The Fateful Day (14 page)

We had turned as one man in the direction of the voice. The speaker was standing in the doorway of the office space. This was obviously the visitor the slave had spoken of.

The warehouse was in shadow at the inner end, but even in this light it was clear that Vesperion had been wrong. This was indeed the wealthy citizen that I’d seen earlier. Though he was in the shadow by the door I recognised the gold and silver decor-ation on his cloak, which was glittering in the light of the flickering torches overhead. He’d obviously got tired of being made to wait and had come out to investigate the reasons for the delay. Perhaps he had heard our voices as we approached, I thought – mentally thanking Jove that we had gone elsewhere to talk.

I looked at the man more closely. He was large and stout and paunchy, and clearly of patrician birth – the width of the purple toga-stripe indicated that, and would have made him conspicuous enough even without his embroidered finery. He was angry too. As he stepped further forward into the full glow of the torch, it was clear that he was dangerously annoyed. His mouth was set in an irritable line and the dark eyes were furious and glittering.

I caught my breath. I recognised that slack and florid face. I had seen it wear exactly that expression once before – when its owner had nearly run me down in his carriage yesterday.

V
esperion, with a look of horror on his face, was already shuffling forward as quickly as he could, murmuring deprecatingly, ‘Citizen Patrician, I do apologise. Please come through into the
locus tabularum
again.’

He led the way into the little office room where all the records and accounts were kept. It was gloomy and airless and devoid of ornament, and I could understand why the visitor had not cared for waiting there. However, there was a handsome ebony stool beside the writing table – evidently provided for the patrician citizen – and Vesperion produced a plain three-legged one for me.

‘Please, citizen, be seated.’

I was ready to comply but the visitor pointedly declined to sit, which naturally meant that I could not – it would have been improper for my head to have been higher than his own. The steward (who, as a servant, did not count, of course) began fussing about with a bunch of tapers from a hook on the wall, as though more illumination might somehow dispel the tenseness of the atmosphere.

‘I heard there was a caller awaiting me, patrician,’ he said, lighting one of the candles from the oil lamp on the desk and positioning it in a holder for maximum effect, ‘but since you’d said you hoped to speak to the proprietor direct – of course, I did not guess that it was you.’

‘So you preferred to deal with this other customer?’ Fancy-Cloak looked derisively at me – clearly he hadn’t recognised me from the day before. ‘You thought, perhaps, that he had precedence?’

‘He has had dealings with the establishment before.’ Vesperion’s old voice was cracking with anxiety.

It was clearly intended as an explanation and defence, but Fancy-Cloak chose to see it as a piece of impudence. ‘Then I shall tell your owner of your priorities.’ He was still staring loftily at me, as one might look at a tray of damaged goods. ‘Who is this … person … anyway? Apart from claiming to be a citizen, of sorts.’

The arrogance and rudeness stung me into speech. ‘I am Longinus Flavius Libertus,’ I said, using my full titles for the second time today. ‘And we have met before. I believe you know my patron, Marcus Septimus – I think I saw you outside his villa yesterday. I was on a mule and you almost knocked me down.’

I had hardly expected an apology, but his response was start-ling. The haughty gaze completely disappeared, to be replaced by a look of bad-tempered bafflement. ‘Mighty Jupiter! The man who impeded my carriage – that was you!’

‘You did not recognise me in a toga, Citizen Patrician?’ I enquired smoothly, moving forward into the candlelight. ‘It was me, indeed, but fortunately no actual damage was sustained. I’m sorry that you felt I was impeding you. I was merely attempting to tell you that my patron wasn’t home, though I imagine you had probably discovered that by then. I take it you received no answer at the gate?’

‘None at all!’ There was a pause while he glanced at me sharply, his small eyes glittering and his thin lips pursed tight. Then, ‘Perhaps – as his client – you can offer an explanation for that breach of common courtesy?’

I looked thoughtfully at him, wondering anew if his presence in the lane last night had been merely a coincidence. Was it possible that he was responsible for what had happened at the villa after all? He looked the sort of man who might slaughter slaves without a second thought, if that sort of thing had still been legal nowadays. What he didn’t look like was a man who needed gold or the sort who’d stoop to stealing if he did. He was more likely to bully some hapless inferior into offering a ‘gift’. Nor, surely, would anyone have coolly challenged me to explain the lack of a gatekeeper if he’d just hanged the man in his own cubicle. It was just possible that it was a bluff, but if so, it was a convincing one.

