Ovidius shook his head. ‘The beneficiarius assures me that there is another scroll associated with this one. He reckons it was put back in the wrong place, but has set his men to searching. Perhaps there is something in there.’
Neratius turned to Ferox.
‘Mona would be the most likely place, my lord.’ Ferox wished he had another answer, and part of him wanted to pretend that he had no idea because he feared to go there and could sense what would come next. He was also sceptical that Prasto was right about everything, or that the Romans really understood. Acco’s own power grew as he acquired each treasure. He doubted that all were needed, and the druid might already have enough for his purposes.
‘Very well. If we have learned nothing more certain by the end of tomorrow you will set out for the island at dawn on the next day. See what you can find.’
‘My lord.’
‘Good. You must make the most of the remainder of your time here. Have you heard about the statue? No. At least someone has not. This morning a statue of the princeps fell off its mounting on the wall of the basilica. The head broke off and has not been found.’
‘The work on the pedestal was very poor,’ Crispinus said. ‘It is no surprise that the mortar crumbled and the thing fell down.’
‘That does not explain the theft of the head. It is not as if it was bronze and could be melted down by a sacrilegious thief. And accident or not, people see it as another bad omen. Rumours are spreading that the princeps is ill and not long for this world.’
‘I haven’t heard that.’ Crispinus’ surprise seemed genuine.
‘Then perhaps you should spend more time around the docks!’ The legate’s pacing meant that he was standing behind his nephew and he reached down and grabbed his shoulders. ‘As far as I am aware, it is not true, but it is repeated and some will believe. Nothing has been seen or heard of that rogue Domitius, and that is also worrying.’ The legate paused and faced the double doors. ‘I always know when my accensus is impatient!’ The doors opened slowly. ‘Off you all go. We have already spent too long and I shall be late convening today’s first case.’
Ferox thought the tribune wanted to speak to him, but Ovidius took the young aristocrat by the arm and led him away. That was a relief, because he wanted to go to the principia and preferred to go on his own. Once there he sought out the office of the frumentarii, the soldiers detached from their units to help organise the supply of grain and other bulky essentials to the army in the province. They were a privileged group, who spent a lot of time on the move, as likely as not travelling to Rome to liaise with their counterparts there. An idle remark by the exactus had made him wonder whether he knew the centurion in charge, one Valerius Maximus who for a while had served as regionarius to the east of his own patch.
Thankfully, he was right, and although he had to wait a good hour before the man returned to his office, it gave him the chance to call in a few favours. The most important was to ask for help. Frumentarii heard a lot of things in their job, especially in the markets, inns and harbours, and since many people wanted to secure contracts to help the army they were usually well treated. Ferox wanted to know if they had picked up any rumours about Domitius. Maximus was a sensible man, honourable enough in his way, so he risked a few hints about plots.
‘I’ll do my best, contubernalis.’ Maximus had lost all the fingers on his left hand and his lonely thumb tended to twitch when he was thinking. His other hand closed around it and grinned. ‘I thought you said last time that you would never ask me another favour.’
‘Sorry. Still, it got you this posting and you never really liked it up north.’
Declining an offer of dinner, Ferox went to the office of the procurator and asked to see the freedman Vegetus.
‘Why?’ The deep voice came from behind him, and he turned to see Cornelius Fuscus standing in the doorway. His head jutted forward so that he resembled a small and angry bullock.
‘My lord.’ Ferox stood to attention and raised his arm in salute. He was not sure whether the procurator had a right to this courtesy, but felt that it could not do any harm. ‘My name is Flavius Ferox, centurio regionarius. A short while ago a wagon owned by Vegetus was attacked, two of his slaves killed, another abducted and his property stolen. Although I have punished the bandits responsible, the property has not been recovered and I was hoping to learn more to help me to find it.’
The procurator glared at him. His eyes were pale and watery, without any hint of softness. For a long time he was silent, and Ferox was not sure whether he was trying to think of a reason to refuse the request or simply wanted to display his power before he agreed.
‘I have seen you,’ Fuscus said at last. ‘And now I recall your name. You are the one who failed to discover who murdered Narcissus at Vindolanda. You do not seem very good at finding anything.’
