The Fateful Day (12 page)

‘Really? Isn’t it really a matter for yourself?’

He ran a distracted hand through his thinning hair again. ‘It affects the civic powers as much as anyone – and besides, citizen, I am in need of their support.’ He said it simply, but I could see the force of it. ‘I called them here as soon as the message was confirmed,’ he went on, ‘and they went away to discuss exactly what to say, and when – though they want me to put troops out on the street when the announcement’s made. And I agreed. It would be a wise precaution. There were civic riots when Commodus was deposed.’

I nodded. ‘I have vivid memories of that night. I was almost trampled by excited crowds.’ Almost lynched, was nearer to the truth. They had been dragging down a statue of the hated Emperor and setting fire to anything that had his name on it: sign-boards, carvings – even coins – while anyone who didn’t join them in these activities found themselves in danger of being set upon. The frenzy of that violent mob had been terrible to watch – like some sort of new-hatched monster which uncoiled itself and devoured anything which crossed its path.

‘That night was frightening,’ I said. ‘But Commodus was loathed – Pertinax is … was … well-respected, if not exactly loved.’

‘Which makes it very likely to be worse this time, unless we fill the streets with soldiers first – and even then it might be difficult to maintain control. Pertinax was governor of this province once, and gained a name for justice and fair play, so Mars alone knows what disturbances this news is going to cause. And if I don’t handle this with care – if a citizen gets injured or a soldier killed – I’ll give the new authorities the opportunity they need to have me relieved of duty and recalled to Rome.’

I could see his dilemma. ‘So you are in no hurry to have the news proclaimed.’

He had taken up station by the wall again. ‘Frankly, I would prefer to do it as soon as possible – I don’t want to be rebuked for reluctance to acknowledge Didius. But I suspect that the announcement may be made at dusk, when the gates are due to close to travellers and most people are abed. Let’s just pray to all the gods that rumour doesn’t get there first. There must be traders on their way to us by now who have already heard the news elsewhere.’

‘Then wouldn’t it be wiser to insist?’ I said, defying convention by proffering advice. ‘Rumour seems to spread faster than messengers can ride. And the tales will just get more exaggerated all the time.’

He did not turn around. ‘And no doubt Didius will claim it’s my fault, if they do. I shouldn’t have delayed when the first courier arrived. But I think that I can prove it was the magistrates who didn’t want the announcement to be made at once. There’s a long will to be read out in the forum, today.’

I could not see the relevance of this, but I nodded anyway. ‘I believe I saw the mourners gathering,’ I said, remembering the dark-clothed citizens and their slaves who’d crowded me off the pavements while I was coming here. ‘Oh,’ I added, remembering suddenly, ‘that will be Gaius Publius, I suppose.’

Gaius had been a councillor himself but when he died last moon he left a fortune and not much family, and there were conflicting rumours over his estate. It was said that many wealthy men had been promised a bequest in return for favours previously received, while other gossips said he’d left his money to the town for public works in the hope of having his name inscribed on some of them. Still others said he’d spread these differing stories purposely to ensure a good attendance at his funeral and at the reading of his testament.

The commander nodded. ‘Gaius Publius – exactly, citizen. And some of the richest men in Glevum will be there. The curia felt it would be better to let that group disperse before the dreadful information is released – out of respect for the dead man, if nothing else. They didn’t want to interrupt the reading of a will with something that was likely to create a riot. I did not press the point. I dare not offend the curia over this. I shall have sufficient charges at my door.’

Of course! Several councillors would have an interest in that will themselves, I thought – and not only in relation to the public purse. They would not want the legacy delayed or set aside, as it might be if the augurers declared the reading was ill-starred because it was interrupted by the dreadful news from Rome. I was about to say so to the commandant when we were interrupted by a tapping at the door.

The commander turned abruptly and went over to the desk. He picked up the letter which he’d said might be of use, and put it inside his breast-plate, out of sight. Only then did he reply, as he had done before, ‘Identify yourself.’

A muffled voice responded. ‘Auxiliary Lucus Villosus returning with a message, sir.’

‘Enter, Villosus!’ And the soldier sidled in.

‘In the name of …’ he began, and trailed off hopelessly. I understood now why the formal exchanges had been missing, earlier.

‘The Emperor Didius Julianus – till you hear otherwise,’ the commander said, so coolly it was difficult to recall how unwelcome that official formula must be.

‘In the name of His Imperial Excellence, the Emperor Didius Julianus,’ the soldier repeated in an obedient tone, ‘I am sent to tell you that there is another messenger – this time from the Governor’s palace in Londinium.’

