A Bitter Chill (27 page)

“That certainly seems like the simplest solution,” Quintus agreed. “Not the cheapest, though. Especially if you find yourself bidding against the pimps the army officers use.” He saw Priscus wince, and added, “Sorry, Priscus, but we’ve got to face it. And there’s always the chance that Otus may decide to send them down south instead.”

“I’ll find them,” Priscus said. “Wherever they go, I’ll find them, and whatever it costs, I’ll get them back.” He looked at us all with cold fury. “I call on the gods to witness, I won’t rest till they are safe again. And if anything happens to either of them, Diogenes will pay for it. I swear it!”

There are few things more frightening than a mild man provoked beyond endurance. As our grandmother used to say, when a worm turns, it changes into a crocodile.

We finished our meal in silence, and I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who thought about the two prisoners out in the cold somewhere, and wondered what, if anything, they were eating tonight.

Horatius, now well lubricated, broke the pensive mood by telling Candidus about the fight between Timaeus and Diogenes.

“Is that why you came back to the mansio?” Candidus asked. “Mother was in one of her rages, and you thought you’d be safer out of the way?”

“She was in a bit of a mood, yes. But usually I don’t mind her. I’m used to her, and you generally just have to sit tight and wait till she calms down.” He sighed. “But this afternoon I had a serious argument with her, and for once I wasn’t prepared to let her bully me. It concerned you two boys, in a way.”

Priscus asked, “What was it about? Or would you rather not say?”

“On the contrary, I think I’d like you to know.” Horatius glanced uneasily at me and Albia. I realised he’d prefer to talk to the others privately, and I couldn’t think of any reason for including us in the discussion, much as I wanted to be there. So I got to my feet. “Would you like us to leave?”

But Candidus put an arm round Albia. “Albia is as good as family now. If she leaves, so do I.”

“And Aurelia,” Quintus said, “is an excellent investigator, and is involved in your family’s affairs, after today. She should stay too. I can vouch for her discretion.”

“All right. It was about Plautius and his will. You all know Sempronia wants Plautius to alter it, to disinherit Decimus. Apart from a few minor legacies, the whole estate will be divided between Priscus and Sempronia herself, and Decimus, you won’t get a copper coin.”

“I know,” Candidus answered, “and I couldn’t care less. I had all this out with Mother yesterday.”

“The argument was about whether he ought to make a completely new will, or alter the existing one. Sempronia wants him to include some other changes too, and thinks it would be simpler and tidier to draw up a fresh document.”

“What changes?” Candidus asked.

“She wants him to free Margarita, for one thing. And
not
to free Diogenes, for another. The existing will frees the Weasel, and it bequeaths Margarita and Gaius to me.”

“To
you?
” Priscus exclaimed. “I never knew that.”

“Sempronia wants her out of your reach for good, so she’s pushing Plautius to free her, on condition she leaves your household and has nothing more to do with you. She thinks that then you’ll agree to make a political marriage.”

“I won’t.”

“You will, you know. I’ve said it before, you’ll have to give in one fine day, and accept an arranged marriage.”

Priscus looked at him sharply. “Mother told me once that she thought Father ought to put a clause in his will cancelling all your debts to our family, and leaving you a decent legacy. That was after the business of the senator’s nephew and the gladiators, when we had to—well, never mind. Would there be a clause along those lines in the new version?”

Whether Horatius blushed, I couldn’t be sure, because his face was already so red. “Yes, actually there would. But that’s irrelevant.”

“Is it?”

“Yes, it is. Because I’ve refused to draw up a fresh will. Plautius doesn’t want it, and I don’t think it would be fair on him. Any changes that are needed will be made to the existing will, by way of a codicil. I told Sempronia this, and she exploded. But I’m insisting on it.”

Priscus looked puzzled. “I don’t see what difference it makes, Horatius. Why is it so important? New or old, Father’s so ill now, he isn’t in a position to sign any will, is he?”

“That’s the whole point. He’s very weak, and he knows it. He can only concentrate on family matters for a short while, then he has to rest. To get to grips with a completely new will would be too much for him until he’s got his strength back. And he’s afraid Sempronia might manage to force him to sign and seal it anyway, even if he hadn’t been able to give it his full attention.”

“Could she do that? What about the witnesses?”