And he was genuinely waiting for my response, it seemed. I was not about to tell him what had happened at the house. No one else should know that until Marcus did. So I simply muttered, ‘I can’t explain it, citizen.’ I was aware that I sounded like a fool.

My meekness seemed to dissipate his disapproval, though, and a moment later he was offering a half-apology by lowering himself onto the stool and saying with a grimace that might have been a smile, ‘Well, perhaps it is no matter. Probably the gatekeeper was using the latrine, but I own that I was angry – I’d been travelling all day, and visiting the villa was a detour as it was. But I had some business with Marcus Septimus.’ He looked at me bleakly. ‘News I think he would have been surprised to hear – as surprised as the Provincial Governor in Londinium was – or the senior Decurion at Corinium, yesterday, when I lunched with him.’

I squatted uncomfortably on the smaller stool, and tried to look impressed. In fact, I was feeling simultaneously disappointed and relieved – disappointed that I had not found the perpetrator of the crime, and relieved that I was not obliged to confront this rich and powerful citizen. Because he’d unknowingly disposed of my suspicions straight away.

If what he said about being in Corinium was true, Fancy-Cloak could not possibly have arrived at Marcus’s country house more than a few moments before I saw him there – long after the thieves and murderers had left.

‘Lunched?’ I tried to sound admiring. ‘You were favoured then.’ Lunch is usually a fairly frugal meal, and only usually shared with intimates. Important guests are entertained at dinner, as a rule.

‘Oh, I arranged the food,’ he said, dismissively. ‘Just cheese, bread and fruit, and a flask of decent wine, by way of thanks. He’d agreed to be a witness for some land that I had sold. I wanted it done properly, the old-fashioned way, with five witnesses and a pair of copper scales. Quite a little ceremony, but well worth the expense.’

So it was almost certain to be true. There was no point in lying about a thing like that – too many people would have witnessed it. No guilty person would offer such an alibi. It was too easy to prove that it was false. (I would check, of course – a query to Julia would probably suffice. That kind of gossip would be all over the town. But I was sure I’d find that Fancy-Cloak was where he said he was at noontide yesterday.) Of course he could not be aware of how significant his little boast had been. He was simply attempting to make clear that he moved in the highest social circles possible. I shook my head.

He’d seen the gesture. ‘It’s true, I turned up at the villa unannounced, but one does expect a gatekeeper at least, even if the owner is not in residence.’

My mind was racing along a different route by now. If he had called on Marcus bearing news which he’d already shared with dignitaries elsewhere, dare I ask him what the news concerned? For a moment I wondered, like an idiot, if he’d somehow learned that Pertinax was dead. But I dismissed that as the foolishness it was. That news was far too recent to have reached him yesterday. He would have left Londinium days and days ago, so he could not have heard it there, and the message would not have reached Corinium until he’d left. Anyway, that bulletin was carried by imperial couriers alone – under imperial seal, and for named recipients. They would never have dared disclose it to anybody else, even an important purple-striper such as this. His ‘news’ must be regarding something different, and presumably something quite significant – though he was clearly not disposed to tell me what it was. Not for the ears of humble tradespeople, it seemed.

I tried a different approach. ‘You were in Corinium? You did not think of calling at my patron’s town house there?’ I forced myself to smile. ‘You would have saved yourself a detour, and you would have found a gatekeeper to let you in. His wife is due to have a child and has moved her household there.’

For the first time, the man looked less than confident. ‘Indeed? Nobody told me that. But surely Marcus isn’t in Corinium? Hasn’t he gone to seek preferment overseas?’

I had no time to answer before Vesperion spoke. ‘Not for ever, citizen. He’s gone to Rome to see the Emperor himself, so my master tells me, but he is coming back again – though he may be away for many moons.’ He was clearly proud of having information to impart and anxious to ingratiate himself, after having been rebuked before.

He might have saved himself the effort. Fancy-Cloak did not even deign to glance at him. ‘I was talking to this citizen,’ he snapped. ‘If I want information from you, steward, I shall ask for it.’

‘However, Vesperion is right,’ I confirmed. ‘Marcus is merely making a short trip to Rome. But he may be back sooner than originally planned.’ I was placatory, hoping to soften the implied rebuke to poor Vesperion – but then wished I hadn’t said anything at all.

‘A sudden change of plan?’ The patrician was looking at me searchingly.

I cursed my wayward tongue. Until the news from Rome was publically announced, I was not in a position to explain. ‘Something unexpected has arisen which is likely to bring him home before he planned,’ I proffered, lamely. ‘When he comes, Citizen Patrician, I’ll tell him that you called. Whom shall I have the honour of saying that you are?’