The commander raised an eyebrow at me, saying ‘I told you so’ as plainly as if he’d said the words. What he did say was rather a surprise. ‘Show him to my usual office. I will see him there. And find the duty octio while you are gone. Get him to send a couple of his men to tidy up in here. I have finished with the records.’

Villosus looked ready to salute and hurry off, but the commander checked him. ‘And when you’ve done that, report to the guardroom and accompany this citizen to the docks. I’ve already posted a soldier down there – just in case of rumours coming in by boat. Tell him to make an announcement that no ships must sail today. All captains are to report to the forum before dusk and await a proclamation from the curia.’

‘You’ll send a written message, sir? Otherwise they might not credit what I say.’

The commander shook his head. ‘There is no time for that. I’ll send a
tubicen
along with you to blow a trumpet blast – that will give you all the status that you need. The signal will make the sailors and the dockers gather round, so the soldier can tell them what they are to do. He’s not to say what’s happened, even if he knows – just that something of international importance has occurred.’ He gave me a curt nod. ‘It’s not much, citizen – but it’s the best that I can do.’

The soldier looked startled. ‘The guard will want a watchword, sir, to take commands from me. I wasn’t on duty when it was announced – I have been on infirmary fatigues.’

‘The watchword for the day is “let us be soldiers”.’ The commander raised a sardonic brow at me. ‘Ironically it is the one that our late Emperor preferred.’ He turned back to Villosus. ‘“Let us be soldiers”,’ he repeated, pensively. ‘Remember those words, soldier, whatever happens to the Empire from now on.’ He turned to me. ‘I shall be sending a courier to Londinium later on, and he’ll be changing horses at Corinium. I’ll get that message to the lady Julia, for you. So now, with your permission, citizen, I’ll ask you to retire to the usual waiting room. Your escort will be with you as soon as possible.’

And I was ushered out of the principia, accompanied to the guardroom block again and left on that all-too-familiar bench to wait.

M
y presence in the guardroom caused little interest today, though usually there was at least one octio to stare. Now all eyes were on the flamboyant messenger from the provincial governor in Londinium, who was already waiting on the bench when I arrived. Even when he had been shown up the steep stone staircase at the back, which led up to the commander’s offices, none of the junior officers gathered in the room so much as glanced at me. Instead, with one accord they stopped their calculations and their scribblings and seemed to be trying to will themselves to hear the interview – although, of course, that was impossible.

Nobody spoke, but there was an air of suppressed tension in the silence which ensued and I knew that every soldier there was wondering about what was happening upstairs and whether the messenger was bringing a request for military support for the provincial governor against the upstart emperor in Rome, thus forcing decisions about their loyalties.

If so, there could be battles here in Britannia soon.

However, I did not have very long to worry about this. After a few moments Villosus hurried back, now swathed in a handsome military cloak. He was accompanied by a sulky-looking youth in uniform, carrying a
tuba
– the long straight trumpet which the Roman army uses for signalling.

‘Citizen, if you would accompany us now?’ The auxiliary sketched a bow and opened the door for me to pass. His earlier diffidence had wholly disappeared. His voice was suddenly stentorian and he held his chin unnaturally high – almost pink with self-importance at having been selected for the current escort task. He swaggered proudly beside me to the gate, while the trumpeter trailed morosely after us. ‘Let us pass, please, sentry,’ Villosus almost barked, then seemed to notice that the man on duty was a full centurion, and therefore greatly his superior, of course. ‘We have an urgent mission to perform, special orders from the commandant himself,’ he added, in a more conciliatory tone.

Cerberus looked dispassionately at him, and then at the unwilling tubicen and finally at me. ‘Ah, you, citizen!’ he said, in a tone which made it clear whom he held responsible for this breach of discipline. ‘I should have guessed as much!’ He turned to Villosus. ‘Watchword?’ he demanded.

Villosus gave it – smugly – and the sentry moved aside, though I heard him muttering underneath his breath. ‘A tradesman, an auxiliary and a horn player – who else would be entrusted with an “important mission” by the commandant? The Empire has gone crazy!’ But he let us past.

It was strange to move out of the tension of the camp and into the normal hubbub of the town. The streets were still bustling with the business of the day, the inhabitants oblivious of the dreadful news from Rome. Our little party attracted some curious stares, of course – the young trumpeter in particular was an unusual sight – but people were too busy with their errands and their trades to do much more than gawp and nudge their neighbours as we hurried past.

We did hurry. Villosus saw to that. He was taking his role as courier very seriously and, being a trained soldier and used to route-marching, kept up a pace which I soon found impossible to match.

