The Boat of Fate (30 page)

Read The Boat of Fate Online

Authors: Keith Roberts

Tags: #Historical Fiction

‘There’s only one honourable answer,’ he said, mopping himself again. ‘And you know what that is as well as I do. You’ll marry the girl, as quickly as possible, with all due rites and legal ceremonies . . .’

I couldn’t help myself. I laughed outright at the absurdity of the whole thing. ‘What?’ I said. ‘What, me? Without a penny to bless myself? How could I support her? What with, in God’s name? Do you imagine I’m rich?’

‘Don’t try and hedge with me,’ he said viciously. ‘I know you’re well enough off. I know a lot more about you than you seem to realise.’ He waved his arm irritably at his surroundings. ‘You even had cash to spare when you came here for bathhouses for slaves; if anybody ever heard of such a thing. Who pays out good money like that except a rich young fool, with more gold in his pockets than sense in his head? You answer me that. . . .’

The situation seemed to be going from bad to worse. I’d come to the conclusion a long time back that he was more cunning than intelligent, but I wouldn’t have believed he could so far have allowed avarice to overcome his native wit. I opened my mouth to answer, but his next words stopped me dead. ‘Don’t think of refusing,’ he said. ‘Not if you’re wise. Or it won’t just be a matter for the town Praefect. The Emperor’s going to be advised of a certain little affair in Burdigala a couple of years ago, that ended with the death of one of his officers. Don’t bother to deny it,’ he said, seeing my expression alter. ‘I told you I had my contacts, and they’re reliable, believe me. Don’t think I don’t know why you came riding down here, all good works and holier intentions; and don’t think I don’t know how the business was hushed up so effectively in the first place. Money again, my friend, money and influence. But it won’t work twice for you, not if you get on the wrong side of me. You’ll stand trial for murder, if I have to bring the action myself. . . .’

I couldn’t think of a thing to say. His last accusation at least was perfectly reasonable. My good luck was still wholly inexplicable; but faced with a similar case I’d have jumped to the same conclusions myself. It all fitted in very neatly; even my efforts at the mine could be explained as a desire to ingratiate myself with the local population, at the same time enhancing my reputation for virtuousness. I felt like laughing again, but if I’d once started I think I’d have been unable to stop. Already in Rome I’d suffered for my poverty; now it seemed I was to be victimised for my wholly imaginary wealth. Doubtless the spectabilis entertained some real measure of affection for his daughter; but equally he’d seen in my arrival an opportunity to revive the flagging fortunes of his house. It was straightforward blackmail; none the less it seemed he’d had to salve what passed for his conscience by trumping up a groundless charge of rape. That more than anything else was the measure of the man. I wondered distractedly how I’d ever imagined I liked him and how I’d come to be such an absolute bloody fool. If the business went no further than Massilia it could be unpleasant enough; I’d made no friends in the town, with the possible exception of Cassianus, while if the Libyan was prepared to perjure himself there were doubtless others just as ready to come forward with lies. Certainly Paeonia would be allowed no voice in her or my own defence. But it wouldn’t stop in Massilia; that much was plain.

‘Think about the advantages,’ said Paeonius, still sweating. ‘It isn’t as if you’re being asked to marry a harpy. You’ve always been attracted to the girl; she’s a lovely creature, she’d make you a first-rate wife. As a matter of fact I’ve already got a property in mind that would make an ideal home for you both. Belongs to a friend of mine, but I’m sure we could come to a reasonable agreement. Better than sweating away in a mine office, eh? You wouldn’t have to hide out any more, you’d be a respected citizen of Massilia. The Bishop’s on your side, I know that for a fact; you’d find plenty of people ready to speak for you if it became necessary. And, after all, I’m still thinking first and foremost of Paeonia’s well-being. Now then, what do you say? Be sensible, man ...’

I clutched at a straw. ‘You talk of your child’s welfare,’ I said bitterly. ‘But you’re not proposing much of a match for her, are you? Marrying her off to an unconvicted murderer? You’re only presuming the affair’s over and done with; what if I told you it wasn’t?’

He twined his fingers, stared down at them, cracked a knuckle and smirked in a shamefaced sort of way. ‘I knew we should come to that,’ he said, ‘I knew we’d come to that. Well, it’s a point. It’s fair. I admit it’s fair ....’He looked back up at me under his brows. ‘As things stand,’ he said, ‘I’m sure you’ll agree with what I had in mind. I’d naturally expect you to make ... ah ... a settlement for the girl. A little ... provision for the future. Enough to maintain her if, you know . . .’