The patrician did not answer that at once. Instead he whirled his body round to stare at me, while I held his gaze and tried to look as nonchalant as possible. After a moment he turned to Vesperion again. ‘Leave us, slave.’ He flapped a dismissive hand. ‘I wish to speak privately to this citizen.’

‘But – citizen, you wanted to enquire about some wine?’

‘You heard me, steward. Kindly leave the room.’

The steward gave me a beseeching glance – obviously a good sale would be another step towards earning the promised freedom by and by, and the profit might even add a little to his
peculium
. But I could do little except nod my head.

‘If this concerns my patron, steward, I must hear him out. Any wine purchase can be dealt with later on,’ I said. I was not anxious for private conversation with a man who did not even have the courtesy to vouchsafe me his name, but it occurred to me that this message which he claimed to have may have been an attempted warning which arrived too late. Though surely the enemies of Pertinax could not have tentacles that reached as far as this?

The steward gave a defeated little bow and backed out of the door. As he did so the spotty slave appeared – finally arriving with the promised tray. Vesperion was about to shoo him testily away, but the lad forestalled him. ‘I’m sorry, steward, to have been so long with this. But I was delayed by a disturbance on my way – somebody shouting and hammering on the door. I’m surprised you didn’t hear it for yourself. I had to put the tray down and find out who it was.’ He glanced triumphantly around. ‘Turned out to be another visitor. Says he is the servant of the citizen who’s here, and he must see his master urgently. Won’t say what it’s about. I’ve left him at the door, but you’d better let him in – he’s got a most impressive-looking scroll with him, sealed with the biggest seal-box that I’ve ever seen.’

Vesperion looked enquiringly at me, but I shook a doubtful head – Minimus would not be carrying a scroll. The patrician, however, was on his feet again. ‘That will be my attendant, I expect. Bring in that tray, slave, and put it there.’ He gestured to the desk. ‘Then go and summon him to me at once.’

The pimply slave-boy hastened to comply, and – after a brief hesitation – Vesperion followed him.

‘So our private conversation will have to wait,’ I said, rising respectfully to my feet again, as courtesy required.

The patrician gave me a disdainful look. ‘On the contrary. Cacus has been with me since he was a boy. He is entirely in my confidence and I’d be glad of his advice.’

My face must have revealed the astonishment I felt. I could think of no one more unlikely to discuss things with an underling.

‘Cacus is no ordinary servant, as you’ll see. I bought him from his parents when he was just a boy fishing in poverty in one of the smaller islands in our sea. I saw potential in him even then and he has proved me right a hundred times. He’s very gifted – for a slave. Much like yourself, I suppose.’ I was about to protest that I had ceased to be a slave ten years or more ago, but he waved a jewelled hand to silence me. ‘I take him everywhere. He often assists me in conducting my affairs. In fact, he has been dealing with some urgent family business on my behalf today. I’ll have him in, and I want you to tell him what you have been telling me. Ah, here he is!’

I turned to look, and saw what he had meant. This was indeed no ordinary slave.

The man who filled the doorway was an impressive sight. He was half the age that I am, but almost twice as tall – and broad to match, though there was not an
uncia
of fat on any part of him. His skin was the colour of burnished bronze and the muscles and sinews in his legs stood out like knotted rope. He wore a striking ochre-coloured slave-tunic and cloak, and a pair of high-laced sandals dyed to match. It was a uniform designed to emphasise his master’s wealth and rank, but actually the short garments merely served to accentuate his size and draw attention to the colour of his skin.

‘Come!’ his master ordered, and the apparition came into the room, though he was so tall he had to duck his head to get in through the door. He strode across to us, his arms and shoulders rippling as he moved. There was none of the usual clumsiness that accompanies great size: if this was a giant, it was a most athletic one. As he came forward into the light of the candle I got a clear look at his face.

It was like one of the beaten masks the cavalry sometimes wear – handsome, hardened and expressionless, and the same gold-brown as all the rest of him. I could see why his master took him everywhere. This was no mere slave, this was a bodyguard. And his presence answered a question I had not thought to ask myself, why a patrician of such noble rank was travelling without an armed and mounted escort at his side. This man would have seen off any hungry wolf or bear, and the sight of the cudgel stuffed carelessly into his belt as if it were a trifling thing and not a heavy club, would have dissuaded bandits very fast indeed. But today he was acting as messenger as well. In one gigantic hand he held the promised scroll.

Pimply-Face was right – that was an imperial seal-box, by the look of it.