Deva Tales

by S. J. A. Turney

  ‘You’ve just arrived?’ Severus smiled.

  ‘This morning. We’d thought we might catch up with you on the road before you got here. I dropped in on the legate when we arrived. Good sort, I guess, though he seems too loyal to this place to realise they’re all still barbarians and we’re a whole different civilised world down south. He’s admitted Lupus to tomorrow’s games to be held in your honour. Apparently they have some local hero called Leonidas and his own lanista was a bit apprehensive when he was told. Can’t blame him. Lupus will eat him alive. Literally!’

  The two chuckled and began to catch up on news while the entourage remained in the street and the bad-tempered Germans glowered at the two thugs in the tavern. Facilis stood idle for the rest of the afternoon as the two old friends shared a few drinks amid regular complaints about the quality of the wine, and then returned to the mansio where they would clean up and change before the legate’s banquet. The legionary was pondering with irritation the lack of progress in his investigation into Severus’ dealings but, as he was summarily dismissed for the day and the procurator’s party entered the mansio, the door closing with a very final click, a smile broke across his face.

  The banquet. The entire group would be attending the legate’s banquet tonight, and would not need him. And their rooms would be empty!

  He was still smiling as he hurried back to his barracks to change.

  * * *

  Facilis sat on a barrel in the shade of the iron-worker’s on Fish Head Lane and watched, squinting in the darkness as the scant moonlight greyed the whitewashed walls of the mansio. Returning from his room half an hour later, he now wore a civilian tunic in the local grey wool, a draw-string bag over his shoulder containing his dagger and the warrant from the legate. He would have blended in easily in any crowd had it not been for his unusual height.

  His earlier visits to the official imperial hostel had confirmed that the procurator and his party occupied the entire west wing – the one at which he now looked – and most of the south, which overlooked the river down the steep slope. There were three other visitors to the mansio, but they all resided in the east wing. The rooms, he knew, all faced in on the internal courtyard, their exterior windows too small to effect entry, and too well-shuttered. That meant that clearly his only means of ingress to the procurator’s rooms was the courtyard and the door that led off it, narrowing his entry points to just two. The main door onto the street at the north would be through the bar and common room, past the mansio operator’s desk and through a veritable crowd of servants, especially at this time, when people would be there enjoying an evening meal and a few cups of wine. These places hosted high officials and were often very secure and, Deva’s mansio being no different, the chances of slipping through the front were practically non-existent.

  So the only option was luck. The rear entrance was secured with a solid lock, and was only used to grant the residents access to the private bath house that lay halfway down the slope towards the river, via a series of stepped paths.

  From his position here in the shade of the iron-worker’s, he could just see the rear door, and could almost see the front – at least, he could see the street outside, lit by both moonlight and the lamps burning on the walls of the buildings, illuminating their signs.

  He kept his breath controlled as he waited and half an hour later the procurator and his party stepped out into the street. Facilis craned his neck to see, counting off of the censors, and all but one of the German guards in the group, along with the full entourage. There could still be odd servants or slaves in the quarters, but he doubted it. They would probably not be trusted there in their master’s absence and would in any case probably be required at the banquet this evening.

  One German, then.

  He waited, shifting the focus of his vigil to the mansio’s rear door. Now it was a gamble.

  An hour passed slowly, the silvery orb of the moon slowly slipping up into the vault of the heavens, changing the shadows constantly and causing Facilis to rub his eyes, lest he begin to flag with both boredom and tiredness.

  By the time the second watch of the night rang out across the fortress, he was regretting not having purchased one of the greasy unnamed-meat-on-a-stick treats from the late evening stalls on the roadside, which catered to the drunks and the whore-seekers. Indeed he was shifting his weight on the barrel, preparatory to taking a trip to the food hawker he could hear nearby when he suddenly recoiled into the shade of the smithy roof’s overhang as the rear door of the mansio opened with a click.

  He watched with narrowed eyes as a portly man in a voluminous toga locked the door once more and padded carefully – with the slight wobble of the partially inebriated – down the steps towards the bath house. Trying not to grin triumphantly, Facilis waited until the man was approaching the lower building’s door, and then slipped from his barrel and hurried across to the mansio, where he secreted away his bag. One day he would have to buy a pair of soft leather shoes like those the old man wore. Hob nails were not made for sneaking about in.

  Below, the togate man had unlocked the door and slipped into the baths. Even as Facilis watched, the attendant bath slave emerged and scurried round to the east side to stoke the fire. Trusting to years of training on hillsides, Facilis took a breath and, ignoring the stepped path, plunged down the grassy slope next to it where his hobnails would not raise a loud, tell-tale noise, the moonlight turning the turf a strange grey-green.

  The old man had helpfully left the door open, and the legionary reached the baths breathing hard and trying to arrest his downward momentum. He listened carefully and caught the sounds of the slave slamming logs into the furnace around the other side. With a deep breath, and hoping he had been long enough, Facilis dipped in through the door.

