A Bitter Chill: An Aurelia Marcella Roman Mystery (Aurelia Marcella Roman Series)

by Jane Finnis

  “Of course, yes.”

  The door of the second carriage opened again, and I saw that its driver had placed steps ready. Three people got out: a sandy-haired man of about thirty in a well-made cloak, an old grey-haired servant, and a small fair page-boy, only five or six years old. He was a striking-looking child, with fine features, huge blue eyes, and dark gold curls.

  The third carriage opened too, but nobody bothered with steps. Six slaves piled out, four lads and two girls, dressed in matching blue cloaks. All the travellers stretched and shuffled, gazing round rather nervously, and pulling their cloaks tighter against the wind. Nobody said anything except the page-boy, who went to pet one of the bodyguards’ horses, talking to it gently.

  “Have you come far today, my lady?” I make no apology for always asking the same question, because it never fails.

  “About eighteen miles, I think. Far enough, in this weather. We seem to have been travelling through this benighted back country for months! We left Londinium ten days ago, and mostly we’ve stayed in friends’ villas along the way. We spent last night on the coast, where an acquaintance of ours has an estate—of course he wasn’t there himself, and I don’t blame him. They did their best, but you can’t expect much in the way of civilisation this far north. I thank the gods we’ve got here at last.”

  I didn’t feel like joining her in grateful prayers to the Immortals. That last sentence made it sound as if she’d be staying with us more than just the one night. Were we going to be stuck with her for the whole of the holiday? I asked, “Did I hear you say your nephew recommended you to stay here?”

  “He didn’t precisely recommend, he said it was in the most suitable location for the business we have in hand.”

  “Has he been a guest of ours?”

  “Dear gods, no, he’s used to better than this.”

  Well, naturally! But I supposed he deserved some compensations for having such a dreadful aunt. Come to that, why wasn’t she staying with friends or family tonight, instead of at a mansio? Maybe she wasn’t welcome among her nearest and dearest? “It was kind of him to think of us. Is your nephew coming to join you here?”

  “No, he’s far too busy. Paperwork a mile high, court cases to try, petitions to deal with—not to mention all the preparations for next year’s military campaigning. He has to spend most of his time in Londinium nowadays, but mind you, he makes sure he’s in touch with everything that’s happening all over the province.”

  So he must be quite an important nephew, or maybe his fond auntie just thinks he is. “He’s in Government service, then?” I asked.

  “You could say that,” she declared triumphantly. “His name is Metilius Nepos.”

  “The Governor!” Holy Diana, she was saying her nephew was the Governor of Britannia, the most powerful man in the entire province!

  She gave a quiet, rasping chuckle. “Yes. I’m his father’s sister, Sempronia Metilia.”

  “We’re honoured to have you here.” I actually meant it. Although she would be a colossal pain in the backside, she was genuinely as important as she made herself out to be. If we managed to keep her happy, we’d definitely be going up in the world. But, gods alive, if we didn’t…. My foreboding of trouble grew. If she wasn’t satisfied with every last detail of our service, she could get the Oak Tree closed down, or maybe she’d just have us thrown out and hand the mansio over to somebody else.

  The weaselly slave emerged through the bar-room door, followed by Albia and the fair-haired girl. He strode round to the open carriage window and announced, “I’ve looked over everything, my lady. It’ll do for two or three nights.”

  “I sincerely hope we shan’t need longer,” Sempronia answered.

  So do I, I thought, but however long she stays, we’ll keep her sweet somehow. We must. The alternative, a bad report carried back to the Governor of Britannia, didn’t bear thinking about.

  CHAPTER IV

  Sempronia slowly descended from her carriage, helped by her secretary, who hovered close to her. She pushed back her hood and stood gazing around like a general assessing a battlefield. I tried to estimate her age, fifty-five at least, maybe sixty. She was thin and pale, with wrinkles and white hair, but her beady eyes missed nothing.

  I noticed Margarita had gone to stand beside the sandy-haired man, and there was a fleeting look between them, a quick smile. The weaselly secretary saw it too, and his face took on an unpleasant gloating expression, then his deferential mask slid back.

