message had access to wax tablets and a stylus, and sufficient education to produce written Latin good enough to look like Marcus’s or mine. That didn’t sound like Lyra or the butcher’s boys. Plautus, on the other hand, had been a member of the Glevum ordo once, where reading and writing were necessary skills for any councillor.

Respectable, dull Plautus. It seemed incredible that he should want to kill me, but it was the only explanation I could see. I’d made it obvious that I recognised his face, and he did not wish it to be recognised. He had not wanted to waylay me and explain – he’d had the opportunity to do that, and had run away. So why would he follow me about, unless it was because I knew he was alive and he hoped to silence me? Boring old Plautus as would-be assassin? Was it possible?

I gulped. It would not have been very difficult, if that was his idea. An unprotected stranger on the streets at night, in a town where rival gangs are active – it would not be wholly surprising if I disappeared, or turned up in a gutter somewhere with my purse missing and my throat cut. If it had not been for the chance of that donkey blocking up the street, whoever had been on my heels would have caught up with me – it was possible that even my decision to accost Big-ears and his inebriated friends had helped to save my life.

Then another thought occurred to me: one which sent shivers down my already chilly spine. Was Lupus’s murder quite as unconnected with my presence as I thought? I had talked to Lupus, and a moment later – so his wife had said – someone had come out of the dark and slit his throat. Was that because I might have said too much to him? And was the follower also aiming to kill me?

I was still contemplating the full implications of this terrible idea when my thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the door. It was the warder who, true to his word, had brought a ‘kind of blanket’ – a length of coarse woollen cloth smelling overpoweringly of horse – and a hunk of bread. It was no more fresh than the blanket was, but I thanked the man sincerely and fell on my frugal feast.

He watched me for a moment. ‘I’ll get those oatcakes fetched in early,’ he observed at last. ‘I expect the prison governor will want to see you first thing. Now, if you’ve got any sense, you’ll try to rest. I’ll wake you at dawn.’ So saying, he snuffed the taper, went out, and shut the door, leaving me in total darkness, except for the faint glow that filtered from the street.

I found that I was shaking with relief and weariness. There was nothing for it but to act on his advice. I took off my sodden clothes, wrapped myself in the makeshift covering, lay down on the straw-pile and – in spite of the terrors of the day and my attempts to think things through again – fell almost instantly into a fitful sleep.

The warder woke me shortly before dawn, but I was not conducted before the prison governor, as he had suggested I might be. ‘That travelling magistrate has agreed to hear the case. You know, the one who’s visiting the town. I hope you’ve got proper proof of what you say. He’s a hard man, I hear, and he’ll brook no nonsense if it’s all a lie. Still, it’s meant that our governor can wash his hands of you. He isn’t even going to have you scourged – leave you to more senior men, he said. Doesn’t want any trouble, if you ask me. Now, here’s your oatcake. They’ll be coming for you soon. Anything else you want to buy before you go?’

I looked up from my meagre breakfast – certainly the most expensive oatcake I have ever eaten in my life, and not entirely fresh. ‘A bowl of water and a drying cloth.’

He looked astonished. ‘Whatever for? Not thinking of trying to drown yourself, are you?’

‘To clean myself a little. I don’t want to look too much of a disgrace.’

He seemed unable to believe his ears. ‘Where did you say you come from, citizen? They must do things very differently round there. Most prisoners here want just the opposite – beg me to send out for rags for them to wear, and dust and ashes to rub on their hair and face, so they can look properly penitent in court.’

I nodded. ‘It’s the same in Glevum too. Prisoners try to arrive before the judge looking as dishevelled and pathetic as possible. I know the idea is to whip up pity from the crowd.’ When the accused man looks properly pitiful and contrite, if the verdict goes against him there is often an outcry from the onlookers and even nowadays that can be enough to affect the sentencing – although the kind of trial where the presiding magistrate refers the verdict directly to the mob is getting very rare, except in cases where public sympathy runs deep and it might avoid a riot. ‘But it won’t work for me.’

That was the understatement of the Empire. I knew Marcus. I was a member of his official party and the more disreputable I looked, the more discredit I brought on him, and the more displeased he would inevitably be. My appearance was profoundly disrespectful as it was. Bad enough that I was only in a tunic, but my brief sojourn in the lower-dungeon mud had not improved that humble garment, despite my attempts to sponge off the worst of it. In addition, I was rain-soaked and travel-stained and I could feel a big bruise swelling up above one eye.

The warder nodded, rather doubtfully. ‘Don’t suppose there’s much point your appealing to the populace today. You won’t have many supporters here, I suppose.’

That was another understatement. Nobody in Venta cared a fig for me – quite the opposite, it seemed – and anyway Marcus would be presiding as
iudicius
, directly on the departed governor’s behalf. That meant that even the permanent jury had no say in anything – verdict and punishment alike were at his absolute, personal discretion. I did not want him too displeased with me.

After a little more discussion and a hefty bribe, I got my bowl of water and a drying cloth of sorts and dabbed at my face and ruined tunic where I could. Then, shortly after dawn, I was led out and taken to the forum under guard.

