Enemies of the Empire (17 page)

I was afraid that Marcus was going to protest – he prides himself on Roman nonchalance in facing dangerous situations of this kind. But to my relief and amazement he was already saying, ‘As you wish. But if we are to do anything at all, let us do it quickly. This forest is most unpleasantly cold and dark.’

It is not like Marcus to complain of physical discomfort in this way, so I knew that he too was feeling seriously alarmed. The presence of an extra pair of guards was just as likely to obliterate what I was looking for as any other set of marching legs, but I held my tongue and our little party soon set off – myself, my patron and the optio, together with Regulus and two mounted guards and a couple of extra foot soldiers to guard our rear.

I thought our task was likely to be a fairly hopeless one – the scouts had already ridden up and down the military road, so there was no hope of following any tracks imprinted in the mud, and according to what Regulus had said himself, the rebels yesterday had disappeared in all directions through the undergrowth with the unhorsed cavalrymen plunging after them. There was little chance, at this distance, of learning anything. However, Regulus led us down the forest path, leaving the other men to search beside the military road.

‘This is the branch where he was hanging,’ Regulus said, pointing to a massive overhanging tree. ‘And over there, look, in the ditch – under that pile of earth and leaves – that’s where we buried him. It looks as if the grave has been disturbed.’

Marcus shot a look at me and nodded to one of the foot guards at the rear. The man stepped forward, gulped, and – using his dagger as a spade – began to move aside the loosened earth. There was something lying only an inch or two below the surface, and it was soon revealed: first, something that had once been my toga, and then, when that sorry wrapping was removed, something that used to be Promptillius. Enough of him remained for me to have no doubt of that, although something – rats or bears, perhaps – had already been gnawing at the bones.

The man who had been doing the digging-up looked pale. Death is a routine matter to a legionary, perhaps, but there is something particularly unpleasant about uncovering a corpse. Marcus nodded brusquely at him.

‘Wrap that up and have it taken to the cart. I’ll see that he has a proper burial later on. Nothing elaborate – he was just a slave – but he was a member of my household, after all.’

The man nodded, and bent to wrap the figure up again, using my ruined toga for the task. That would benefit from burial too, I thought – the rats, or whatever they were, had damaged it as well, and it was no longer fit for any other use. Secretly, I was rather glad; otherwise Marcus might have suggested that it be returned to me.

The optio briskly sent a rider back with orders to conscript four men to come and lift the corpse. He supervised them as they carried it across and laid it in the second cart, which held our belongings and two of Marcus’s remaining slaves who were travelling as guards. I hoped they were not superstitious lads. They would have to share the cart with that grisly burden from now on, and it was already none too fresh. However, no one spared a second thought for them. Regulus was already striding on.

‘That’s where the helmet and the cloak were hanging,’ he explained, pointing to the overhanging branch, ‘and this is where we found the heel-tracks – see? You can just make out the marks, although of course they’re fainter now. We followed them right over to that copse of elms, but then we lost them in the leaves and mud.’

‘You’d better show us, now we’re here,’ Marcus said ungraciously, and Regulus led the way again.

‘There you are, you see?’ he said, stopping to indicate faint marks on the ground and a trail of broken branches through the undergrowth. He led us on, following the trail through fallen leaves and over jagged roots until we came to another faint pathway winding through the trees. ‘This is where the heel-marks stopped. It may be that the rebels have some secret base nearby. They must have done something with the messenger’s body when they dragged it off. They didn’t come this way by accident. But after that the trail is too confused.’

Marcus was looking, frowning, at the ground. ‘But there has been someone this way recently. There is the print of hobnails in the ground.’

Regulus went over to the spot. He seemed to brighten, but a moment later I saw him colour ruefully and shake his head. ‘Those are my sandal-prints from yesterday, I fear. See where I’ve just trodden in the mud? The pattern of the studs is just the same – including the one missing on the edge.’

I peered down at the path. The man was right. ‘But what are these other little tracks?’ I gestured to dozens of faint pointed marks. ‘They look like animals’.’

‘The pigs, perhaps?’ the cavalryman said. ‘They might have come this way. They had escaped from their enclosure – just down in the valley over there – and were swarming everywhere.’

