It seemed he had killed someone. But had the dead man already found Tiro?
Quintus unhooked the stable lamp and brought it back to light the scene. Two bodies: Tiro, his face a mask of blood; and a stranger, skinny, dirty and dressed like a sewer rat. He heard a groan and a British curse in the unmistakable accents of Londinium. Quintus leaned over the swearing Tiro, checking him for wounds.
‘Bastard got me while I was settling the horses. Must have slugged me over the head with something. Where is he?’ Tiro tried to peer around, blood dripping into his eyes from a wide shallow cut across his brow.
‘Right here, and dead now,’ said Quintus.
‘Blimey, boss, that was quick work.’
‘At any rate you’re alive and not much hurt.’
‘Apart from a bloody great hole in my head.’
‘Just a cut. You’ll live,’ Quintus said, pulling Tiro to his feet. Tiro paused to look at the dead man. ‘Seen you before, somewhere…Gods, my head! Sometime, somewhere—where have I seen you, you bastard?’ It seemed recollection wasn’t coming just yet, so Quintus supported his bleeding stator back into the inn.
The innkeeper was horrified. He armed his barmen with cudgels and sent them outside to retrieve the body and check the area for more brigands.
‘We keep a good company here, sir,’ he assured Quintus, looking worried. ‘We never have trouble, apart from the odd drunken dustup, not mostly anyway. Was anything stolen from your man?’
Quintus shook his head. He was keen to keep the incident as quiet as possible. He did not believe for a second that the attack was a coincidence, and anyway the innkeeper wouldn’t want word to get around that his guests were being attacked.
‘Nothing missing,’ he assured the unhappy man. ‘But I’d like you to come out and take a look at the body. You might recognise him.’
Quintus wasn’t holding out much hope. Potential witnesses were frequently as blind as a forum beggar. But the Calleva mansio-keeper was observant, making it his job to remember his customers. He looked closely at the corpse, clothes now blood-stained over the filth of long wear, narrow face frozen in a death snarl.
‘Yes … I have seen him, sometime recent. Let me think—‘
‘He was here along of two other fellows just last week, Master.’
The stable-boy, none too bright but keen, had loitered to hear the gossip and now broke in. ‘I see’d them all, three of them drinking together. Him and two others.’
‘What did the other two look like?’ asked Quintus.
‘Dunno, sir, it was too dark-like. Just one tall, the other smaller.’
‘Did you hear their conversation?’
‘No, sir, and wouldn’t do no good if I did,’ the boy said simply. ‘They spoke foreign.’
‘Foreign?’
‘Yep. Like that one, all foreign.’ The boy pointed at Tiro, who laughed despite the pain in his face at this description of his Londinium accent. Actually it was Quintus with his clipped Roman speech who was the real foreigner. ‘But I remember ‘em fine,’ the boy went on. ‘The tall man had a fancy roan horse. What a beauty that horse was!’
‘If it helps, I can report the incident to the Aquae Sulis garrison for you,’ Quintus told the innkeeper. ‘We’re awaited by the commander there on another matter and expect to see him within a couple of days.’
The innkeeper expressed his gratitude. He bustled away once his wife had arrived to salve Tiro’s bruise and bind up the cut with a clean cloth. She gave as her opinion that stitches wouldn’t be needed. Quintus accepted the offer of a free meal and a flask of decent wine to be brought up to their chamber. Tiro, who enjoyed bars and company, began to grumble until Quintus said, ‘Best we keep to ourselves. Until we know who attacked you and why, we watch our step.’ Tiro agreed, and shut up. Quintus said no more; he apparently wasn’t ready to share his thinking. Still the close-mouthed toff, thought Tiro. He reckoned one of them needed to do some working out. About this attack, its purpose, who had known they were on the road. He tried to recall all the people he had seen coming and going at Southwark. Dodgy place, Southwark. Merciful Juno, my head hurts!
They turned in as soon as they had eaten. Tiro woke once in the night, disturbed by the frumentarius thrashing around and groaning in a dream. Tiro was glad Quintus had put his gladius out of reach under the bed. By dawn they were away again, heading out through the western gateway of Calleva for the crossroads, where they would turn south-west towards the sacred spa of Aquae Sulis.