‘Sir.’ Ferox remained at attention and stared over the procurator’s head. If the man wanted to revel in his rank then let him.
‘Why should I help you, centurion? Tell me that. My staff are busy.’
Ferox said nothing. The procurator walked around him. He stayed as he was, staring straight ahead. A warrior of the Silures took pride in his outward calm. Still, a warrior of the Silures might easily have slit the stocky man’s throat for such an insult. At least all these years in the army made it easy to ignore the obnoxious behaviour of those protected by rank.
‘You are a dull sort of fellow, aren’t you. Most officers have shit for brains.’ He was back in front of Ferox again, glaring up, and so close that flecks of spittle pattered onto Ferox’s chin. ‘They are useful to kill and be killed, but for little else.’ The procurator slapped him a stinging blow across the face, and then stepped back a pace. Ferox remained rigidly at attention. ‘Hmm. At least you are not provoked easily. I shall let you bother Vegetus. See to it.’ The last words were to the clerk at the desk.
‘At once, my lord.’
Again Ferox had to wait, but only for a short time and then he was taken into a side office and found Vegetus slumped in a chair behind a desk, piles of tablets in front of him. It was the first time he had glimpsed the freedman at work and he was impressed by the surprising energy of this obese man.
Ferox did not expect a warm welcome and was not disappointed. The gaze was cold, although harder to tell whether he was most blamed for the horrible death of his wife Fortunata two years ago or the more recent loss of his prized antiques. He said little that Ferox did not already know. Still, he had not appreciated the bitterness of the dislike the man felt for Narcissus, which was clearly more than merely the rivalry of two collectors.
‘Nasty bugger.’ Vegetus almost spat the words. ‘Always listening, learning secrets. He liked to hurt people and make them crawl. A plotter too.’ Vegetus realised his hatred had carried him away, but he could not turn back. ‘I had reason to doubt his loyalty.’
‘Did you report this?’
‘Of course.’ Which meant that the procurator knew and had not told the legate.
‘Do you know who killed him?’
Vegetus screwed his face into a grimace. ‘How should I know? I wasn’t there. Some friend of our lord Trajan perhaps? Or just someone he had pushed too far. Who hasn’t got secrets they would rather no one else knew? I cannot lament the loss of such a worthless life. Now, is that all?’ Without waiting for an answer, he opened the next tablet in the pile and reached for his stylus.
‘Thank you. Yes, that is all.’
Ferox wondered whether anyone had liked Narcissus. Mention of his name to Longinus the night before had prompted a snort of disgust and a simple ‘Little bastard got what he deserved, didn’t he? I’d shake the hand of the man who did it – well, as long as he’s washed since then! Give it another month and he will be forgotten. Nobody cares even now.’
*
A couple of Batavians were with Vindex and the others when Ferox joined them a little later. The one-eyed veteran was not there, but Cocceius was. They were all si
tting in the benches on one side of the amphitheatre. There were no games today, but men from the ludus were practising and now and then fighting mock bouts. Gannascus had been asking about the place ever since the fight, so Ferox had told them to bring him. The German watched every move, at least when his attention could be prised away from the girl sitting on his lap. She looked about sixteen, dark skinned and with long black hair that shone like silk. An easterner certainly, perhaps a Parthian or even an Indian, her face with the soft features that made you understand why the Greeks said the Persians were the most perfectly beautiful people in the world. She wore a threadbare, faded tunic and plain sandals, but it did not really matter for she looked like a princess until she spoke in a jarringly harsh voice.
‘He won her, didn’t he,’ Vindex explained.
‘With my money?’
‘Maybe. He’s lost and won back so many times that it’s hard to say.’ There was a bruise on the scout’s cheek, which he rubbed now and again. ‘Her owner wasn’t so keen on his taking his winnings, though. We had a bit of an argument.’
‘Anyone dead?’
Vindex thought for a while. ‘Probably not. No one likely to have important friends, anyway. You should have come with us after the bath. It was a good night.’