  Sempronia turned to me. “This is my son, Aulus Plautius Priscus.” She indicated Sandy-hair, who gave a supercilious nod. I couldn’t decide whether he was haughty, or simply shy. “Margarita is my maid and companion.” The girl smiled at me, and I reflected that it comes to something when slaves have better manners than their owners. “You’ve met Diogenes—” she nodded towards the Weasel—“my confidential secretary.” No smile there, and no manners either, but I already knew that. “The Lord Gnaeus Plautius, my husband, will go straight to his bed. I’m afraid he’s very unwell, and will keep to his room, but our physician, Timaeus, will look after him. Oh, and the child there is Margarita’s son Gaius.” The page-boy stopped stroking the horse, and looked round at mention of his name. “Keep an eye on him, and let us know if he gets into mischief. I won’t tolerate unruly children.” She glared at the boy. “Do you hear me, Gaius? You’re to behave yourself, or I’ll be angry. And you know what will happen if you make me angry.”

  “Yes, my lady,” the boy answered, lowering his eyes.

  “And Horatius.” Sempronia looked round. “Where’s Horatius got to?”

  Priscus gestured towards the second carriage. “He’s sound asleep inside. I don’t know how he does it. I’m freezing cold, and all my bones ache from bouncing around on the road, and he’s been snoring away most of the journey.” He banged with his fist on the carriage’s side. “Horatius! Wake up, or you’ll be spending the night with the horses!”

  “All right, all right, I’m coming!” A large florid man of about fifty came slowly out, rubbing his eyes and yawning. “No need to shout. Have we arrived? Jupiter, it’s cold! I need a drink.”

  “Ah, there you are at last. Horatius is my husband’s cousin,” Sempronia explained for my benefit. “Also our lawyer.”

  One look at his veined red face was enough to show how he’d contrived to sleep so soundly: with the aid of Bacchus, no doubt of it. And the wine he’d drunk hadn’t improved his temper. “I don’t know what I’ve done to offend the gods,” he grumbled, “that they give me clients who insist on trundling halfway round the Empire in raging blizzards, and because the clients are also my relatives, I can’t escape being dragged along with them.”

  “Oh do stop whining, Horatius,” Sempronia exclaimed. “If I can endure it, and my poor Plautius in his state of health can endure it, then you’ll surely manage to survive.”

  “I wouldn’t bank on it,” he growled. “This whole expedition is a complete waste of time, as I’ve said before, and if you ask me….”

  “I am not asking you. I am simply requiring you to help me by doing the work I need you to do. You know why we’ve come here. If there were any other way to find my son, do you think I’d be trailing round this appalling countryside to look for him?”

  “I expect so, yes, just to spite us all.” He glowered at her. “Oh well, at least we’re at journey’s end now. I’m going to get a drink. I assume you’re not planning on doing any work today, Sempronia?”

  “Then you assume wrongly, Horatius. I shall have a hot bath, and yes, probably a little refreshment, and you can do the same if you like. After all it must be at least two hours since you had anything to drink.” He opened his mouth to answer, but she waved him silent. “Then I shall start our enquiries. Be ready for a meeting in about an hour. Now that we’re here, I want to make good use of the time. The quicker we start, the quicker we can finish, and get home to civilisation.”

  “I agree with you there, at least.” Horatius
headed for the bar-room, adding in a loud stage whisper, “Rush, rush, always rush! We’ll all be dead before our time at this rate. Or one of us will,” he added, but the last bit was a real whisper.

  “Now don’t stand there day-dreaming, the rest of you,” Sempronia boomed. “Diogenes, get the luggage unloaded. Aulus dear, make sure the boy doesn’t go wandering off. Nestor,” she nodded towards her carriage driver, “make sure the animals are all properly cared for, and get the carriages cleaned up. We’ll need them first thing in the morning. Hector,” she indicated the leading bodyguard, “make sure the accommodation for the slaves is adequate. Margarita, you come with me, and we’ll investigate the bath-house. And you, Aurelia Marcella,” she rounded suddenly on me, “you’ll oblige me by joining me in my room in about one hour.”

  Gods, what now? “Of course, if I can help.”

  “I need someone with local knowledge. We have business in this district, and you’ll be able to give us directions, I daresay. I’ll send for you when I’ve had my bath. Kindly be ready.”

