‘The road west beyond Calleva, and on to the Summer Country,’ was all Quintus said when Tiro asked. Summer Country? That was a good joke, Tiro thought, scratching the itchy wool of his sodden cloak and twitching it up to cover his civilian clothes. Maybe the Investigator just wasn’t very good at his job. That’s probably why he’d been posted from Rome—exile for upsetting someone, no doubt.
By Jupiter Best and Greatest, couldn’t they just get the job done quickly? The sooner they arrived at this wretched place in the west, the sooner Tiro could be back home in the comfort of his fort, drinking with his mates in the Londinium wineshops. All the same, there was something forbidding about the wiry officer that made Tiro hesitant about open challenge. Quintus said little, and despite the modest pace he was setting, everything he did was spare and direct. The Briton settled back into his soggy birrus, and resigned himself to a slow muddy journey.
Tiro was already regretting this assignment instead of the quicker, more painful punishment for being drunk on duty.
Chapter Four
Julia Aureliana glanced around the whitewashed ward of the Aquae Sulis hospital, smoothing down the plain stola she wore for clinic work. She smiled at a plump nervous woman standing deferentially by her father’s bedside. Julia picked up the hand of the old pilgrim drowsing in his narrow cot.
Good. The erratic pulse had started to slow and deepen since he’d taken Julia’s mixture, a few powdered foxglove leaves stirred into rainwater with a little cinnamon to smooth out the bitter taste. Julia checked that the old man’s feet were raised on a pillow, and smiled again at his worried daughter.
‘Your father will be fine. He just needs another day or so of rest here before you take him to the Goddess’s sacred spring. I’ll give you some more medicine for him. And don’t let him walk too far, or bathe in the very hottest waters. He should take it easier at his age.’
The woman looked relieved, murmuring her thanks. An orderly lingering nearby said quietly, ‘Lady Julia, the medicus wishes to speak to you. In the third cubicle.’
‘Ah, Lady Julia. I would value your opinion.’
The garrison surgeon, Anicius Piso, straightened from examining a young man as Julia entered the side-room.
Piso ran this little clinic and hospital for soldiers, pilgrims and holidaymakers who needed medical attention while visiting the busy spa town. He was nominally attached to the small Aquae Sulis garrison across the river, which policed the famous Temple of Sulis Minerva. In the years since a younger, less-assured Julia had come to his clinic begging to work in exchange for his surgical teaching, he had quickly moved to a wry acceptance of her skill. He discovered that the tall, reserved girl had been taught medicine by a respected Greek physician, a freedman who was tutor to the girl’s distinguished family in the Summer Country. Julia later let drop that she had also trained in Eboracum.
Then there was the tuition she did not admit to. She had been apprenticed to wise-women herbalists, inheritors of the Druid tradition. He didn’t ask, and she didn’t tell. He knew her to be a devout worshipper of the powerful goddess, Sulis Minerva, knowing more about medicine and herbal healing than he did. That was all that mattered to Piso, a pragmatist. He was grateful to have Julia’s expertise in his hospital.
Julia looked carefully at the injury. The young man’s right leg had been crushed. A race between town youths, involving three horses and a heavily-laden wagon all entering the north city gate together as the young men thrashed their horses into the spa resort. Inevitably there had been a dreadful smash. Two days ago Julia had held the sedated patient steady while Anicius operated to remove splinters of bone and set the fracture. The leg now lay straight and correct. Anicius had cleansed the area on the shin where bone had broken the skin, and the wound was neatly sutured. But the injury had got inflamed and puffy. She leaned over, sniffing for infection. The patient was slipping in and out of consciousness, moving restlessly. His face was slick with sweat and his skin felt hot to the touch. She was not hopeful they could avoid amputating the shattered leg. Lady Minerva, give me your wisdom, I beg. How can I best help this young man? She touched her gold necklet, adjusting it in place round her neck, considering.
‘I think …’ she paused, turning over in her mind various options. ‘First, I would suggest more poppy to keep him sedated and less likely to move and undo your fine surgery.’
The bustling little doctor turned red with pleasure.
