Aurelio laughed. ‘A preening peacock with an overloud screech. If you are looking for new enemies I would look elsewhere.’
‘His relationship with his commander, Proculus, interested me.’
‘Proculus is an old man out of his depth.’ The Asturian shrugged. ‘It’s common knowledge he counts the days to his retirement and marks them off on a board in the principia at the fort. The real power in Legio lies with the Parthians.’
‘Harpocration? An auxiliary? It would be an unusual legionary centurion willing to take orders from an auxiliary prefect.’
‘Nevertheless, it is true. He is a formidable man.’
Valerius had a thought. ‘And he hires out his men to Severus?’
‘So?’
‘I have a feeling Severus had something to do with Petronius’s disappearance. If that’s the case, who better than Harpocration or his men to make it happen?’
Aurelio considered this for a moment. ‘It’s possible, but I don’t know what difference it makes. They are many and you are one.’
‘Still, it has given me an idea.’
XXIX
The men were mere shadows in the darkness. Only the whites of their eyes showed in the blackened faces. Twenty of them lay on the crest of a hill looking down towards the twinkling lights of a substantial villa. Daylight would have shown the villa surrounded by olive trees and vines, but at night the complex was identified only by the oil lamps now being extinguished one by one in sequence from left to right.
‘Remember,’ Serpentius whispered. ‘There is to be no killing. We subdue any guards, round up the servants and the slaves and search the place.’
‘Burrus, the overseer, beat me every day when I worked there during the harvest last summer.’ Serpentius recognized the voice of Allius. Short, sturdy and with the face of a startled shrew, he’d fled to Avala to avoid the increasing legionary and auxiliary presence in the mountains north of the mining areas.
‘If he resists, you may pay him back in kind, but I doubt he will,’ Serpentius predicted. ‘With his master staying the night in Asturica it’s unlikely Burrus will risk his neck to protect Fronton’s property. Tonight Lucius Octavius Fronton will learn that the gold he receives from the Romans is only being held in trust. We will take all we find, along with such arms and provisions as we can carry. Any scrolls or documents are to be brought to me.’
‘What if the slaves want to come away with us?’ Tito asked. ‘Fronton has a reputation as a hard taskmaster.’
‘They’re welcome if they are prepared to fight, but remind them there’s a long, hard winter ahead. They know the fate that awaits them if they are recaptured.’
The last lamp in the building flickered out, leaving only the two torches marking the main gate to show their objective.
‘Follow me.’ They knew what to do, there was no point reminding them further. Serpentius led the way skipping down a steep deer track he’d marked earlier. Tito stayed close on his heels but the others struggled to keep pace. Most wielded spears, but a few carried ancient, rust-pocked swords their ancestors had hidden after the conquest a hundred years earlier. As he ran, Serpentius’s senses tested the darkness for any potential threat. He’d had the place watched throughout the day and he doubted any patrol could have approached without being noticed, but you could never be too careful. When he reached the bottom of the hill he halted to allow his men to catch up. In front of them stood a broad grove of olives, with grape vines strung between. He dropped to his front and slithered along a tunnel formed where the vines clung to the lower branches of the olive trees.
Moving through the foliage with the ease of the reptile that gave him his name he reached the far end within minutes. Here he was confronted by the wall that surrounded the villa complex. Beyond it lay a strip of vegetable garden and the north face of the building. The house formed three sides of a square, with the accommodation for the slaves and servants to the rear, and stables on the far side. Serpentius sprang upwards and pulled himself to the top of the wall. With his legs straddling the stonework he reached down and helped the others over one by one to drop silently into the garden.
By the time the last man crossed, Tito was already leading three quarters of the group to round up the slaves and servants. They’d be kept under guard until Serpentius and the others had had a chance to search the villa. But first he had to deal with the two night watchmen Fronton employed to guard the gate.
‘Allius? Placido? With me. Bring the ropes. The rest stay here.’