I was more than a little apprehensive, though. Judging by the cheering crowds along the way, my patron and his entourage had just arrived at the basilica, among all the pomp and ceremony which he so enjoyed – trumpets, heralds and a retinue of uniformed soldiers at his side, while he waved graciously to passers-by, resplendent in his laurel wreath and purple stripes. It made my dismal appearance even more acute.

I knew I was hardly looking spruce as I was brought in between two brawny-looking guards, but even so my lack of public penitential show was enough to draw hisses from the gallery, where a gaggle of young women had come to see the fun, though they hid their faces behind modest veils. That was a little bit unusual, I thought. Most of the spectators at such affairs are men.

The courtroom was bursting with other people, too. The public procession and the trumpet calls had naturally caused quite a stir in the town, and news of the trial must have travelled fast. Every inch of standing space was packed, and the adjoining area, which could be partitioned off to form another courtroom, had been left open to accommodate the crowd.

I was led – not chained, but still at sword-point – up the steps and down the courtroom to the dais. One of my guards was obliged to lead the way and force a path for us through the throng. I could hear the mocking and the whispering and I was jostled several times as I passed by. At least, I thought, because I had claimed to be a citizen, the trial was taking place indoors before a proper judge. Proceedings against non-citizens are still often conducted in the open air by lesser functionaries, to the hoots and jeers and heckling of the mob: it is a rough kind of justice and public humiliation is part of the ordeal.

There was nothing at all humble about this. I walked the whole length of the basilica. The building from outside might look relatively small, compared to the one in Glevum, but inside it was still an imposing edifice. The central nave was flanked by towering columns in the Corinthian style – doubly impressive in the narrowness of the space, which made them look much taller than they were – while the severely formal patterns on the plastered wall and the stark black and white tesselations of the floor added to the impression of humourless solemnity.

Marcus was already seated on the rostrum at the further end on a sort of judicial throne, flanked by two minor magistrates. I was brought to stand at the bottom of the steps, but for the moment he paid no attention to me at all. He was talking and laughing lightly, leaning back, as if he were enjoying the attention, as no doubt he was.

He was at his magisterial best, all purple stripes and laurel wreaths, with a heavy, jewelled torc of Celtic gold round his neck and his seal ring prominent upon his hand. I had never seen the torc before – it was not a thing he generally wore. I guessed it had been lent to him for the occasion – or given outright perhaps – by some local dignitary anxious to curry favour with His Excellence. Certainly my patron looked very well in it, and it gave him additional presence and authority.

Then a court official made a sign and Marcus clapped his hands. There was a little rustle through the crowd, and an expectant silence fell.

One of the court recorders stood up to read the charge. ‘Excellence, in the name of the Most Imperial Commodus Hercules Exsuperatorius, the Merciful, the Fortunate and the Dutiful, Emperor and God, I have the honour to inform you that the man before you stands—’

He got no further. Marcus had noticed who I was at last. He half rose from his seat and let out a startled roar. ‘You? You ridiculous old fool. What by all the immortals have you been up to now?’ His face was dangerously scarlet with anger and dismay at his own unstatesmanlike display. He sank back on his seat and turned towards the clerk. ‘What is the meaning of this farce?’

A lean hungry-looking fellow at the bar stepped forward at these words. ‘Excellence, this is no farce at all. An honest hot-soup seller was stabbed to death last night, and all his money taken. This man was on the premises, we have witnesses to that. And he was carrying a knife. The shopkeeper’s wife accuses him and brings this case to your attention, Excellence. She seeks the right of
talio
, or compensation from the state at least.’

Marcus looked at me with obvious contempt. ‘The keeper of a common hot-soup store, you say? Is this true, Libertus?’

If I could have dropped onto my knees and grovelled, I would have done, but I was still at sword-point and did not dare make an unexpected move. ‘Your pardon, Excellence. I was in the shop, it’s true, but I did not kill the man. He was alive when I last saw him, talking to his wife. As for the knife, it is not a weapon, it’s a dining tool. A fine one, certainly, which my patron gave to me.’ I essayed an apologetic smile.

He was not amused. ‘Silence! Confine yourself to answering the questions which I ask. If I want your comments, I will ask for them. Your full name?’ He sounded so unlike himself that I was seized with fear. I had taken for granted up till now that once before my patron I was safe, but it suddenly occurred to me that this was by no means certain after all. Marcus prided himself on fairness and impartiality. It was not beyond the bounds of possibility that he would find against me, patron though he was. He had tried and executed friends before.

‘Longinius Flavius Libertus, Roman citizen, from Glevum in the east.’ I reeled off my Roman title with a tongue which almost refused to frame the words.

Marcus nodded briskly. ‘Who brings the charges, here?’

The lean-faced man stepped up again. ‘I do, Excellence. I am paid to advocate this woman’s cause . . .’ He indicated Lupus’s wife, who I now saw was sitting close to him.

This was a surprise as well. Naturally, being female, and therefore a child in the eyes of the law, she could not bring the case herself, but advocates command substantial fees and I wondered how Lupus’s wife had afforded the expense, especially after the cash chest had been stolen from the shop. Normally some male relative or guardian would plead on her behalf, but perhaps – since she was a newcomer to the town – she had no other family nearby. I wondered if there had been a contribution from the Venta Christians, though the sect is not a wealthy one: most of its adherents are among the poor or the slaves, more able to pray for things than pay for things, the saying went.