‘Would you agree his constitution and age make it possible to keep the poppy treatment going for some time yet?’ At his nod, she continued. ‘I’d like to wash the wound again with tincture of hellenium. Fresh bandages, and the splint back in place, of course. Then when he wakes, perhaps the orderly could give him a drink I will mix up for him: rosemary for the swelling, and horsetail to fight the infection? Yes, it’s vital to get that swelling down and allow his blood to circulate, to cleanse and heal the break.’
‘Rosemary,’ she muttered to herself, moving away to the little pharmacy where she prepared and stored her medicines. She had forgotten Anicius already. He smiled, signalling to the orderly to have fresh bandages ready as soon as Julia had cleansed the wound. There was no need to linger; Julia would summon help if she needed it.
‘Mistress? Mistress! Lady Julia!’
Julia looked out of her dispensing room, frowning. There was no mistaking that rising tone. It seemed that Britta was here, and determined to attract her attention. Please the Goddess, she would show the deference expected in public by a servant addressing a noble lady. She so rarely did so at home, after all. Julia put down her pestle and went quickly to meet her housekeeper by the ward entrance, where Britta was blocking the attempts of a ward orderly to carry urine jars out to the latrine.
Julia sighed, her mind still more than half on her patient. Britta had that look on her face, the look that combined impatience at her mistress’s choice of occupation with the certainty of her own priorities. Britta came from a family of free tenant farmers who had lived on the Aurelianus estate for time out of mind. Her brother Morcant worked Home Farm, and managed the large Bo Gwelt estate for Julia’s brother, Magistrate Marcus Aurelianus. Britta herself had come a long way from the shy little russet-haired playmate and maid-servant Julia’s parents employed when they were both young girls. These days Julia’s plain-speaking friend was more of an unofficial confidante than ordinary housekeeper.
And not to be denied when she had that stubborn look on her face.
‘Mistress, I beg a word in private.’
The words were conciliatory; the tone was not.
‘Sorry, Britta. I’m all ears.’
‘Well, Mistress, someone’s come you’ve been wanting to see for a long time.’ Britta paused, full of importance.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Miss Aurelia.’ A hesitation. ‘Arrived at the house just now, on her own horse.’
Julia’s mind switched fully to what Britta was saying. She wasn’t expecting a visit from her niece. Aurelia was only thirteen, and never travelled this far from home alone on the public roads. Not without her father writing to Julia first to let her know she was coming, and sending a family escort. Aurelia was a more than competent rider — of course she was, being of the Durotriges of the Summer Country. But she was also a noble from the leading family in the area, gently born and bred. She should be travelling in a litter or wagon, with attendants, and luggage…
‘Luggage?’
‘Just saddle bags. But Rufus is with her. I’m sure he could return to Bo Gwelt to fetch more of her baggage, my lady. It must be an impulse visit, she’s so fond of you…’
Julia snorted. It was strange that Aurelia, whom she loved more than the girl probably suspected or needed to know, would ride so far with only a groom. Even stranger that Marcus, or Aurelia’s stepmother, the correct and thinly-elegant Claudia, would allow such a thing.
Julia administered her patient’s medicine, and told Piso apologetically that she had to leave for the day. After
pouring a libation to the Goddess at one of the altars in the Sacred Spring complex, she left with Britta. The two women walked the short distance east along the river bank to Julia’s home.
They arrived to find the pretty stone townhouse in uproar. Julia’s distracted servants were gathered round in the atrium, all vying for the attention of a slip of a girl, a flash of dark wavy hair and quicksilver movement.
‘Senovara, how wonderful! I’m starving!’ The smiling cook was offering Aurelia a platter of fresh honey cakes, while Julia’s personal maid was shaking out Aurelia’s fine lilac mantle. Julia’s head groom was disputing with Rufus about whose job it was to hand down the young mistress’s saddle bags.
Aurelia caught sight of Julia and Britta, and flung herself at her aunt.
‘Dearest Aunt Julia!’
Julia caught Aurelia’s hands, and held them a moment, while Britta signalled to the dishevelled household her disapproval of the scene. The atrium fell silent as it emptied.
‘What a pleasure this is, Aurelia,’ said Julia evenly. ‘By all means come into the salon, and tell me why your delightful company so unexpectedly comes our way.’ Britta accompanied them, and swung the wooden door shut behind them. The two Aureliana women sat down on a long sofa. Julia looked quietly at her niece.