He let his voice tail off. I could only stare at him, shaking my head. So I was to provide the dowry. I might have guessed as much.

I rubbed my face. Further argument was obviously useless. I needed time to think; not that I could see there being any way out of the impasse. ‘Well,’ I said finally, ‘I’ll consider what you’ve said. But as you’ll appreciate, this is a serious matter for me. I can’t just give you an answer here, on the spot.’

That seemed to satisfy him. He rose to leave, drawing his cloak round him. ‘That’s fair enough,’ he said. ‘That’s fair. I’m not . . . don’t wish to be ... an unreasonable man. I only wish . . .’He seemed to realise he was weakening, and set his jaw. ‘I’ll give you three days,’ he said. ‘Three days from now. If your answer isn’t in my hands by then, a courier will be on his way to Mediolanum. Goodbye, Tribune. Think carefully on what I’ve said.’ He made as if to grip my shoulder, coughed, changed his mind, and waddled hastily from the room.

Under the circumstances I hadn’t the heart to go through the farce of seeing him to his carriage.

My state of mind over the next two days can better be imagined than described. Quite obviously the match was an impossibility; equally certainly, I would never convince Paeonius of the true state of my finances. Wild schemes spun through my head. Could I, after all, find the money for a settlement somehow, make my home in Massilia with the girl I had courted so oddly? There was a certain dizzying appeal in the idea, but it was out of the question. The town was impoverished, I knew that well enough; but even if cash had been plentiful I had no collateral against which to raise a loan. And in any case--here was a new and highly unpleasant thought--how long would I remain at liberty after I met Paeonius’ terms? What proof was there that he would keep his part of the bargain? It could be once the head money was in his hands I’d find myself delivered not to a bridal couch but to a squad of Imperial soldiers. It was difficult to believe the spectabilis would stoop that low; but then, he’d already stooped to blackmail. Even if he kept his word, though, the killing still wasn’t answered for. If Paeonius had discovered the truth about me, others could just as readily. Time had dulled my apprehensiveness, but in no way lessened the danger; I could still be hauled away at any moment, made to stand hopeless trial for my life.

What if I threw myself on the mercy of Cassianus, begged sanctuary in the monastery? The Father might or might not be prepared to shelter me; but such a course would be an open admission of guilt, while I was still stubborn enough to find the notion of simple flight abhorrent. I thought bitterly of the load after load of silver I had consigned to the Imperial Mint Had it not been for my appalling honesty I would by now be, if not rich, at least well on the way towards prosperity.

The more I worried over the mess, the more it seemed there was only one course left to me. I brooded over it by the hour, revolving all the factors in my mind. Eventually I reached my decision. On the second night after Paeonius’ visit I set about getting my things together. I was sick, sick to the core; I could stand that sword of Damocles hanging over me no longer. I would ride to Mediolanum of my own free will, seek an audience with Honorius himself and suffer the judgement of the Emperor. The day I had been dreading had finally arrived.

The packing took longer than it need have done. I finished eventually, stood the heavy panniers against the wall. My dress uniform was laid out, ready for the morning; there was nothing else I could do. I stood rubbing my face, thinking about a cup of wine, and heard hoof-beats outside in the compound.

I walked to the door of the Praetorium with a vague feeling of impending disaster. The horseman was well muffled in a cloak, but the torches in their brackets gave enough light for me to recognise him as a servant of Paeonius’ household. He handed me, silently, a parchment packet, rode away into the dark without waiting for an answer. I took the thing inside. One glance at the bold, sprawling handwriting of the address convinced me it wasn’t from Paeonia. I broke the seals impatiently, stared at the signature. The latter came, of all people, from the Domina Papianilla; it instructed me, curtly, to ride to Massilia at once if I wanted to save my skin. I hesitated over it, pulling at my lip. The same presentiment, stronger than before, urged me to ignore it; but there was no real choice. I called Baudio, told him to saddle a horse. It was late already; I made the best time I could towards the town.