‘Couldn’t get used to you being clean,’ Ferox said. To his great surprise the others had enjoyed the bath-house, especially when they found one section where women were allowed to bathe with the men. That led to one fight, but the sheer size of the German helped to keep the peace. ‘We’ll probably be moving day after tomorrow. Make sure everyone is ready and check on the horses.’
‘Where?’
‘You wouldn’t like it if I told you.’
‘Humped again, are we?’ Vindex reached for his wheel of Taranis, but his fingers closed on nothing. He sighed. ‘Forgot. Some bitch stole it last night.’ He grinned. ‘I was busy at the time, and happy too, I’ll give her that.’
‘Heard any rumours?’ They were far away from Vindex’s homeland, and he did not know towns and cities, but Ferox had long come to value the scout’s instincts, almost as much as his own.
Vindex curled his lips, his big teeth sticking out. ‘Lot of talk of rebellion,’ he said after a while. ‘Not from those who want one, but those who fear one. The temples and that statue haven’t helped. Making people nervous. Seen the tribune about a lot, talking to all sorts. He’s playing some sort of game.’
‘He usually is.’ Ferox remained puzzled by Crispinus’ suggestion that he marry. ‘Think some of it has to do with the successor to the old high king. Who do you think it should be?’
‘Me! I don’t exactly move in such circles.’
‘You’re Carvetii, though.’
‘Aye, I am, but if I was a great chief I wouldn’t be hanging around with the likes of you, now would I? Course not. So what I think don’t matter spit. What I hear is that it’s between the two children, and most likely the brother, whose older, said to be a great warrior and a hero. The sister is younger. Nice tits, so I hear.’ Ferox snorted in surprise. ‘It was a chieftain who told me. So what, she may be royal, but she’s still a woman and there’s no harm in admiring from a distance. The Romans will chose the lad because they like kings over queens. That doesn’t really matter to us, or the Brigantes. Depends how much of their grandmother is in the lass.’
‘So tits aren’t everything?’
Vindex considered this. ‘Dumb question. They’re a lot, course they are…’ He lapsed into silence for a while, studying the girl on Gannascus’ lap, who was giggling and whispering in the big man’s ear. ‘Bit small,’ he said after a while. ‘Nice, though. She’s a dancer, worth a fortune according to her former owner, but he was desperate and had run out of coin.
‘No, I reckon it will be a new king rather than a queen. That’s the way the Romans think. Still, maybe it doesn’t matter. From all that’s said, brother and sister are more Roman than anything else, and you know what they’re like.’
‘Bastards every one of them,’ Titus Flavius Ferox agreed. He noticed Sempronius the lanista was down in the arena and kept glaring up at him.
‘You always make so many friends, don’t you?’ Vindex said. ‘It really is a gift.’
Ferox stood up. ‘Tell Gannascus that the girl cannot come with us. So he can either sell her back or find someone to take care of her while we are away, although I cannot promise that we will return to Londinium.’
‘Where are you off now?’
‘Work.’ Ferox did not tell his friend that the work in question meant visiting several brothels, otherwise he knew it would be even harder work stopping the scout from coming along. For a married man, Vindex had a lot of energy. Armed with letters written by Flora, he was calling by appointment on three of their owners. It was business, not pleasure, and he hoped to find out things it would be hard to learn another way.
Three hours later as the sun was setting, he found Longinus waiting at his lodgings. The others were out, apart from Philo. ‘He’s been here for a long time,’ the boy said in explanation.
‘Promised to give you this in person,’ the veteran said, standing up and handing over a closed and sealed tablet. ‘Make sure it isn’t left lying around. Right, I’ll be off.’
Ferox told the slave to fetch a lamp and light it. The boy looked surprised, for the room was still fairly light, but did as he was told. Once he had gone, Ferox broke the seal and opened the letter. The wooden frame was thick, for this was the sort with a heavy layer of wax on them and someone had scored the letters deeply.
I need not say who I am, but I remember a bath and a tower far away. C whose name is hated and mocked in Parthia is in trouble. CF lures him into conspiracy for his position is one where there is plenty of wealth. He has letters that I thought gone where C wrote foolish and disloyal things and threatens to show them if C does not do what he asks. CF is cruel and does not threaten idly. Help me, please, for love, friendship and for another most precious to us both.