Aurelia bridled a little.
‘Oh, well, if you’re going to be cross, Aunt…’
‘I am not cross, my dear. Just surprised, and rather puzzled. Why didn’t I know you were coming? Did your father’s message go astray?’
Aurelia flicked the dark hair away from her face, and cupped her pointed little chin in both palms, turning her head to survey the room. Her eyes darted around as if admiring the familiar wallpaintings of songbirds framed by red and gold panels for the first time.
Julia tried again. ‘Aurelia? Of course, you are always welcome in my house, but…’ Julia paused to let the young girl speak. After a moment or two, Aurelia jumped up, avoiding her aunt’s gaze.
‘It’s just - just been such ages since I saw you. And you know how much I love to visit Aquae Sulis, and …’
This was news to Julia, who understood Aurelia to prefer the soft green hills and marshes of her own lands, and to be much too keen a horsewoman to ever wish for town walls and pavements. She remained silent. Aurelia looked at her, and flushed.
‘Well, I did really wish to see you, and Britta, too.’ This was said with feeling, and Julia realised the girl was on the brink of tears.
‘Nevertheless, dear child, for you to arrive without forewarning and on horseback is unusual.’
Aurelia held her chin up a fraction, and the brimming tears fought with stubborn pride. Julia knew that look, having seen it in her bronze mirror many times during her own girlhood.
‘My dear, I wish you will tell me what is the matter.’ She glanced at Britta, standing calmly in front of the door. ‘Do you want Britta to leave?’
‘Oh, no!’ Aurelia flung herself up and into Britta’s comfortable embrace. ‘Dearest Britta is my best friend, after you, Aunt. And darling Father. ’ She paused to blow her nose on a scrap of linen twisted out of her robe. ‘I had to come. I had to get away from that woman! And even …from Father.’
Ah, yes. Julia understood. Now that Aurelia was moving towards womanhood, her headstrong personality was bound to clash with the cold, perfectly-mannered Claudia.
‘Aurelia, it will make your father very unhappy if you quarrel with your stepmother. She only means what is best for you, I am sure.’
The girl stared at Julia, hot tears falling down her face.
‘Means the best for me? By marrying me off to that scheming nephew of hers, that bullying wretch, that cruel monster —that Lucius!’
Julia was astonished and couldn’t find words for a long moment. Britta’s eyebrows shot up, and she took herself out of the room, closing the door gently behind her.
Aurelia fell into Julia’s arms, weeping openly. ‘Please, Julia, let me stay with you. Don’t make me go back home.’
The girl sobbed while Julia held her close, grim-faced. Marriage at thirteen was not unheard of among the British upper classes. But Julia knew it wasn’t right for Aurelia. And to Lucius Claudius, of all young men? He would break Aurelia’s heart and crush her spirit.
Once she had calmed the girl and got her settled in the guest room, Julia called Britta back. Britta fully understood the special relationship she had with her niece, and knew the hopes Julia had for Aurelia’s future. These did not include a premature marriage to a young man like Lucius.
Julia had several times met Lucius and his father, the fat businessman Claudius Bulbo. Most often since Bulbo’s sister Claudia, a sophisticated widow from Gaul who moved like a cat and looked like a goddess, had married Marcus. Julia reflected on how quickly the lonely Marcus had been enticed away from his books and into a second marriage. Then she thought again of her soft-spoken cultured brother, left bereft with his baby daughter when her gentle sister-in-law had died a decade ago. It was understandable that he should want company, a hostess to welcome the guests and supporters a Magistrate inevitably attracts. And a mother to help bring up his little girl as the heiress to a large, prosperous estate.
‘Aurelia can’t stay here more than a night or two, I’m afraid. It looks like things are not right at Bo Gwelt. No point in writing to Marcus. I’ll have to go myself, and it’s only proper that I take Aurelia with me. I’ll send Rufus straight back to Bo Gwelt with a quick note, put their minds at rest till we can get there. I need to talk to Anicius Piso and leave some directions for the orderlies at the clinic first.’ Her brow wrinkled. ‘I hate to bother Marcus when he’s not well, but it can’t be helped now. Actually I’d like to see how he’s doing. I’ll try to persuade him to let Aurelia come back to visit us for a few weeks. With his official approval this time, and enough luggage to clothe the girl.’