He trotted through the furrowed earth of the vegetable garden until he reached the wall of the villa. With the others behind him he slipped along the white stucco, careful to stay below window height, until he reached the corner. The gatehouse was visible in the light of the torches at the end of a cobbled driveway about a hundred paces away. From what Serpentius could see both men remained inside, but he couldn’t be certain.
He stepped out of the shadows. Placido would have followed him, but Serpentius put a hand on his chest. ‘Stay here and wait for my shout.’
He ran silently over the hard-packed earth beside the driveway. When he reached the gatehouse he drew a short wooden club from his belt. The entrance faced the roadway and he could see no sign of the gatekeepers. Somehow he had to draw them out.
He stooped and searched the ground until he found a decent-sized stone which he tossed beyond the gate so it rattled on the surface of the road. With a muffled oath a big man stepped out of the gatehouse doorway to check the noise. Serpentius hit him with the club on the base of his skull and he dropped without a sound. The former gladiator was moving even before his victim hit the ground, ramming the club into the stomach of a second guard as he sprang to his feet. The blow bent the man double and Serpentius whipped the club up and brought it down on the back of his head with a distinct thwack.
He called softly to Allius and Placido.
‘Tie them up and follow me,’ he ordered.
The villa’s main entrance was barred from the inside, but Serpentius simply forced a nearby ground-floor window with the blade of his sword and Allius, the nimblest of his companions, slipped inside. Moments later came the sound of the bar being withdrawn and the door was open.
Tito appeared from the darkness. ‘The slaves and servants are all in one room under guard,’ he said. ‘We had a little trouble from a couple of them who wanted to tear the overseer limb from limb. I persuaded them to let him live, but he’s a little battered.’
‘Good,’ Serpentius whispered. ‘That should just leave the family servants.’
They stepped inside. Serpentius found an oil lamp and lit it. Tito gasped at the opulence of the interior. The entrance hall opened on to a large atrium, with an opening in the ceiling to provide light in daytime and a pool to collect rainwater. A bronze statue of a small boy stood in the centre. Various curtained rooms opened off the atrium and Serpentius’s men searched them one by one, rousting out four or five astonished house slaves. Scenes of rural activities covered the walls: men and women planting cereals, tending vines, picking grapes and olives and pressing them with their feet. Intricately decorated vases and pots stood on pedestals alongside painted marble busts of what Serpentius guessed must be Fronton’s ancestors. But the most astonishing sight was the mosaic.
Serpentius had been in enough Roman houses to know when he was looking at something special. Laid out around the pool was a beautifully lifelike hunting scene with a pack of hounds chasing a pair of deer. The deer leapt over fallen branches while the hounds bounded behind, their jaws open so you could almost hear them baying.
The whole effect was very Roman in style, yet the man who owned this villa was an Asturian just like the men who’d taken over his house. The difference was that Fronton’s family had collaborated with the invaders from the beginning, bending the knee to Augustus and offering their help in enslaving their countrymen. Serpentius had chosen the villa because Fronton was one of the richest men in Asturia and one of those suspe
cted by Petronius of being implicated in the gold thefts. Fronton supplied men for the mines from the district he controlled, then he supplied the bread to feed them, part of a network of providers without whom the system would collapse. Nothing could change in the mines without it affecting them. Yet as the gold yields had fallen during the civil war Fronton had become richer, not poorer. Serpentius hoped to find out why when he searched the house.
‘Take anything portable that’s of value to us, but I want all documents brought to the tablinum.’ He pointed to a room at the end of the atrium.
Everything was going well. Too well. Scrolls and sheets of papyrus came, along with waxed slivers of wood filled with numbers, but all were to do with the running of the house, not Fronton’s business. Midway through a long list of purchases Serpentius was interrupted by the sound of galloping hooves from the direction of the roadway.
‘What in the name of Mars’ hairy scrotum is that?’ He leapt to his feet and ran to the door.