The streets of Massilia were deserted. It was past midnight before I reached Paeonius’ mansion. I tapped cautiously at the side entrance. Nothing happened. I knocked again, louder, and at length heard the creak of withdrawn bolts. The door opened fractionally; the woman inside stepped back at sight of me, motioning me to enter. I walked through uneasily, heard the bolts shoot home. I followed the slave through the gloomy corridors of the place. She held a lamp high; in its bobbing light the statues once more seemed to watch me as I passed. I sensed again that pervading air of dampness and decay; to my overwrought imagination it was as if I was walking through the chambers of a tomb.

My guide paused finally before a doorway closed off by sombre drapes, tapped softly against the frame. A low voice answered her. She held the curtains apart for me, mutely; I ducked my head and stepped inside.

The bedchamber in which I found myself was sumptuously furnished. Paintings covered its walls; the light from the one hanging lamp was too dim to disclose their subject but I had an impression of a crowd of people, pale-faced and with upturned, beseeching hands. The figures seemed to shift and move at the corners of my sight. At the far edge of the little pool of brightness, reclining on the couch, was Papianilla. She had discarded the blonde wig; her hair, thin and greying, was drawn tightly across her skull, fell lank to her shoulders. In one hand she held a crystal goblet; as ever, the fingers that gripped it gleamed with rings. She was wearing a robe of dark, shadowy red; above it her white face seemed to swim in the gloom. She watched me for a moment before she spoke; then she laughed throatily. ‘Approach, Tribune,’ she said. ‘I don’t intend to eat you.’

I walked forward slowly into the light. Another wait, while she stared up at me mockingly; then she gestured with the cup. ‘Be seated,’ she said. ‘Make yourself at home. Will you have some wine?’

I sat, stiffly, on an embroidered stool to one side of the bed. ‘Thank you, Domina,’ I said. ‘Not at present.’

She shrugged, and poured me a glass anyway. In the quiet, the slop and tinkle of the liquid sounded loud. ‘Here,’ she said, holding the cup out unsteadily. ‘Take it. Don’t stand on your provincial dignity with me.’ The rim of the goblet chattered momentarily against her teeth as she drank. She lowered it, and stared inscrutably again. ‘What rubbish,’ she asked, ‘has my husband been talking to you?’

I told her, coldly, that he had seen fit to accuse me of rape, and had given me three days to consider marriage to Paeonia before placing in front of the Emperor certain charges that might or might not be substantiated. She heard me through, then flung her head back and laughed again. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. ‘The noble Paeonius,’ she said, ‘has no detectable principles whatsoever. Unfortunately he is also a fool; so most of his villainy is turned to no account, or recoils on his own head.’ She drank again, grimacing; drained the cup, and instantly poured another. ‘I’ve no doubt he also regaled you with the tragic history of my stepdaughter,’ she said. ‘It’s an elegant tale, that suits the household’s dignity better than the truth. Her mother was a pretty creature by all accounts; but unfortunately she suffered with a falling sickness, during an attack of which she struck her head and died. The child was born with that impediment; I doubt now that it will ever leave her. I think perhaps she has the sickness too.’

I rose. I had no intention of hearing Paeonia maligned, and said as much.

‘Sit down,’ she said. ‘You’ll hear what I choose to tell you, and you’ll listen for as long as it suits my pleasure. Because you have no option.’ She reached behind her. ‘I’ve never been unfriendly towards you, Sergius,’ she said. ‘Or wished you ill. Come now, let’s stop this silliness. Empty your glass, and have some more.’

‘Thank you,’ I said distinctly. ‘No . . .’

‘Then go without!’
She raised her voice startlingly, flung the mixing bowl to the floor. It rolled, clanging; wine splashed darkly across the mosaic. The violence of the movement disarrayed her robe; I sat silently, averting my eyes from the pale bulge of a breast. She covered herself, smiling. ‘So,’ she said, ‘I disgust you. You with your fine sensibilities, your poems and literature. But you have so very much to learn. You think I’m drunk, don’t you?’

I didn’t answer.

‘Oh, yes, you do,’ she said. ‘You think I’m drunk, and it offends you. Well, I am drunk. Because this is my house, and this is my roof. My own roof. I buried one husband, and sold myself to another to get it; and now I sit beneath it, I do as I choose. I at least am honest.’

She picked the glass up again, watching me over the rim. ‘What are your feelings towards Paeonia?’ she asked. ‘Do you cloak them in decent, well-sounding words as well? Do you tell yourself you love her? Or do you admit what you feel, a mettlesome combination of pity and lust?’

I swallowed, and stayed silent.

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