‘You’ll have to slow down, soldier,’ I managed, between heaving gulps of breath. ‘I’m just an old tradesman. I’m not used to this.’ I clung to a pillar in a portico and tried to get some air into my gasping lungs. I knew my face was scarlet with effort, and my toga was threatening to dislodge itself and fall in embarrassing festoons around my knees. I hitched it up. I felt ridiculous – even the horn-blower was looking half-amused. Despite his awkward instrument, he’d kept up easily, without so much as seeming to bestir himself. ‘Let me rest a moment here,’ I pleaded, breathlessly.

Villosus looked doubtful. ‘We can’t be too long, citizen. Any message from the commander must be delivered with all possible dispatch – every messenger will tell you that. Besides, we don’t want any shipping slipping out of port because we contrived to miss it while we were loitering here.’

It was a point I hadn’t thought of and I acknowledged that – though only by a nod. I was still too out of breath for unnecessary words. After a little, when I’d stopped gasping like a landed fish, I let go of my pillar and we started off again, though mercifully a fraction more slowly than before. Fortunately the docks are no great distance from the garrison and we were soon walking down the only broad main street that meets the riverside.

The wharf is always a busy area and today was no exception. There were people everywhere – sailors, merchants, moneylenders, overseers, slaves – while outside the busy warehouses and wine shops, the usual street vendors wove nimbly through the crowd, offering hot pies and oatcakes from their greasy trays. A bored soldier stood in the centre of the quay, obviously on watch and leaning on his spear – though he was too busy looking at a plump prostitute (draped against the doorway of a drinking house and dressed in the tell-toga) to notice we were there.

‘There’s the guard,’ said Villosus and went to walk that way, but I held back a moment, peering at the quay. Was there a likely ship there, or had we come too late?

Despite the crowd it was possible to see several vessels tied up at the dock. Two were being unloaded as I watched, and their crews – assisted by gangs of slaves from the nearby warehouse – were already scuttling to and from the quay, carrying sacks and boxes into store, loading dried fish onto waiting handcarts for the market stalls, or teetering down unsteady planks balancing precious amphorae in their arms while their masters shouted instructions from the decks.

Another ship stood idle, its single sail dangling loosely from the mast and its rows of wooden oars shipped inboard – awaiting cargo by the look of it, since it rode a little higher in the water than the rest. Only a single watchman seemed to be aboard. I shook my head. None of these seemed likely candidates as hiding places for Marcus’s effects, yet they were the only sea-going vessels in the dock. All the rest were smaller, purely local craft: eel-boats and the little one-man coracles that ply between Glevum and the islands in the river, bringing back mud crabs and mussels for the marketplace or for use as bait for local fishermen.

I shook my head. I was almost certain that, after all, I would find nothing here. We had arrived too late. In fact, when I considered it more carefully, perhaps I should have anticipated that. It was only that false message to the land-slaves yesterday which suggested that the ship was still in port. Or even, come to think of it, that there had ever been a ship at all. What had ever made me think that the goods were bound for Gaul? Only that forged letter to the household slaves!

‘Citizen!’ Villosus was tugging at my arm. ‘We must go and see the guard and tell him about the announcement for the sea-captains.’

I gave an inward groan. If trade were interrupted unnecessarily and these ships were all delayed to no useful purpose, it would be my doing, I thought despondently – though only the commander and myself would be aware of that. But there was nothing for it now. I nodded at Villosus. ‘Very well, lead on,’ and followed him across the quay to where the soldier was.

The man had sensed us coming and had dragged his eyes away from the dumpy prostitute. I was surprised that he was interested in her – she was no longer very young and her hair was so dyed with henna that it was getting thin. But he must have been, as she was obviously licensed and there was nothing illegal in her looking out for customers provided she did not actually approach them and operated only in the registered premises. Perhaps he was hoping to purchase her favours later on, when he was off duty and had an as or two to spend. He was a legionary soldier, by his uniform, and not looking pleased at our interruption of his reverie.

Villosus did not even wait for him to speak. He offered the watchword with self-conscious pride, and explained what the commander had ordered him to do. The soldier sighed. ‘So we can expect the docks to be full of idle men all night!’ he muttered. ‘Very well, then – sound the trumpet, tubicen.’

The sulky youth stepped forward and raised the
tuba
to his lips. It was not much shorter than the trumpeter himself, and he held the body of it upwards so it towered overhead. People were already turning round to stare, but as the clear notes sounded, everybody stopped and expectant silence fell.

The legionary gestured to a passing slave to bring across a wooden box that he was carrying. ‘Put it on the paving over there. I want to stand on it.’