“She could make it look as if she’s helping him—guide his hand to sign it, use his ring to seal it. If I wasn’t present, the witnesses wouldn’t realise.”

“It would be tantamount to forgery, though,” Quintus said. “You’re saying Sempronia is capable of that? It’s a serious charge, Horatius.”

“Believe me, I’m not making it lightly. And that’s why I’ve promised Plautius that there will be no new will, until his health improves and he can instruct me in person, in writing, and I’m satisfied that he’s lucid. But if he wants to add to the old one, even alter it a little, I’ll help him do that. It will be easier for him, because he’s familiar with what it says, and we can make any alterations slowly, one at a time, when he feels up to it.”

Candidus said, “May I ask if he’s made any alterations yet?”

“No. He was in no state to do it today. Any sort of travel tires him out, you know. Tomorrow—well, we’ll see.”

“It sounds to me,” I said, “as if he doesn’t want to make the new changes that Sempronia is so keen on, and this is his way of avoiding them.”

Horatius chuckled. “You’ve got it, m’dear. He doesn’t. He may or may not decide to cut Decimus out of the will, but as for the other bequests, he says he prefers to leave things as they stand for now.”

Priscus sighed. “I spoke to Timaeus about Father’s health yesterday. He isn’t optimistic, I’m afraid. I must say I was hoping that if anyone could cure Father, Timaeus could. He’s a good doctor, and is devoted to Father. Until we started all this travelling, he seemed to be getting better, and his mind’s never lost its sharpness, even when his body is weak. But now—well, it doesn’t look so hopeful.”

“No,” Horatius agreed. “If he continues as he is today, Plautius will have to use all his strength to exercise his authority as head of the family. But a man should be master in his own house. He’s told me what he wants, and I intend to see that his wishes are carried out. I hope you two boys accept that.” He glanced enquiringly at Candidus, then at Priscus. They both nodded.

“Is he well guarded at Silvanius’ villa?” I asked. “He was worried about his safety. He’s a brave man, but the attempt to murder him here upset him more than he wanted to admit.”

“That was all cleared up, surely,” Priscus said, “when Leander committed suicide and left a note confessing that he’d tried to murder Father.”

“It wasn’t suicide,” I corrected him. “Someone killed Leander and left a forged confession.”

Priscus turned on me angrily. “That’s outrageous! You knew this, and you didn’t tell anyone? So the real murderer is still free, waiting for another chance to kill my father?”

“It’s the way your father wanted things. He thought we had a better chance of catching the murderer if we could put him off guard. He asked me not to tell anyone, so I haven’t, till now.”

“She’s right,” Quintus confirmed. “Plautius made the decision. Aurelia followed it.”

“He is the most extraordinary man,” Horatius said. “I remember once, when we were all in Italia….” He embarked on a long family reminiscence, but I felt my attention wandering, as a feeling of utter weariness crept over me. The combination of a hard day, a warm room, and plenty to eat and drink was making me sleepy. The conversation flowed around me in an increasingly meaningless blur, until I felt a hand on my shoulder and found Albia bending over me. “Relia, you’re almost asleep. Come on, let’s get you into bed.”

I was only too grateful when she led me to my room and helped me into bed. She tucked my blankets round me, and I was asleep almost before my head touched the pillow.

C
HAPTER
XIX

The next morning the snow had more or less gone, leaving the ground wet and slushy under a blue sky. As I stepped out onto the forecourt, I thanked the gods that our journey to Silvanius’ villa was to be along good Roman roads, properly drained and serviceable in all weathers. The muddy native so-called roads are simply beaten tracks, a mess all winter long. But excellent though it was, our main road hadn’t a man or a beast on it, and I guessed the mansio would have another quiet day, with only a handful of customers.

I did my morning rounds, and stopped at the stables to make sure Secundus knew we wanted the large raeda ready two hours after noon. He asked if we’d like a couple of mounted men along as guards.

“Yes, that’s a good idea, as things are. They can come back here in plenty of time for the party.”

Our servants were holding their own Saturnalia feast in the evening. It was an annual event, and as usual Albia and I had been invited. As usual we’d politely refused, no doubt to everyone’s relief. I’d given them permission to use the bar-room, and a generous allowance of wine to make the party go well, with the customary warning to the senior servants—Cook, Carina, Secundus, and Ursulus—of the dire consequences they’d face if I found any damage in the morning.

