The Governor's Man Page 6

  Quintus tossed the wooden fragment onto the table.

  ’Time is pressing, Lady Julia. As I think you know, this was inside his despatch bag. Can you tell me anything about the writing?’

  She picked up the birchwood note, turning it over carefully. She seemed to arrive at a decision.

  ‘If I tell you what I know, Frumentarius, can I rely on you to protect someone, an innocent party?’

  Impatience rose in him; he shook it off. Full professionalism, nothing less. That was his duty.

  ‘My job is to protect the Emperor’s interests, and ensure justice is done in his name. I have the power to call up witnesses, and the power to protect them.’

  Julia turned the fragment over once more, then handed it back to Quintus.

  ‘The boy is — was — Catus. His father was a farm worker on my family’s estate in the Summer Country. He and his sister lost their mother when he was born, and were eventually sold into slavery by their father, who soon after died of drink. I…’ she sighed, and paused a moment. ‘I got to know Catus and his sister Enica after Catus fell out of an orchard tree scrumping for apples and broke his arm. I was training with Demetrios back then, still living at home with my brother at Bo Gwelt. The injury took some time to heal, and I got to know the sweet little boy well. He was so affectionate to Enica. I felt really sorry when their father sold them to the Iscalis estate. But I kept an eye on them when I could. Later I helped Catus become apprenticed to the mines manager at nearby Vebriacum, carrying out errands and delivering messages. He was very close to his sister, who works in the kitchens at Iscalis villa.’

  ‘Iscalis? Owned by Claudius Bulbo?’

  ‘Yes. The letters VEB here could refer to Bulbo’s lead mines at Vebriacum. And TER? I may know who that is, too.’ She paused again, apparently weighing up something. Then she surprised him by veering away onto a different subject. Her voice seemed to harden.

  ‘Frumentarius, tell me why you still wear that ring with the bronze owl.’

  Quintus looked at Tiro. ‘Tiro, go and ready the horses for departure.’

  Tiro looked disappointed but left the room promptly. The Briton must now realise there was something wrong between the lady and his boss, but Quintus had no intention of revealing what.

  Chapter Eight

  It was cold outside. Tiro stamped his studded boots against the cobbles to shake the feeling back into his feet. Mist rose from the nearby Abona as daylight strengthened into full morning. He tried not to hear the raised voices inside the house.

  The shuttered window above his head opened again. This time there was no Britta to prevent him from looking. A young girl peered through the open window, dark wavy hair escaping from a shawl over her head.

  ‘Who are you?’

  Tiro grinned. ‘I’m Tiro. Who are you?’

  ‘Aurelia. This is my Aunt Julia’s house. I’m just staying here. I really live at Bo Gwelt with Father. And with my horrid stepmother, Claudia. Why do you sound funny?’

  Tiro bowed. ‘My excuse, pretty lady, must be my birth in the great city of Londinium.’

  ‘Oh, Londinium! How I long to go there! Is it true the streets are paved with gold, and the walls stretch forever?’

  ‘The streets are paved, but not with gold, Miss Aurelia.’ Tiro frowned a little. Even he had to admit that Londinium’s streets were often filthy, full of waste and mud after high tides and rain. And the city had shrunk somewhat since the plague of his grandparents’ time, he had heard. ‘But the walls are certainly tall.’

  ‘Why are you here?’

  Tiro puffed out his broad chest a little. ‘I can’t tell you that. Except to say I’m assisting Frumentarius Quintus Valerius from Rome.’

  But the girl had stopped listening. Something else had attracted her attention.

  ‘Hush! Over there! What’s that?’ Before he could look, the shutters were banged close. Tiro shrugged. No accounting for the nobility. Then the front door opened quietly, and a thin young girl slipped out. There was something at once engaging and arresting about her. She was dressed in a fine linen shift, with a thick plaid shawl clipped at her shoulder by a bronze brooch, and shiny leather slippers on her feet. Not quite enough clothing for the briskness of this March morning, but the girl seemed heedless of the cold. She darted across the road, her dark curls tangled and flying, and leaned down to peer over the stone balustrade towards the river path below.

  ‘I thought so!’ She pointed triumphantly. Tiro, joining her, saw something moving feebly in the reeds at the river’s edge. Knowing his duty as a Roman soldier, he heaved himself over the balustrade and searched through the reed bed, emerging with a near-drowned little bundle.