Placido met him in the doorway, breathing hard and with a look of horror on his moon face. ‘One of the overseers was in the stables fucking a slave girl. We missed him during the search. Forgive me, lord.’
The calculations raced through Serpentius’s head. An hour to reach Asturica and raise the alarm, perhaps another to gather a force large enough to overwhelm the raiders without incurring too many casualties. Time enough. Unless the overseer met a patrol on the way.
‘Put a lookout with a torch in the trees overlooking the road and detail a man to watch for his signal. He’s to let us know the moment there’s any sign of riders.’
Placido nodded and ran out into the night.
‘Father. You should see this.’ Serpentius followed Tito through to a small storeroom. ‘It was hidden under a rug.’
A heavy iron door was set into the stone floor. To one side of the polished metal was an odd-shaped hole, presumably for some kind of key. Serpentius studied the iron and shook his head. ‘This explains why we’ve found no treasure or private papers.’
‘I’ve sent Allius to find some tools. A crowbar …’
‘It’s a strongbox set directly into the floor when the house was built. It would take us a month to get it out of there, if we ever did. We don’t have—’
‘Nathair?’
‘What now?’ Serpentius snapped. Everything was falling apart. He turned to find Allius with a crowbar in one hand and holding a young girl by the arm with the other.
‘She was hiding in the garden. The atriensis says she’s Julia, Fronton’s daughter.’
The Spaniard studied her with more interest. Slim and dark, she barely came up to his shoulder and her only covering was the thin cotton shift she’d been sleeping in.
‘Where is the key for this strongbox?’
He took a step closer so she was treated to the full effect of his savage features, but that diminutive figure contained a hidden strength and her eyes showed no fear.
‘I don’t know.’ Serpentius felt Tito stiffen beside him at the fierce passion in her voice. ‘But even if I did I would not tell the likes of you. My father will have every last one of you flogged and crucified for this.’ She turned to look Allius in the eye. ‘And I will think of something special for this filth with his wandering hands.’
Allius growled and raised a hand to strike her, but Tito snarled at him: ‘Put her with the others.’
‘Wait,’ Serpentius ordered. ‘She may come in useful. Whatever we are looking for is behind the iron door. The only way to get it is for Fronton to open it for us.’
‘He will never—’
‘We’ll see how much he values his daughter, though judging by her manners he may be happy to be rid of her.’
Allius laughed and Julia spat at him.
‘Tito? You look after her and make sure she has everything she needs for the journey.’
Allius reluctantly parted with the girl and Tito took her away.
‘We should burn this place,’ Allius said as they walked back through the house.
‘No,’ Serpentius insisted. ‘It would serve no purpose. We have already made our point. Fronton will never sleep easy in this house again. And we have his daughter. And Allius?’
‘Yes, Nathair?’
‘As long as the girl is with us she’s our guest. If any harm comes to her you will answer to me.’
XXX
What had he missed? The question nagged at Valerius in sleep and in waking. Apart from a few details he believed he could picture the overall form of the conspiracy, perhaps even the faces of the main conspirators. But where was the proof? Julius Licinius Ferox had been confident enough of his invulnerability to encourage Valerius to visit the Red Hills mine, but he would never allow him to get near the documents and the figures. They undoubtedly existed. Yet without that physical evidence what did he have? Theory and conjecture and a gut feeling that he was going in the right direction. Perhaps Ferox was unaware of just how much information Valerius had been able to glean from Nepos, but little good it did the Roman.
Petronius had known where the proof lay; perhaps he even acquired it. But Petronius was dead and, if it existed, the proof died with him. Any evidence had been completely destroyed when Severus’s servants cleaned the house. But had it? A blackened patch of earth in the garden, but what did that mean? Just how thoroughly did the arsonists carry out their work? The key to the conspiracy could have been lying there a finger length beneath the surface all the time. In fact, he’d had little opportunity to check the garden area at all. There must be a dozen places where Petronius could have hidden copies of the documents he’d obtained. The engineer had been a careful man. It was just the sort of thing he would do.