  Sempronia took the largest guest-room, and adopted a smaller one adjoining it as a sitting-room. Her husband chose the next biggest, which adjoined the sitting-room on the other side. Timaeus helped him to bed, making it clear his master needed rest and quiet and no interference from strangers. Priscus, Horatius, Diogenes, and Margarita and Gaius took the other rooms. Timaeus said he would sleep on a couch in the sitting-room, so he could be near his patient. There was plenty of space in the slave block for the other servants.

  But even getting the sick man settled caused a squabble. Horatius wanted that second-best room for himself, and so did Priscus. They both complained to me loudly in the corridor outside that his lordship could have managed with a smaller bedroom. I was wondering whether to fetch Sempronia to arbitrate, when we all heard the old man say, “Sempronia, tell them I’m taking this room, and there’s an end of it.” He didn’t raise his voice, but they stopped protesting at once.

  I found the handsome Timaeus in the kitchen, warming up a disgusting-smelling potion in a small brass pan. To my surprise, not to say relief, Cook was chatting to him amiably, so at least someone in this bickering bunch knew how to be diplomatic. I watched him stir the pan. He had good hands, well-shaped and with long slim fingers, and he wore an iron ring. So he was a citizen, perhaps a freedman, one of Plautius’ clients. I’d taken him for a slave.

  He gave me a dazzling smile. “I’m afraid we’re putting you to a lot of trouble.”

  “Not at all. We hope you’ll be comfortable here. I’m only sorry his lordship is so ill.”

  “It’s hardly surprising. He should be at home in bed, not careering around the countryside in the cold. Anyway, you can leave it to me to care for him.” His smile widened. “And of course, if any of you lovely ladies need any medical attention, you know where to find me. Now, this mixture should be hot enough, I think.”

  “He can give me an examination any time he likes,” one of the maids commented when he’d gone.

  There was general agreement from the kitchen slaves, and I thought, however troublesome most of the new guests are, the handsome doctor has only to whistle and everyone will come running. I might even come running myself.

  Just before full dark I went out to the stables to make sure our lads were taking good care of the expensive transport, which they were, so I didn’t linger long. The wind was bitter, and the snow was a continuous curtain now. We were in for a cold night.

  But the bar-room was warm, and empty except for Albia.

  “All alone?” I asked. “Have we finally got everyone happily settled?”

  She nodded. “Settled, anyhow—to say ‘happily’ might be overdoing it. I never saw such a quarrelsome lot!”

  “Nor I. It’s probably a combination of the bad weather, plus having Sempronia barking at them all the time. And that little weasel Diogenes is a nasty piece of work.”

  “‘Weasel’ suits him. Sly and cunning, with sharp teeth. But Margarita seems pleasant enough. And what a gorgeous little boy!”

  “That doctor’s quite good-looking, isn’t he?”

  She giggled. “I thought you’d noticed him. Oh yes, definitely fanciable. Not that I’m interested for myself, but there’s no law against looking. Well, Candidus will be here tomorrow to cheer us up. I hope it doesn’t snow too much tonight. If the roads are blocked, he might not be able to come.”

  “Get on with you, it’ll take more than a few feet of snow to keep your gallant fiancé away! What’s worrying me is, if the weather turns really bad, Sempronia’s party might get snowed in here, and we’ll be stuck with them for days and days!”

  She gave an elaborate shudder. “I’d like to know why she’s dragging them all across Britannia in the dead of winter. Her husband especially. I only got a glimpse of him, but he’s thin as a rail, and sort of grey and drawn-looking.”

  “I’ll find out soon enough, I expect. She says she needs my local knowledge, so perhaps I’ll tell her this whole district is suffering from a terrible infectious plague, and she’d better move on tomorrow before she catches it.”

  “Just say the word, and I’ll get all our slaves to paint red blotches on their faces, and sneeze a lot.”

  In due course Diogenes came in and said, “My lady will see you now,” as if I were some petitioner going to ask a favour. We walked together to the guest wing, but he didn’t escort me into her ladyship’s presence. He went into her bedroom, leaving me standing alone outside the sitting-room door. This turned me into an unintentional but not exactly unwilling eavesdropper. I couldn’t help but hear raised voices coming from inside, so I stood quietly with my hand raised to knock, listening for all I was worth. Well, a girl can’t help being curious.