Two days later, having spent the night at a more salubrious mansio in the prosperous town of Cunetio, they stopped to eat on the way to the small settlement of Verlucio. Tiro found the meal tasty: a picnic lunch of local ewe’s milk cheese and bannocks, with a handful of hazel nuts. No competition for the greasy hot food he often bought from street takeaway stalls in Londinium. But still, not bad for country grub. The rain had stopped and the day was brightening; the air felt cold nonetheless. Tiro persuaded his silent boss to let him light a small fire, but the firewood to be found by the road-side was damp and smouldered reluctantly.
Tiro thought back before the attack at Calleva.
‘Sir, I was wondering about a couple of blokes in Londinium — ‘
Quintus raised his waterskin to drink, then paused, turning his head sharply.
‘ Can you hear army horses, Tiro?’
Tiro could do better than that; he had sharp vision. He looked west, shading his eyes from the thin shafts of southerly light.
‘A patrol, sir. Perhaps a dozen cavalry?’
Quintus nodded, and Tiro guessed lunch was over. He kicked dirt over the smouldering logs, gathered up their packs, and unhobbled the horses. A party of horseman approached at a canter, kicking up spurts of muddy water. In the lead was a young red-headed centurion, who waved his troop to a stop, dismounted, and saluted Quintus.
‘Frumentarius Quintus Valerius?’
‘You are?’
‘Centurion Marcellus Crispus, commanding the spa garrison at Aquae Sulis, sir. We had word you were on the road. We have a serious crime to report, sir.’
Tiro watched with satisfaction as surprise turned to concern on the face of the Imperial Investigator. It was a fleeting look until the calm face of Roman authority returned.
So, this trip is getting more interesting by the day. The night attack at Calleva and now this.
‘Quite a coincidence, Centurion. We were on our way to report a crime to you. You have saved us the trip to Aquae Sulis.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ the young redhead said. ‘I’ll need to escort you there in any event. A murder victim was found a couple of days ago near here, and is now in the morgue at the Temple clinic.’
‘I’m unsure why this concerns me. Surely something you local troops can handle?’
The young officer flushed.
‘Well, sir, it’s not that straightforward. The body was found on the road between Aquae Sulis and Cunetio. A dead dispatch rider, perhaps attached to one of the Imperial waystations. There’ve been a few muggings on the main roads recently, but this is different. The body was discovered by a local farmer driving stock early to market, maybe the first passer-by that morning. As I say, the body was found, and reported to me.’
The young man seemed to run out of words.
‘Well?’
‘Well, sir …’
’Spit it out, man. I’m on important Imperial business. Surely the death of a courier can be dealt with in the normal way, reported to Londinium with whatever investigation you would do for a mugging that’s gone wrong?’
Tiro recognised the note of impatience in his boss’s voice. He pitied the centurion. But the young officer surprised him, drawing himself up and taking an even breath before replying.
‘Sir, apart from an empty dispatch bag, the body is all that was retrieved. No head was found. The victim had been decapitated.’
Tiro looked round at the riders, and spat sideways for luck. They all seemed uncomfortable. One or two we
re shifting in their saddles, anxious to get away from even the image of such a death. He could hardly blame them.
A beheading? And the head taken away? Tiro was a city boy, through and through, but even he had heard tales of the long-ago when Rome first came to Britannia. Stories of the Druids, those powerful religious leaders who could turn men berserk, making them deal dreadful death to any enemy. Including Roman soldiers.
He looked at Quintus, waiting for the haughty Italian to dress down the young centurion. To Tiro’s surprise, Quintus seemed to take stock carefully.
‘No head, you say? I have served in Britannia previously, Centurion, and I remember during the Caledonian campaign headless bodies sometimes turning up. A mark of the regard the Caledonians had for their enemies, I seem to recall?’
The centurion responded with relief. ‘Right, sir. And the British warriors of these parts also followed that practice once, long ago, believing the head is where the soul resides. To separate a dead enemy’s head from his body as a trophy was a great honour.’