The slave looked startled, but did as he was told and the legionary climbed onto his temporary dais. ‘Citizens, friends, strangers – gather round. There’s an important proclamation I’ve been asked to make.’

There was a general scurry as the crowd complied, and the murmur of conversation began to rise again. The trumpeter, who had come suddenly to life, glanced at the soldier for permission to proceed, and – having gained it – gave another piercing tuba blast. This time the silence was immediate.

The legionary, who was clearly enjoying his unexpected role, struck a pose – one hand on his chest and the other in the air, as one sees lawyers sometimes do – and declaimed the message in a ringing voice. ‘No departures from the port are authorised today. Captains of all vessels are to report to the forum shortly before dusk. There will be an announcement of great importance then.’ Realising that there were mutterings of discontent, he added, more feebly, ‘This is by order of the garrison. Disperse.’

Far from dispersing, though, the crowd was thickening. People were appearing from dwellings, warehouses and the maze of narrow lanes around the quay, and even the clients in the drinking shop put down their cups of watered wine and hurried out to see what the disturbance was. Among the throng I saw a man I recognised, an ancient steward named Vesperion, who worked at one of the larger warehouses nearby. In fact, I remembered hearing he was now effectively in charge, as the business had changed hands (as a result of an unfortunate incident I’d been able to resolve) and the new purchaser knew little about the import–export trade.

It occurred to me that Vesperion would know – if anybody did – what ships had come and gone from Glevum in the last day or two and what they were carrying. And I’d done the new owner of the premises a favour once (in fact, it was probably my doing that he owned the place at all) so I felt justified in going there first to ask for help.

I turned to Villosus. ‘Thank you for your escort, officer.’ He was not an officer, but flattery of that sort never comes amiss. ‘I see the very man I hoped to meet.’ And before he could protest, I had left his side and begun to work my way across the quay to where Vesperion stood talking to a resplendent citizen in an embroidered cloak, who – alone on the dockside – had his back to us, clearly intent on whatever was in hand.

I grinned. It looked as if the new arrangement was working perfectly. The citizen, who was obviously very affluent, was waving both hands emphatically while the wily steward stood simply shaking his grey head – driving a hard bargain, by the look of it. I even wondered if I ought to interrupt, but I continued to work my way across the crowd.

But then – perhaps I was moving against the general flow – Vesperion noticed me. He was an aged man, very stooped and thin, and rather slow and careful in his activities. But to my surprise, he reacted instantly. He murmured something to the citizen, then began to come to meet me, shuffling his way surprisingly nimbly through the throng, using his bony elbows to ward off pie-sellers and lifting his skinny sandalled feet to step carefully over the treacherous rope-coils that lay underfoot.

He was panting by the time he reached my side. ‘Citizen Libertus!’ The crowd was surging round us, jostling, and he had to raise his cracked voice and fairly shout at me – though even then it barely reached me over the general clamour of the crowds. ‘This is a surprise and privilege. Were you in search of me?’

‘I want some information, that’s all,’ I shouted back, though my voice too was almost lost amid the din. ‘But don’t let me interrupt. I see you already have a customer.’ I gestured vaguely towards the warehouse, though the press was so great I could not turn to look.

Vesperion glanced over there, then shook his thinning locks at me. Whispering was quite impossible, but he mouthed the words at me. ‘I think he’s gone.’ He made a cancelling gesture with his hands. ‘No prospect, anyway.’ A group of drinkers from the tavern barged past as he spoke and pushed him roughly into me, so that his face was forced unnaturally close to mine. He seized the opportunity to murmur in my ear, ‘Let’s go into the warehouse, citizen, where we can talk – and breathe – more easily than here.’

I nodded and he began to lead the way, hobbling through the ever-increasing throng and elbowing a path. I was glad to leave the situation on the dock. The crowd was getting more vociferous all the time – murmurs and complaints about missing wind and tide, and indignation at being required to wait to find out why. There was beginning to be a nasty mood abroad and I feared for the three soldiers if no move was made to reassert authority quite soon.

Obviously, they’d seen the danger for themselves. As we reached the warehouse the trumpet sounded again, and continued sounding until uneasy silence fell. The legionary had climbed on his makeshift dais angrily, and was shouting at the crowd. ‘You have been given the order to disperse. Or do you wish us to arrest the lot of you?’

There was a lot of scuffling and – very slowly – people started drifting reluctantly away. Vesperion’s old hand tugged at my toga-folds. ‘Come in here, citizen. I have an office at the back where we won’t be disturbed. Let’s go in there and you can tell me what it is you want to know.’

He shuffled into the warehouse, and I followed him.