  “How many times must I repeat this, Horatius?” Sempronia was exclaiming. “Being here in person is the only way to convince Decimus we mean what we say. All of us—me, Gnaeus, and you.”

  “But if Decimus has decided to live with the girl, then he’ll live with her, whether they’re formally married or not, and regardless of what any of us say,” Horatius retorted.

  “Over my dead body,” Sempronia snapped.

  Timaeus came past just then, so I had to knock on the door, but I got no answer, and I whispered, “They don’t seem to hear me,” as if this was at least my third attempt to attract attention.

  He murmured, “Go on in, I should. Her bark’s worse than her bite.”

  “That’s reassuring.”

  “Usually, anyway.” He grinned and went off to Plautius’ room, and I rapped extremely loudly on the door. This time Sempronia heard me and called, “Come in.”

  The visitors had lost no time in rearranging the room. The bed had been pushed into a corner, and a couple of reading-couches and several chairs and stools were arranged around the walls. There were two tables, and two bronze lamp-standards. All of this furniture had been moved in here from other guest-rooms, and so had two big braziers, which were throwing out heat like furnaces, making the whole room hotter than a bath-house caldarium.

  Even so Sempronia was wrapped in a thick shawl, and had a bright wool rug across her knees. A fluffy yellow-and-white cat sat in her lap, looking bored. Horatius was there, and Priscus, and Margarita. Diogenes was sitting calmly at one of the tables. The little toe-rag had entered the room through the bedroom door, which had given the impression that I was late in answering her ladyship’s summons.

  “Aurelia Marcella! You’ve taken your time.” Her look would have curdled milk, but innkeepers are tough, and I just smiled and made a silent vow to get even with Diogenes later.

  “Well, now you’ve deigned to appear, sit down, and let’s get on.” She waved me towards a stool, and glanced round the room. “Are we agreed then? Horatius?”

  He sighed. “I suppose so. Yes, agreed.”

  “Aulus, dear? You agree?”

  “Yes,” Priscus said. “If we must.”

  “Good. Because the quicker I can go back south wher
e it’s warm, the happier I shall be. What do you say, Medusa?” She paused to stroke the cat, which stared disdainfully at her, and then began washing itself. “I can’t think how anyone survives in such a climate. Frost and snow and hail, and freezing winds! No wonder only natives and ne’er-do-wells live up here.”

  Which category does she think I fit into? I wondered. “You get used to it, my lady. I’ve been in Britannia sixteen years now, and it doesn’t seem so bad.”

  “Where are you from originally?”

  “From Italia. Pompeii.”

  Most people make sympathetic noises at this point in my life story, but all Sempronia said was, “There, Horatius, I told you she isn’t a native.”

  “I only said she has native colouring,” Horatius objected. He was sitting next to a table piled high with scrolls, but I noticed he’d made room on it for a wine jug and beaker. “Easy enough mistake to make. She’s tall and fair, like all the natives. But now I look closer, her eyes are green, and the barbarians here have blue eyes. That right, m’dear?”

  “That’s right,” I agreed, trying not to feel like a slave being auctioned and having my good and bad points discussed by potential buyers.

  “And your housekeeper’s not a native either, I’ll bet,” Horatius went on, reaching for his drink. “All those brown curls, and brown eyes. Where’s she from?”

  “My sister Albia? She’s from Pompeii too.”

  “Your sister?” he said in surprise. “You don’t look much alike, the two of you.”

  I wish I had a gold piece for every time I’ve heard that remark.

  “We’re half-sisters. We had the same father, but different mothers.”

  He sipped some wine. “She’s a pretty little thing. Nice smile. Is she married?” Another often-repeated question.

  “Not yet, but she’s engaged. The wedding will be in the spring.”

  “Pity,” he grunted.

  I agreed with him.

  “Now I trust I can rely on your discretion,” Sempronia said. “I don’t want every minute detail of our business to become common bar-room talk. So no tittle-tattling to the customers.”