Britta nodded in agreement.
Chapter Five
The rain was easing on their third day of travel as Quintus and Tiro entered Calleva Atrebatum, passing a cluster of round temples near the east gate. Weak gleams of sunlight shone fitfully onto puddles. Tiro squinted round. A reasonable enough town, but nothing like Londinium. Tiro’s forebears came from Kent, but his family long ago cast in their lot with the bustling new city on Tamesis. Within a generation they had forgotten they had ever lived anywhere else. Londinium was surely the greatest city in the Roman world, and Tiro couldn’t wait to get back.
Home for tonight was a large white-washed mansio, with a range of stables off to one side. The building was substantial and clearly busy. Water dripped slowly off the thatched eaves. No bathhouse, seemingly. You can bloody stick the countryside. He was disgusted.
‘Stop day-dreaming, Tiro. Take these horses round to the stables. I’ll see to our rooms.’ Quintus swung down off his horse and pushed his way past a party of civil servants arguing with a serving man over their accommodation. Tiro was tired and bad-tempered. He didn’t need reminding by anyone how to look after horses. He led the mounts into the muddy stableyard, his mind working on ways to make it clear to his new boss who was in charge of this trip. Who does he think he is? This is still my parish, even this far from Londinium. I’ll show him.
Quintus found the innkeeper dashing around with a tray of wine and beakers, shouting at his staff. It was dinner-time, and it took some effort to secure them a single small chamber. Quintus expected they would sleep little that night; the mansio was full of guests.
‘Take this cloak and dry it,’ he said sharply to the serving girl who brought wine up to their room. ‘And bring a brazier to warm this freezing box.’ She looked astonished, and said she didn’t know as how her master would feel about that, not being in the way of warming the bedchambers beyond the winter months.
‘It is still bloody winter. Just get a brazier.’ She blinked and hurried away. Quintus saw with resignation that the second bed was a mere truckle rolled under the main bed.
He thought back to his
briefing in Londinium. Claudius Bulbo apparently lived in a pretentious house in Iscalis, a small town at the foot of a striking gorge where the river Axe broadened out enough for a small river port. From there lead ingots from Vebriacum were transported to the coast for onward shipment around the Empire. Key to uncovering any fraud would be finding out whether and how silver was expropriated and then sold on. Getting proof might be tricky. A lot of money was at stake, and Quintus well from his years of investigative police work that money is frequently the cause of trouble.
Quintus stretched his arms out above his head, feeling his spine stiff from the wet journey. He lay down on the bed, muddy boots and all, and closed his eyes for a moment. He and Tiro would need to step carefully…
His nose wrinkled at the thought of Tiro. Where in Hades was that provincial layabout? He should have been back from stabling the horses by now. Then he noticed that the noise below had subsided and complete dark had fallen outside. How long had he been lying here dozing?
Strapping on his dagger, Quintus hurried downstairs and outside. The path to the stables was muddy and rutted, but Quintus was light on his feet. His knife was ready in his right hand. A lamp shone above the stable doors. Shifting clouds revealed glimpses of the waxing moon. He listened for a moment outside the stable door. All was silent. He entered cautiously. It was dark inside. His horses had been turned out into loose boxes and whickered gently at his approach, but there was no-one else there. Then he heard a soft dragging sound, outside. He went quickly out of the stable to investigate, but once away from the lamplight he tripped and almost fell. He reached down to feel a heavy birrus like the one Tiro had. The dragging sound stilled. It was sheer good fortune that Quintus looked up just as the moon was briefly unveiled, casting a fleeting gleam onto the edge of an uplifted dagger barely a pace away. Quintus leapt aside, thrusting his own knife hard. He had no idea which way his assailant was facing, but he did recognise the satisfying sensation of his knife sliding deep between ribs. There was a grunt, a thud, as something jarred against his leg and landed heavily on his foot. It was a body. He crouched down to find a widening pool of hot sticky blood, and the gurgle of a final breath.
The Governor's Man Page 3