When the slave returned Ferox held the stylus over the lamp’s flame until even the handle became hot. Then he rubbed it over the surface of the tablet, melting the wax to erase the writing. It took a while, for the wax was hard and the pen soon cooled, but in the end he was satisfied.
‘I’m going out,’ he said. ‘I may send word. If I do, the others are to come with all speed.’
XIII
The boards creaked as Ferox edged towards the light. He stopped, his breath sounding terribly loud, and waited. The low murmur of conversation did not change, and after a while he started to crawl again. There was dust and chaff all over the floor and his throat started to prickle. It had made sense to leave his weapons’ belt behind, and certainly he could not have crawled so easily with it on, but he still felt naked and unprotected. Slowly the edge came nearer. The light was a lamp, dim enough in such a big warehouse, and, whenever the conspirators gathered around it moved, they cast weird tall shadows. Conspirators they must be, to meet in secret so late at night, but whether or not they had anything to do with his business, he did not yet know.
One of the brothel keepers, a woman of the shape conjured up by Flora’s laugh, but who spoke surprisingly pure Attic Greek as well as polished Latin, had given him the tip, and one of the others had helped explain how he could get there. There were two groups meeting in secret most nights, each in a different building that ought to have been locked shut at that time of night. Prominent men met in this way, at least so it was claimed by freedmen and slaves from their households who liked to tell secrets to the girls when they visited. The whores told their owners, and for Flora’s sake they were willing to tell him.
Getting there was not easy. Ferox started in one of the brothels not far from the wharfs on the river. He climbed to the top of the house, passing some of the thriftier or poorer clients who paid for no more than a coupling in an alcove off the stairs or corridor. Some did not have curtains, so his walk was accompanied by moans, sighs, screams and glimpse
s of writhing flesh. Half to his surprise he did not see Vindex or anyone else he knew. The slave who led him must have seen all this and more so many times that he paid no heed, and eventually they reached a ladder that took him to a hatch that opened onto the roof. From there, the man pointed out the backs of the two taller buildings, and showed how he could get in. An alley separated them from the row of warehouses, but the jump was not too far. Even so, Ferox eyed it for a while as the rain pattered down. The shingle roofs were slick and getting slicker by the minute, and he could feel his tunic and breeches getting steadily wetter. A cloak would be too cumbersome for what he had in mind.
Taking a deep breath, Ferox leaped, slamming hard into the opposite roof and only sliding a little before he got a firm hold. The first one was the easiest, and just a few paces away there was a hatch similar to the one on the other side. He felt around the edges, found a catch and was surprised to find that it lifted easily. Once he clambered through and dropped down onto the top of a big barrel, he could understand why. No one could have sneaked in through the roof and made off with anything so bulky and no doubt heavy. The upper floor was crowded with similar barrels, the light too poor to read any markings on them. It took a while to find the gap around a trapdoor leading downwards. Ferox eased himself down from a barrel taller than he was, and sneaked to the open trapdoor. The light from below was bright, and at first there was silence. Then people, dozens of people by the sound of it, began to sing a long, repetitive song, and many of the words were in a language he did not understand. After that, a man spoke for a while, then another voice took over.
Ferox edged to peak through the open trapdoor, and saw the speaker, arms stretched out on either side, head bare and looking up, but with closed eyes. He spoke of blood, flesh and sacrifice, and much of what he said seemed to be quotations that Ferox did not recognise, although presumably the audience did. Most were in a similar pose, and it was odd to see people praying with their heads uncovered, apart from one woman who wore a scarf. She was the only woman he could see, but there must have been more people out of view. This was no conspiracy, at least not one to bother him, and as they began to sing once more, he went back up the way he had come. The new song was in Greek, and spoke a lot of love for others and of the god. Presumably this was a cult frowned upon by the authorities, unless its rituals were secret for the sake of being mysterious. A lot of what they said reminded him of Philo, and he wondered if this was some Jewish sect for he knew that there were many. Since the great rebellion against Nero, Jews had to pay a special tax, but as far as he could tell they had once again become reasonably loyal to the empire.
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