  ‘Is it dead?’ Her face was a picture of dismay.

  ‘No, I think not.’ He stripped off his birrus, and folded it round the pitiful soaked creature. He had never until now appreciated quite how versatile a garment the birrus was. He hoped the mud wouldn’t be as hard to shift as the messenger boy’s blood stains had been. The girl grabbed the bundle out of his arms, cooing over the shivering animal.

  ‘It’s a puppy,’ she said unnecessarily. ‘Not very old. Some cruel slave has thrown him in the river. Poor little darling!’

  Tiro forbore to point out that any slave tasked with ridding the world of an unwanted cur would have little say in the matter. Aurelia carried on crooning, holding the little dog tight against her bony chest. A small tongue slid out and licked her face. She giggled, then her face dropped when she saw Britta appear in the doorway.

  ‘Britta, please say I may keep him! He is so little, and cold, and all licky. He needs a good home. I’ll call him Cerberus, after the guardian dog of Hades.’

  ‘Will you now, Miss Aurelia?’

  Britta sounded stern, but Tiro saw her smile. The scent of lavender had followed her outside. ‘You know we have no room for a dog here. He would have to go back home with you. Maybe Morcant has room in his kennels for another dog. Although,’ her forehead wrinkled as she looked at the tiny creature, all damp fluff and wagging tail, ’I doubt this one will make a hunting dog. Or a guard dog.’ She looked at Tiro reflectively. Once again, he knew his duty. He held his arms out for the bundled puppy.

  ‘Leave him with me, Miss Aurelia. I’ll look after him till we can either deliver him to your home, or find somewhere else for him.’

  He saw Aurelia’s face crumple, and added hastily, ‘And then when you’re old enough to have your own house, he can join you there, can’t he, Mistress Britta?’

  Aurelia nodded and handed the puppy over, partially assuaged. Just in time. A swift booted step sounded behind them. Quintus looked pale and taut-faced. Tiro doubted the interview with Lady Julia had prospered.

  ‘Oh, sir! Are you the Imperial Investigator? All the way from Rome! Tiro’s been telling me about Londinium, but I bet Rome is even more wonderful. I’ve never been anywhere bigger than Corinium.’

  Tiro looked at his boss, expecting a thaw in the face of this artless charm. But Quintus was looking more wooden than ever. And staring at the young girl. Tiro looked again at the girl, then at his boss. He wondered—

  Britta surged across, tucking Aurelia under her encircling arm. ‘My lady, back with you out of the cold. You’ll see Cerberus again soon, I’ll make no doubt.’

  As they went back inside, Britta turned to glance at Tiro. Nearly a smile, he was sure. The door slammed shut. Tiro sighed, admiration spreading across his face.

  ‘Now that is my kind of woman.’

  Quintus was still white-faced, his grey eyes fixed on the closed door. Voices had been raised, regrettably unclear. Tiro shrugged. Not for him to comment. He thought it best not to mention the dog, either. Or his promise to Aurelia. He slipped the sleeping puppy into his saddle bag and followed his stiff-faced master back to the fort. He was looking forward to a quiet afternoon. Maybe a few games of dice with the troopers, and a nap to make up for all the early starts on this trip.

  The next morning they took delivery of
two horses provided by Marcellus, a chestnut with a white flash, and a docile dun, and headed south. They didn’t get far. In less than a mile Tiro heard the shortening thuds of a galloping horse pulling up behind them. A trooper with the badge of the Aquae Sulis cohort on his breast flung himself off his mount, and saluted breathlessly. Tiro felt the drag of dejà vu. What now?

  ‘Greetings from Centurion Crispus, sir, and would you please come back to the fort urgently?’

  Quintus frowned. ‘We are on urgent Imperial business. What does your commander want this time?’

  ‘There’s been a death in the city, sir. Unexpected, like.’ The guard shifted feet, his mouth twisting. ‘It may be murder, sir. The commander was most anxious to catch you before you left the city. He thinks this death may be related to your inquiry.’

  Another murder — related? Tiro gave the frumentarius a quick glance. Quintus was as grim and silent as ever. Tiro scratched his flaxen-haired head and turned his horse to follow the boss’s chestnut.

  Marcellus Crispus was waiting outside the fort, his horse saddled and ready.