  The room was dimly lit by a single oil lamp and the painted walls with their scenes of fish and other marine life flickered and glimmered in the dancing flame. A thousand aquatic eyes watched him, seemingly alive, from the décor. The floor was faintly warm, and three pairs of wooden slippers awaited guests. But the legionary’s eyes were searching for something else, and he soon spotted the toga lying in one of the changing room’s niches, a tunic of yellow atop it and soft leather shoes below. Carefully clicking over to them, he lifted the toga and threw it around himself, not taking the time to work its delicate folds – close enough would do in the dark. Ignoring the tunic, he fished around in the niche and with relief located the key ring in one of the shoes.

  Approaching footsteps warned him of the slave’s return, and he ducked behind the door as the little man entered. The attendant moved to a separate niche containing folded towels and then disappeared through the inner door and into the baths proper.

  With a nod of thanks to Fortuna whose festival had just passed, Facilis backed out of the door, locked the two men in as quietly as he could, and then hurried back up the stepped path, clutching the toga. Near the back door of the mansio, he retrieved his drawstring bag from behind the water butt. Secreting the dagger and scroll beneath the folds of the toga with his left hand, he lifted the key ring and tried several of the keys in the lock of the mansio’s door. Finally, with a click, he found the right one and swung the door open.

  It led into a short passage that emerged into the interior courtyard half way along the south wing, and he shut the door quietly and clicked along the flagged corridor with the echo of nails on stone.

  A quick glance and he confirmed he’d been right. Only one German guard, who stood, arms folded, outside one of the doors beneath the veranda, looking extremely bored. How the man had not heard the boots clicking along the ground was beyond Facilis, but the man was staring out across the courtyard without a care in the world. The legionary cursed his lack of preparation. He’d meant to bring a rock in with him for a missile. Ah well… time for a bit of improvisation.

  With a swallow of nerves, he stepped out of the corridor and strode confidently towards the mercenary. The German turned with a lo
ok of surprise to see this tall Roman approaching. Something sparked in the man’s brain as a rare original thought passed through and Facilis closed the distance between them in gratitude to the gods for presenting him with an especially slow specimen. Watching the suspicion form on the German’s silvered, moonlit face was like watching the tide come in.

  By the time the mercenary had reasoned that the man who had left the mansio moments earlier had been at least two feet shorter, more than a foot wider, and a great deal paler and older, Facilis was on him. The German opened his mouth to shout out as Facilis’ hand came out of his toga, holding the heavy pugio dagger reversed. The pommel hit the mercenary in the chin with a crack of bone and teeth, sending him staggering to the side. Before he could recover, Facilis reversed the blade again with a deft flick and brought the hilt down on the man’s skull.

  As the German crumpled, Facilis dithered for a moment in the empty courtyard. Logic dictated that he now had to kill the man. The German had seen him and, having spent two days in Facilis’ company, it would not take a great deal for the man to identify him. And yet murder was really in neither Facilis’ remit nor his character. With a deep breath, the legionary decided to trust to luck. If it all went balls-up, hopefully the legate’s seal would protect him from trouble. It probably would, though would it protect him from the legate when the man found out?

  Quietly, the legionary stepped past the unconscious mercenary and tried the door behind him.

  Locked, of course.

  A quick check over the slumped body produced no key and, with a sigh of regret, Facilis leaned close to the door and slid the tip of his pugio into the gap next to the lock. Throwing his weight behind the hilt, it did not take much to burst open the door with a loud crack, though it did leave a slight bend to the dagger’s tip that would take some work to straighten.

  Time was now of the essence. Two men were locked in the baths and when they got out there would be repercussions, an unconscious guard who could wake at any time lay outside the door, and now a loud break-in might have attracted further attention, despite the lyre music wafting from the mansio’s common room. Quickly, Facilis hurried inside. Allowing only a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dark, he found the oil lamp and striker in the niche by the door and quickly worked to get the flame going. As the golden glow gradually strengthened, illuminating the room, he grinned his success. The chamber was apparently used as some sort of office or store room by the tax officials, and their habitual neatness of organisation meant that things were well ordered. Hurrying across to one of the cupboards, bringing the lamp with him, he nodded to himself. The seals he could see were all those of the procurator. This was the main haul, then. For a moment, he considered trying to take everything, but the logistical impossibility of that soon sank in, and he began to rifle through the records, scrolls and folders. They were all helpfully labelled in neat script.

  LEAD

  COPPER

  IRON

  GOLD

  SALT

  TIMBER

  And so on… sheaf after sheaf of them. Endless records and lists. Enough to blind a man. What was he truly looking for? What would damn the procurator… if anything?

  His eyes slid from the records to a small, locked chest, measuring perhaps a foot in each dimension, at the end of the table. Of course: anything of value would be locked away. The chest was heavy and well secured, yet it took but a moment for Facilis to note the design flaw. You can put as many locks as you like on a chest, but if you’re not going to pay attention to the hinges, then you might as well make it from butter.

  Working as quickly as he could, he placed the pointed tip of his dagger against the pin of the left hinge and, bracing the chest with his knee, gave it a heavy tap. Nothing. Again, and still nothing. A third tap sent the pin along by half a finger-width. Grabbing the flanged end, he nearly tore his finger and thumb, but soon had the pin pulled free and the hinge flapping about. Another few tense moments and he repeated the process on the other hinge.