Valerius made his decision. He would go back to the house.
Market day and Asturica Augusta was on the move early. The lodgings Severus had provided made it difficult to enter or leave without being seen, but not impossible. Valerius dressed in his worn travelling tunic and stole a sack from the kitchen. He filled it with anything portable he could find until it looked like something he might be taking to the market. With the sack over his shoulder so it hid his face he stepped confidently into the street.
The direct route would take him past Severus’s villa so he took a detour through one of Asturica’s many alleys. It brought him out into a street that ran inside the eastern wall of the city. He’d only been walking for a few moments before he realized someone was close behind him. He tried changing his pace, now slow, now faster, but the follower simply matched him. In desperation he darted into the next opening.
His last memory was of a hand poised over him before an explosion of light and the world faded to black.
When he regained consciousness he thought he was blind, but gradually he realized he wasn’t the only person in Asturica capable of stealing an old sack. It smelled of dead birds and something tickled his nose. He struggled to breathe against the stifling heat. And not just inside the sack. He could feel it on his legs and arms. Legs and arms that were tied brutally tight to whatever he was sitting on. An unnatural heat. The heat of glowing coals. Valerius had to still a swift surge of panic, returned for a moment to Pliny’s stable and the gruesome fate of the would-be assassin. Would he even get the opportunity to speak? And all those other questions. The who? The why? Had this been brought on by his pursuit of Petronius? Or did the attack have its origins in Rome? One thing was certain, this time there would be no tall, bearded saviour to the rescue.
‘He’s moving.’ The sound of an unfamiliar voice muffled by the sack.
‘Good.’ More authority in this man’s tone. ‘I feared you might have hit him too hard. Remove the hood.’
Someone grasped the sack from behind and hauled it over Valerius’s head. He flinched at the blast of heat that hit his face and the red glow that seared his eyes and blurred his vision. When his sight cleared he was facing a tall, dark-haired man on the far side of an iron basket filled with shimmering coals. Not the grim-visaged torturer
he’d expected. A narrow face with chiselled, handsome features and a long, thin nose that had been broken at some point. Solemn grey eyes and full lips pursed in an expression of extreme distaste. He wore a white tunic belted at the waist with a rich gold chain. Valerius had never seen him in his life.
He was in a cellar of some sort, with the instruments designed to instil terror artfully displayed in the glow of the coals. Smoke swirled around the ceiling despite the vents that served to dissipate the suffocating heat. Yet something about the frightful display puzzled him. These tools could be used to inflict pain, but that was not the purpose they’d been designed for. They were functional implements borrowed from a blacksmith or a foundry – hammers, chisels, pincers and a pair of fearsome looking shears. Frightening, in this context, but not the specialist torturer’s tools he had seen used on the man who had tried to kill Pliny. This was a carefully prepared setting, like the backdrops at the rear of the stage he’d seen during performances at the Theatre of Marcellus in Rome. They could hurt him, of that there was no doubt, but their priority was to get him to talk and Valerius was happy to talk.
Then there was the question of just who they were. If they formed part of the conspiracy why not simply cut his throat? It was just possible Valerius had more to gain here than to lose.
‘Let us begin,’ said the man he could see.
‘This is how it works.’ A hand gripped Valerius’s hair and a fiery streak of pain shot through his scalp. A reminder, if he needed one, of why he was here. The pain faded as the grip relaxed and a hand reached out for a poker that glowed red and dangerous in the heart of the coals. The hand wore a leather glove and when its owner turned with the poker and came into view, Valerius had a moment of utter confusion. It was the man he’d seen beating the slave who’d followed him on his first day in Asturica. ‘When my master speaks you answer. If you don’t answer I will hurt you. If we think you are lying I will hurt you. Just bear in mind we know more about your activities than you think.’
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