‘Is this where you met the swineherd?’ I enquired.

He shook his head.’ That was further on. We were searching up and down the path, in case there was any sign of anyone, but he was the only person we met. We questioned him for quite a time – and not too gently either, once or twice – but in the end we had to let him go. He was clearly sympathetic to our cause. After all, he was a victim of the rebels, too. He helped us search.’

Marcus said loftily, ‘All the same, we want to interview the man again. Can you take us down to where this pig enclosure was?’

The optio looked concerned at this. ‘But, Excellence, we are moving a long way from the troops . . .’

Marcus quelled him with a look. ‘You heard my instructions, I believe.’ He turned to Regulus. ‘Lead on.’

The optio was right to be doubtful, I thought privately. The path was a narrow, winding one and the trees around us were extremely dense. Every step took us further from the safety of the legionary force, and although we had an escort with us, it was small. I began to wonder how effective it would be against a band of armed attackers. But one cannot argue with a man of Marcus’s standing. As the governor’s representative he outranked the optio, and we found ourselves moving down the little track, reluctant as a troop of conscript slaves going into battle for their overlord.

There was a lot of rustling in the undergrowth, and I held my breath. Nothing happened. That was almost worse.

It was almost an anticlimax when we reached the spot and found the small enclosure, constructed in the ancient Celtic way: a stout little fence of woven hazel wands supported by scores of pointed stakes, so that when the acorns in this part of the forest were all gone it could easily be dismantled and removed to somewhere else. There was a little makeshift shelter in the midst of it, and a wisp of smoke emerging from the hole in the centre of the roof suggested that the owner was at home.

The optio looked at Regulus and gave a nod. The cavalryman stepped forward and raised his voice. ‘Pigman, come out here. In the name of the Emperor Commodus and the Empire, we wish to speak to you.’

There was a rustling in the area behind the hut, and a figure came towards us through the trees – a greying redhead, carrying a pail. A half-dozen largish pigs came snuffling after him, but I saw that they were each tethered by a hind leg to a tree, so that they could not escape again, though they were straining at their leashes and the ropes were long. The pigman paused and emptied water into a sort of makeshift trough formed by a fallen hollow tree and for the first time I got a proper look at him.

He was wearing my green tunic: I recognised its distinctive braided edge. I was startled to see it already sadly torn and grimed with mire, but the greatest shock was when I saw his face.

This wasn’t Plautus. It was a man I had never seen before – slow, grimy, weather-beaten, and with a vacant expression on his eager countenance. He was a simpleton, by the look of it. Dirt streaked his cheeks and he wore a straggling beard, but it was still possible to see that there was not the slightest sign of any scar.

He grinned foolishly at us and spoke, in Latin of a kind – though it was so slow and accented that it was quite difficult to work out what he said. Roughly, though, the message was quite clear. ‘Hello, Romans. You’ve come back very soon. We managed to find all my pigs again except for one. And thank you for my tunic – it’s a lovely fit.’

I glanced at Regulus, but he was looking just as startled as the rest of us. ‘This is not the man I saw before,’ he said to me. He turned to the pigman and said, very slowly and with emphasis, ‘Who are you? And where’s the other man?’

The pigman gave another of his grins, flashing a surprising display of sturdy teeth. ‘My name is Subulcus,’ he managed in his tortured Latin, and thumped his chest with pride. ‘I am the keeper of the pigs.’

The name means ‘swineherd’ so this was not altogether a surprise. Marcus gave a deep, exasperated sigh. ‘Where is the other pigman?’

Subulcus shook his head. ‘I am the only Subulcus here.’ He grinned again. It was impossible to tell whether he was referring to the name or to the job.

Marcus tried again. ‘A man with a scar?’

Subulcus pushed back his sleeve to show his arm. There was a long jagged mark along the length of it, as if someone had slashed him with a sword. ‘Scar,’ he said, exhibiting it with a smile. He tapped his neck and shoulder. ‘Scar,’ he said again.

Marcus turned to me. ‘Try him in Celtic, my old friend. It’s obvious his Latin isn’t good.’