‘Long ago? No recent reports of Druids in action round here?’
‘Oh no, sir. I haven’t heard of that happening for many years. In fact, never in my lifetime. To kill a civilian that way and take his head in peacetime is unprecedented.’
’Maybe a relic of ancient superstition, then. Or perhaps someone disguising the identity of their victim. Impossible to tell which.’ The investigator seemed to ponder. Tiro was intrigued. Their dull mission to chase down missing Imperial silver was turning into something darker and more interesting. How do you like the real Britannia, Imperial Investigator? Not just a muddy backwater, eh?
There was a note of impatience in Quintus’s movements as he remounted. The frumentarius flicked the reins to turn his horse’s head.
‘I am on an urgent mission, but as there may be an aspect of provincial security to this death, I will have to find the time to investigate. If the body was found near here, it might be useful to search the vicinity. Lead on, Centurion Crispus.’
Chapter Six
The trooper left to guard the scene saluted as they drew up. A large puddle of blood was clearly visible, a thick sticky mass coagulated on the road.
‘Rained here overnight?’
‘Yes sir, not heavily.’
‘Right. Centurion, spread your men out to check the verges on either side for anything that shouldn’t be there.’
Crispus raised an eyebrow in inquiry. ‘Sir?’
‘Anything like a head!’
Quintus turned away abruptly, calling Tiro.
‘I want you to go further into the woods on this side, a spear-cast from the road. I’ll search the other side. Take one of the centurion’s men with you. Spread out, move carefully, check the undergrowth. It’s not just the head we want. Find me anything that connects this murder with something else. We need to get this investigation out of the way quickly.’
The woods away from the road’s verge were utterly silent as Tiro cast to and fro. He kept the trooper behind him, not trusting the rural clod to avoid trampling evidence. In his capacity as optio of a century of the Governor’s Guard in Londinium Tiro had had occasion to conduct investigations from time to time. He’d led military details to help the City Vigiles find missing people, tracked down contraband, and generally ridden the streets of criminals and thugs. The city, with its day and night din, was his natural environment. But as well as good eyesight, he had a sharp eye for detail, allied with a strong sense of things that didn’t belong. A sense that had saved his life and limbs many times on the mean streets of Londinium.
Nothing.
Tiro extended his search, moving carefully on into the darkening woods. There was a single sound: the call of a solitary bird, making a “dit, dot” sound. If Tiro had been a country boy, he would have recognised the song of the chiffchaff. What he did recognise — immediately — was the smell of rot. The stink of old filth, a sign of blocked cesspits and dead dogs. He was used to narrow alleys smelling of piss, rubbish, and violence, of dark corners where the sewage system had backed up. He was used to every kind of foulness, and he could smell that rot right here.
After that it wasn’t that hard to spot the head. It wasn’t even hidden, just lying among bushes as if someone had tossed it away. Tiro had a strong stomach, coming from years of living in flea-ridden dosshouses before he signed up with the army. And some latrine-cleaning since. He crouched down to pick up the sightless head, cradling it carefully. A young face, pale and fair-haired, with an expression of trepidation lingering on it. Poor sod, you never knew what hit you. Very young, perhaps only fourteen. Too young even for the army postal service. Maybe a private courier?
The clots of the great gaping wound had long since solidified, but he could see that it was a clean cut. The neck vertebrae had been sliced superbly. A single stroke, with a sharp sword blade. Could hardly be any other kind of weapon. He pictured a long leaf-shaped iron sword, like those once carried into battle by the old warriors. The sort used by Boudica’s boys to wreak revenge nearly two centuries ago.
He sighed, holding the boy’s head in his arms.
‘Sir – found anything?’ It was the rural clod.
‘Yes.’ He stood slowly, reluctant to reveal the dead boy to public repulsion. He shrugged off his birrus and wrapped the head in it, shivering as the chill afternoon breeze filtered through his tunic. Something white and fluttering caught his gaze. A strip of coarse white cloth, tethered on a long black spike of hawthorn. With a telling blood-brown smudge at one end, where the fabric was torn.