  With a grin, he slowly slid the lid from the box.

  Letters. Numerous letters, each with Severus’ seal on them. Aware of every passing moment, he lifted one and scanned it. Some report or other to the commander of the Gallic fleet. Dropping it back, he selected another. A request for special powers over the port officials of Britannia – granted. No use. Another.

  His brow furrowed again. Mostly unintelligible, but with a clear name that he recognised at the top: Titus Flavius Norbanus… the infamous common-born procurator of Raetia who had helped end a revolt against Domitian and had gained the emperor’s personal favour in doing so. A man to watch, they said.

  The rest was complete nonsense. It was not unknown for highly classified military messages to be transferred in code, though Facilis had never seen it done. Civilians using code, though? His eyes scanned the document. The words might be code, but the names were not. The fools. This was why civilians should not mess around with such matters. A code was no good unless it hid all pertinent details!

  Because in addition to Norbanus’ name and Severus’ own at the bottom, the other name encased in the text partway down was another wholly familiar one:

  Tribune Flavius Longus!

  The legion’s second in command.

  His attention was drawn by a distant commotion. Whether from the mansio or from the baths, it boded ill either way. With a sigh, he dropped the letter back inside and replaced the lid, tapping the hinges back into position.

  Stepping back, he nodded and extinguished the oil lamp with a huff. Nothing was out of place. Still gripping the dagger, he took a step towards the door, and hissed as it sprang open with a crash to reveal an angry German, rubbing his head.

  Facilis gave the mercenary no time for his eyes to adjust, breaking into a run from the blackness. His lowered head took the man in the midriff, hurling him back against the doorframe and winding him. His dagger came up, ready to plunge into the German, but the man was quick to recover and his own meaty fist closed on Facilis’ wrist.

  ‘You,’ the mercenary grunted in a thick, foreign accent. ‘Thin man. You spy!’

  Time was short. The German had not been the source of the commotion, and that meant others were coming. Desperately, Facilis tried to drive in the dagger, but the German’s vice-like grip was actually forcing it away rather than closer, while his other hand was fumbling to draw his big native broad sword. Facilis was losing the struggle, and he knew it. His eyes darted round for aid and an idea flitted into his mind.

  Taking a deep breath, he suddenly dropped his knife and lurched to the side.

  The German, taken by surprise, fell forward, his momentum pushing against an opposed force that was no longer there… and he hit the door, swung hard by the legionary’s free hand as he moved. Facilis pushed the door back open as the mercenary reeled in shock, and then swung it in again, the heavy oak planks slamming into the man’s forehead with considerable force. Still, the German staggered and reeled back against the door frame. Taking a deep breath, Facilis swung the door again and this time the timber hit him in the forehead and knocked him against the door frame, which drove into the back of the man’s skull with a loud crack. The mercenary’s eyes rolled up into his head and as he hit the floor, Facilis crouched. It took a moment to check for a pulse through the shaking and jerking of the body, but as the convulsions died away, it became clear that something important had broken in the man’s head or neck, and he wouldn’t be getting up again.

  Well, at least that solved the witness issue!

  Stooping to collect his dagger, he made his way back out with a nervous glance towards the main building, into the short passage and out through the rear door into the open. Allowing the dirty toga to fall to the ground, he grabbed his draw-string bag and ran for the anonymity of the dark streets.

  * * *

  Marcus Favonius Facilis stomped along the steep gravel path worn with heavy cart-ruts in the afternoon sunlight, reflecting upon the past day and tryi
ng not to meet the gaze of the man by his side.

  He had returned to the fortress straight from the mansio, and hurried to the commander’s house, where the party was in full swing. Breathlessly, he’d knocked on the door and when the slave opened it, flashed the scroll with the legate’s seal, asking to speak to him urgently. He had been shown to a side chamber near the door, far from the banquet’s din. After a few moments, Viator had appeared and closed the door. Swiftly and breathlessly, Facilis had reported his discovery to the legate. Viator had seemed somehow distracted and was more than a little disapproving at the death of one of the procurator’s guards, though at least he was grateful that no evidence of the legion’s involvement in the break-in had been left.

  He had huffed and tutted over two days of trouble with so little to show for it, but the weaselly procurator of Raetia’s involvement was clearly of interest, and the mention of Tribune Longus had brought a scowl of Titanic proportions to the commander’s face.

  At least he’d not had call to use the legate’s scroll.

  Facilis had felt his heart sink as the legate had proceeded to order him back to his role as guide for the visiting official and warned him to deny everything. Viator intimated he had other ideas in the works, but the procurator must not be overly suspicious. And so that had been exactly what Facilis had done. This morning, he had attended the mansio as usual. It had taken the procurator an hour to see him, and the man was furious even then. Apparently someone had beaten one of his guards to death and rifled his office. A brief interview with the legionary left the official no less suspicious, and he even had Facilis’ torso checked over for wounds that might indicate that he was the German’s unknown opponent. Fortunately no such mark existed, and the procurator continued to rant, unsatisfied.