  ‘It’s an old woman, sir, name of Velvinna. She was found this morning by her household slaves, lying on her bedchamber floor, unconscious and not breathing. Her heart was barely beating. She died within a few minutes.’

  Quintus cut in. ‘By Mithras, man! Old women die of heart disease all the time. Send for the priests, or the doctor, or even that Aureliana woman, and let me get on with my mission.’

  Marcellus flushed. The young man had such thin pale skin under his freckles, every pulse of blood looked visible. But he stood his ground firmly.

  ’Sir, that isn’t all. Velvinna may have been murdered. She came to me only a few days ago with rumours of a resurgence of Druidism in the area. Without definite information I couldn’t act. Now I fear she has been silenced. You must see the evidence for yourself. I urge you to attend the scene, as the ranking investigative officer present in Aquae Sulis. Sir.’ And he had the nerve to snap off a magnificent salute before mounting his horse. Quintus merely nodded once to the rigid young centurion, and followed his lead back across the bridge.

  Chapter Nine

  ‘Come on,’ Julia said to Aurelia over a light breakfast of wheat pancakes and honey with a scattering of dried dates. ‘It’s time for Britta’s gossip ration. Let’s go to the baths.’

  She forced herself to sound light-hearted. She barely picked at her breakfast. The recent second meeting with Quintus had left her fighting a rising tide of resentment, streaked with currents of longing. How dared he suggest she was at fault? He had abandoned her, left her to cope alone with Aurelia, (whom he never knew about), and ruined her for marriage (would she really ever have considered marrying, once he had taken her heart away with him?). And now she was so distracted she found it difficult to focus on Catus, though she was burning to track down his killer. Julia stared at the untouched beaker of warm milk in front of her, mulling over the poor boy and wondering how she could help uncover his murderer. The mistletoe berries: that was a curious touch, and not the only one. If she wanted to see justice done she would have to accept the official inquiry. But there might still be ways Julia could shed light on the murder, though that would inevitably bring her back into contact with the Imperial Investigator. She willed herself to shunt aside her resentment for now, and pay attention to next steps. Yes, the baths. Who knew what she might uncover in that hotbed of local telltales? It would be worth the slight delay in leaving for Bo Gwelt. And amuse Aurelia, while Julia thought more about her niece’s troubles too.

  Aurelia had been mooning around the house since the early morning visit, wondering aloud every five minutes how Cerberus was doing, and where Tiro and the Investigator were by now. The promise of the outing to the baths galvanised her, and they set off with Britta after breakfast.

  It was a drier day, still chilly. The town bustled with visitors. They passed the theatre on the way to the baths. The noise of music clashing out on cymbals and a battered horn drew their attention, and they paused to see the fun. An actor was declaiming outside the entrance to the theatre, publicising the current production. It was apparently a jolly comedy by Terence. In contrast the actor looked thoroughly miserable, the victim of a streaming cold. In between wiping his nose on his robes and coughing, he was regaling passersby with snippets of comic dialogue and making exaggerated claims for the wit and beauty of the leading actress. A small crowd began to gather, laughing and making fun of the actor’s red eyes and running nose. The poor man tried to rise above the teasing, pitching his hoarse voice higher.

  ‘… with luxuriant red locks falling below her waist, and roving black eyes, she’s the loveliest slave you’ll ever see. And best of all, folks, she turns out to be a free woman of fortune. Our lucky hero has a lot to look forward to.’ As he spoke a willowy young woman slid through the theatre doorway, moving gracefully to his side. Her face was obscured by a translucent veil, but as the actor reached the end of his pitch she whipped off her head-covering to reveal a pale face and a mass of tumbling auburn hair cascading down her back. The crowd gasped, and the actor beckoned them forward.

  ‘Buy your tickets now, ladies and gentlemen. Don’t risk the disappointment of a full house if you want to see the lovely virgin Fulminata on stage tonight!’

  Julia laughed. The poor man needed a hot posset for his cold, not the charms of Fulminata, who Julia doubted was a virgin.

  Aurelia, not a natural lover of literature or drama, was hopping from foot to foot despite the warmth of her cloak. Julia obediently walked on to the baths, where they joined a short queue at the entrance. A man with stubbled jaws in front of them was bewailing the poor state of commerce in the town.