“Who do you want as driver?” Secundus asked.

“I’d like to take Titch. But after the other night I don’t know whether to ask him. The attack on the hostages seems to have shaken him up. Do you think he’ll be willing to come?”

“Of course he will, if you want him. He’s no coward, and I’m not going to turn him into one by mollycoddling him. I’ll tell him.”

“No, just this once I’ll ask him myself. I won’t make it an order, he can choose whether he comes or not. So just tell him I want to see him, would you?”

He nodded. “I’d bet any money that he’ll do it.”

“He did well yesterday, helping Quintus Antonius. But I know he was upset about losing little Gaius when he’d so nearly got him back.”

Secundus sighed. “He blames himself, though I’ve told him it wasn’t his fault. If Quintus Antonius couldn’t rescue them, then nobody could. Gaius was a nice little feller, a bit like one of my other sons who died young.”

“Let’s not say ‘was’. There’s still hope. The gang won’t kill them when they can get good money for them.”

Secundus would have won his bet hands down. When I eventually found Titch and asked if he’d drive us to the banquet, his face lit up.

“Why, I’d love to! I thought you mightn’t want me to, after I let them kidnappers get away with Gaius.”

“You’ve got that all wrong. It’s because you tried so hard to rescue him that I very much want you to. But it’ll mean you miss the party tonight. We’re staying over at Councillor Silvanius’ place.” The least I could do was give him a good excuse for not driving us, if he needed one.

“But I don’t have to stay too, do I? I can drive you to your banquet, and then come back here for the night, and collect you again in the morning. I can be there whenever you want, real early if you like. Though if it’s a good party, you might not want reveille to sound too soon, eh?”

“Neither might you. Right then, you can collect us from the villa at noon tomorrow.”

Breakfast felt almost like a family affair. Albia and I joined Candidus, Priscus, and Quintus (Horatius was still asleep), and Cook had made some lovely little ginger cakes, shaped like animals—the same idea as the ones we’d eaten at the Golden Fleece, but much better done. I complimented him, and managed not to catch Albia’s eye when he told me they were all his own idea.

He said he was making a large batch for the party—farm animals for the outdoor slaves, horses for the stable hands, and even a little dog for Titch. “Only I can’t think what to make for the young barmaids,” he grunted. “They’re not interested in animals, only men. Maybe I’ll do some small images of Priapus!”

Gods, I thought, I don’t know when I last heard Cook make a joke, so even he’s getting into holiday mood. I wished I could have shared it. I tried to look forward to the banquet, thinking of Silvanius’ superb chef and the sumptuous hospitality of a luxurious villa. But I knew that though the dinner would probably be a spectacular party, the glamour and glitter of it all would be as fragile as ice on a lake, which entices you to step out onto its shining surface only to let you fall to destruction in the depths.

After breakfast Priscus and Candidus sat in happy conversation by the bar-room fire. Quintus prowled restlessly about, apparently unable to settle to anything, which made me restless too. I went to my study to check the hair I’d put across the hinges of my document chest, though I realised there wasn’t much point now, with Diogenes and the others safely in Oak Bridges. But I saw with a shock that the hair was gone.

I don’t know whether I actually spoke aloud, but Quintus came into the room and looked at me enquiringly. “Something wrong?”

I pointed at the hinge. “I put a hair across there. It’s gone now.”

“Has anything been disturbed?”

I opened the chest carefully and looked at the papers stacked inside it. Albia was right, my filing system left something to be desired, but I could tell if anything had been touched. “No, they haven’t been moved since I last looked at them.”

“Which was when?”

“Yesterday, before going out with you and Diogenes. I thought with all of them moving on, I could stop worrying about snoopers, but it seems I was wrong.” I felt a perverse sense of satisfaction that someone had fallen into my simple trap, but it was mixed with worry. Only a few of Sempronia’s party had been here at the mansio last night: Priscus, Horatius, and his slave. If the spy was among the visitors, it must be one of them. But then I reflected that the guests hadn’t fully moved out before Quintus and I left yesterday. One of them could have sneaked in after I’d gone. The only person who couldn’t have done was Diogenes, because I’d been with him the whole time.