I nodded. The pigman’s dialect would not be exactly like my own, but there was a fair chance I could make him understand. ‘There was another man here, yesterday,’ I said, enunciating each word carefully.

My Celtic did the trick. Subulcus flashed his teeth again, and launched into delighted speech. ‘I know. They stole my pig. I had to run off after them. And there was the Roman man who left this tunic for a present. I like Romans now – that’s why I’m not afraid to talk to you. He was kind. Not like the nasty ones my master talks about.’

I translated this. The optio turned to Marcus with a shrug. ‘This is hopeless, and we’re wasting time. Should we take him back and have him questioned properly by the torturers? I’m sure Libertus could translate for us.’

Marcus shot me an enquiring look. He knows my views on this. Handing a man over to the torturers may be useful in extorting information from his lips, but that is not necessarily the same as getting at the truth. After an hour or two of torment the victim will usually admit to anything at all, simply to make the anguish stop, even if he has to make up the facts they want to hear.

It is never a process which appeals to me, and I particularly loathed the idea of causing pain to a poor simpleton like this, who would hardly comprehend what was required. Better to try to gain his confidence. I shook my head. ‘I think he’s telling us the truth,’ I said. ‘He hasn’t got the wits to tell a lie. You could torture him for hours, to no avail. I don’t think he knows anything at all.’

My patron sighed. ‘Very well, Libertus, question him and see what you can do.’ His tone suggested that it was beneath his dignity to question swineherds in the woods. ‘If you can make no progress, we’ll try flogging him.’ He had spoken in Latin, but the pigman got the drift. His face crumpled and he was near to tears. His filthy fingers were plucking at my sleeve.

‘Don’t let them hurt me,’ he whimpered. ‘I didn’t mean to lose the pig. I wouldn’t have left them for a minute – I don’t usually – but my master sent for me to come up to the house. Then when I got there it was a mistake, and he didn’t want me after all, so I hurried back. When I arrived, I saw some horsemen here. They had one of my pigs and they were driving all the others off into the woods. I ran off after them but they just laughed at me. And then young master came by, and he was cross with me because the pigs were loose. He told me to run up to the round-house right away and fetch the children to help to round them up.’

‘And that is what you did?’

A vigorous nod. ‘I have to do what he says now. My master tells me so. I have to do what all the family says, because my proper family aren’t here.’

It made a kind of sense. Pigs have a special value in the Celtic world. Roast boar is the universal meat at feasts – together with goose and venison – and the animal is sacred to the gods. Those with simple, trusting minds like Subulcus are believed to have a special gift with animals and also to be favourites of the moon goddess, whose caresses have deprived them of their brains. So such a child, though rejected by his parents as a normal son, might well be ‘adopted’ by the tribe and housed and protected in return for tending to the pigs – though in truth, his condition was not much better than a slave’s.

Subulcus was still finishing his tale. ‘I found three of the children from the farm, and brought them back, but when we got here all the pigs were gathered up, and there was a tunic for me in the hut.’ He looked down at my pathetic garment, mired with mud. ‘Young master said it was a present from a Roman man. It’s a nice one, isn’t it? The best I ever had.’

‘This young master – does he often give you gifts?’ I said.

He dropped his eyes. ‘I don’t see him very much. He says I know nothing about anything. But it isn’t true. I know about the pigs. My master says there’s nobody who knows more about pigs than me.’

‘I’m sure that’s true,’ I murmured soothingly. ‘Tell me, who told you that your master wanted you? I suspect, you see, that you were sent away on purpose, so those bad men could get in and steal your pig.’

He thought about this gravely and then shook his head. ‘It was a big man on a horse. The Roman man. But it can’t have been a trick. He had a big ring with a seal – and a sort of uniform like that.’ He gestured towards Regulus and screwed his grimy face into a frown. ‘I thought that you were him again, at first, but I can see now that you’re not.’

‘It wasn’t one of us,’ I said gently. ‘I don’t think it really was a Roman man at all. I think he was just dressed up as if he was. But you thought he was a soldier, so you did what he said?’

He nodded. ‘I have to do what soldiers tell me – there’ll be trouble else. My master always tells me that. And I mustn’t spit at them or call them names – even if they did come in and take our land away.’