  ‘If you ask me, Docilianus, the town council have got it in for us local merchants. Will they lease me a decent pitch to sell my shoes and leathers? Will they hell! Over there outside the forum is good enough for you, Septimus.’ Docilianus shrugged his big shoulders. He was shielded from the morning chill by a good-quality birrus. Julia remembered how she’d lost a scarf herself in these baths; he’d need to keep an eye on that birrus.

  Inside the changing room Julia paid a slave to guard their clothes. They headed through to the tepid and sweat rooms before relaxing with a scented massage. Julia greeted a range of acquaintances; it was a busy morning at the baths. Aurelia had gamely gone to plunge into the circular frigid pool. She rushed back.

  ‘Aunt Julia, Britta—you’ll never guess what I’ve just seen. Ladies paying to have pigeon dung and wee put on their hair!’

  ’Some people will do anything to get blonde hair, Miss,’ said Britta. She ran her fingers through her own gleaming locks. It was her one vanity.

  A loud slap, a shriek and the smell of burnt hair emanated from an adjoining salon.

  ‘Ooh, look! It’s that fat woman over there. She was having her hair curled. The bath slave over-heated the curling irons, and burnt off some of her hair. So funny! May I swim in the Great Bath, Aunt?’

  Julia, who felt a little sorry for the slave, was preoccupied in looking around the Great Bath. She nodded permission for Aurelia to join a group of shrieking young girls splashing in the big pool.

  Ah, there she was, her old mentor and friend, Velvinna. Julia’s brow cleared. She asked Britta to keep an eye on Aurelia, then excused her way behind a loitering young woman, robed and hooded. Stray locks of a rich red escaped the hood. Julia muttered a hasty apology as the girl swivelled, glanced at her and edged away. She had remarkable black eyes in a very pale face, Julia noticed, now squeezing past an attendant bath slave who was carrying a basket of unguents and massage oils. Julia rotated her own relaxed shoulders, and thought she should come more often to bathe and enjoy a massage.

  Velvinna was waiting for her in one of the alcoves. The two women embraced. Velvinna stepped back, apologising as she coughed.

  ‘Sorry, my dear. Don’t get too close — I seem to have caught this wretched cold that’s passing round. How are you, Juli
a?’ Julia glanced down at her friend’s ankles, showing under her tunic. They looked less swollen than the last time the two had met.

  Velvinna caught her glance, and laughed.

  ‘Yes, yes. Physician, heal thyself, of colds and heart disease. And yes, I am being cautious with the correct dosage of the foxglove, just as you prescribed. I’m sure this cold won’t kill me, Julia, but I am getting older and one day my heart will give out despite your excellent medicine.’

  Julia summoned a slave and ordered honey cakes and watered wine with added ginger for Velvinna’s cold. They settled in for a chat, catching up on news of mutual colleagues and general town gossip. Velvinna was well-liked, a respected wise-woman with connections across the Dobunni and other regional tribes. Their talk paused for a moment. Julia saw that Aurelia was still occupied in racing her friends across the pool, with Britta watching nearby. She took the opportunity.

  ‘Velvinna, I wondered what you might make of this?’ She reached into her bath bag, and pulled out a torn scrap of coarse white cloth. There were a few drops of some dried liquid, red-brown, smudged at one end. She also pulled out a piece of twig.

  Her friend took them carefully. She sucked in her breath, and cast a glance around the alcove, pausing until the young hooded woman moved on. She looked worried.

  ‘This cloth is Druid-woven bleached linen. Blood-stained. And a crushed branch of mistletoe, as I guess you well know. Where did you come by these, Julia?’

  Julia held her friend’s gaze. It wasn’t necessary to explain that she had picked the fabric scrap up from the morgue floor where it had fallen unnoticed as the dead boy’s head had been unwrapped. She was sure neither the Londinium stator nor his superior had fully understood the significance. Julia had, though, and was troubled enough to show Velvinna the worrying scrap.

  ‘I don’t want to upset you with all the distressing details, my dear. What I can tell you is that these were found at the scene of the death of a boy of my own people, someone I knew and cared for. He and his sister were of our Summer Country estate, and I feel some sense of continuing duty to them both. The boy was far from home, alone, and I believe was carrying an important message. He didn’t deserve the cruel attack that ended his life. He does deserve all my efforts as a noble of the Durotriges to avenge him.