The troop clattered over the Abona bridge towards Sulis Minerva’s temple in Aquae Sulis. It was dusk, getting cold now, and the flambeaux lighting the way for wealthy tourists and pilgrims were wavering and flaring in the breeze. At the entrance to the sacred precinct Marcellus Crispus dismounted and dismissed his troop to their headquarters, taking with them Quintus and Tiro’s tired horses. Tiro’s horse had thrown a hipposandal and gone lame.
The centurion led them into the hospital adjoining the temple. The courtyard building surrounded a herb garden, and included a small room that served as a morgue. Tiro was still carrying the bloody head, his arms quivering with the effort. Quintus made no effort to help him.
They were greeted at the morgue door by the army doctor. He wasted no time in introductions, merely holding out his arms to take the head before leading them inside.
‘Lady Julia!’ he called.
A tall slim woman emerged from a side cubicle. She was wearing a white stola over a homespun tunic. Her fair hair was tied up in a cloth on her head. Quintus guessed her to be a cleaner or some sort of orderly. Then he looked again, wondering.
‘Ah,’ said the doctor, ‘I’m glad you’re still here, my lady. I’m sorry to delay your leaving, but could you help me with this?’
The woman moved forward quickly, and without hesitation and to the amazement of the three soldiers, unwrapped the bloody head.
‘Anicius, you’ve found him.’
‘No credit to me. It was our friend Marcellus here, and his, er … colleagues.’
Crispus saluted, saying quickly, ‘Surgeon Piso, may I introduce Frumentarius Quintus Valerius, and his assistant, Tiro?’
And to Quintus, ‘Sir, the Lady Julia Aureliana. She dispenses medicines, and assists Anicius Piso here at the clinic of the Goddess.’
The woman turned sharply to look at the two strangers. Her movement felt disturbingly familiar to Quintus. She gazed at them in silence. A moment more, and her attention was back on the head. Looking at her fair oval face, he felt an unwelcome tug of old memory. Surely not, though —it couldn’t be her, this far south?
The doctor pulled back a cloth covering a body on a nearby pallet, and gently placed the head where it had been joined in life. Young, headless: it didn’t take a genius to realise this was the reassembly of the murdered messenger boy.
‘Your thoughts, my lady?’
Quintus jumped a little. He hadn’t mishe
ard the first time; judging by the doctor’s respectful address, the woman must be some local priestess or noble. Why here, in the hospital? Then he realised. Of course, this was Aquae Sulis, the renowned healing spring and temple of Sulis Minerva. The woman must be part of the Goddess’s cult here.
Without hesitation she picked up the gory head, looking carefully at the severed neck. She even sniffed it; again Quintus was taken aback. She ran her fingers over the neck stump.
‘One stroke, a clean cut of great force by an expert. I should say no more than two days ago.’ The doctor nodded gravely.
Quintus twisted the bronze ring on his fourth finger in an attempt to still his suddenly shaking hands. Memories poured back, but he did not want to believe it. Could it be true?
His gaze shifted to the doctor. The little man seemed to fit here: the type of mediocre medical officer to end up in a clinic at the end of the world. Nothing out of the ordinary, apart from his respectful manner with this native woman. What had he called her? “Lady Julia”?
Quintus watched as the woman peered closely at the dead boy’s face. She opened his mouth and, searching with her slim fingers, took out a small crushed sprig. It was mangled and bloody but two whiteish berries were still attached to the stem. She sighed, and closed her eyes fleetingly. Her movements had slightly disturbed the line of her white stola; it slid down a little, revealing the neckline of the brown tunic underneath. On top of the tunic lay an unusual necklace, a ring of yellow-gold owls. Minerva’s owlets, linked together to form a circle of gold around her beautiful arched neck.
Quintus stared at her. He felt sick, a rising nausea that had nothing to do with the dead boy and the stuffy little morgue, and everything to do with long-suppressed memories of horror, pain and long slow recovery. It was her, the girl from the north. Damn her! He thought he had completely crushed the shock of his losses: first his brother, then the girl. This girl, now a beautiful disdainful woman, who had reappeared in utterly the wrong place and time. He forced himself to speak.
The Governor's Man Page 4
